One Bad Turn (4 page)

‘And to quote Groucho Marx you didn’t want to be a member of a club that accepted you as a member.’ Ashcroft’s brow creased. ‘I guess not.’

Coupland shot him a look, ‘Why not?’ he challenged, ‘Promotion’s promotion.’

‘What? And have half the division think I didn’t get there on merit? And the other half sneer at the patch I’d been given.’

‘Did you deserve the promotion?’

Ashcroft nodded. ‘I think so, but I‘d been given a limited choice, unlike my fairer skinned colleagues.’

‘Be careful where you go round saying that,’ there was a tinge of warning in Coupland’s voice, ‘nobody likes a sour puss.’

‘Does that go for you?’

Coupland laughed. ‘I don’t give a toss what race, region or shoe size you are, or whether you dress in your girlfriend’s underwear on your days off - or even if you have a girlfriend, for that matter. I mistrust everyone until they prove themselves. You’ll get no favours from me, but you will get the same treatment I mete out to everyone else, are we clear?’ Ashcroft’s shoulder visibly relaxed. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

Coupland pulled up outside a row of terraced houses. He switched off the ignition and regarded Ashcroft once more, ‘Are we good, now? Because if I send you for a coffee you need to understand there’s no other agenda than I want a bloody coffee?’ Ashcroft nodded, ‘Loud and clear, Sarge,’ he replied, ‘loud and clear.’

The Family Liaison Officer answered the door to them, ushering them through a narrow hallway to the living room where James Grimshaw had decamped since returning to the home he shared with Sharon Mathers after discovering her body. ‘He hasn’t slept,’ the WPC said in an undertone. ‘I know how he feels,’ Coupland muttered. James was sat on a three seater sofa, a pillow and folded duvet beside him. He was white, with short fair hair that Coupland suspected was usually worn spiky with gel. Today it hung lank. Bloodshot eyes peered up under swollen eyelids. He looked like a man who had had his soul ripped right out of him. Coupland took a step forward. ‘James, I’m Detective Sergeant Coupland and this is my colleague Detective Constable Ashcroft. I’m sorry for your loss.’ Coupland put out a hand and waited, asking, ‘Can we sit down?’ when nothing was proffered. James nodded, regarding Coupland with dazed, languid eyes. Miss-timing it he put out his arm to shake the hand Coupland had offered moments earlier causing Coupland to raise himself from his chair to take the man’s outstretched hand. Grimshaw’s movements were slow, as though he was still trying to work out what the hell he’d stumbled upon. An untouched mug of tea had been placed on a low table in front of him. In the corner of the room the TV had been left on mute, a reporter interviewing refugees fleeing another war torn city.

Both detectives perched on the sofa opposite. A side table had a pile of travel brochures on top of it, a post it note marking one of the pages. The FLO regarded her captive audience and plastered on a smile. ‘That’s better!’ she trilled. A chirpy woman in her thirties she’d been trying too hard to cajole James into talking. She crinkled her eyes at Coupland before picking up a cold mug and returning to the kitchen to make more tea. ‘She means well,’ Coupland leaned forward in his chair so James could hear him, ‘but she’s got one of those voices that makes me want to-’

‘-she brought me a quilt down,’ James gestured towards the bedding beside him on the settee, ‘said sleep would do me some good, but it won’t bring Shaz back will it?’ Coupland’s shoulders sagged. Not for the first time he wondered what it was like to have a happy job, one that brought nothing but pleasure to the people you came into contact with. There weren’t many occupations with the happiness factor guaranteed, he supposed, but working for the National Lottery must be one of them, nothing but life changing - in a good way - news to impart all day long.

‘I need to ask you some questions, James, do you think you are up to that?’

‘And if I say no?’ James responded bitterly, ‘will you go away?’

Coupland shook his head. The living room was small and tidy, little by way of ornaments: a metal figurine of a floppy eared hare on the window sill, Coupland recognised it from the
Guess how much I love you
book he used to read to Amy when she was knee high. A wood burning stove was a central feature in the room, a basket of logs beside it, the kind you can buy from petrol station forecourts. There were several framed photographs on the feature wall, James and Sharon standing in front of various foreign backdrops, The Eiffel Tower, The Empire State Building, Edinburgh Castle. She was a looker alright. Coupland cast a glance at James, wished to hell he hadn’t been the one to find her, see his beautiful girlfriend with her face undone. He wondered how long it would take for that memory to recede, wondered if it ever would. He stood, moved towards the photographs to get a better look. In one the couple were standing in front of the Bellagio. ‘Vegas, eh? Just come back from there, myself,’ Coupland pointed to the picture, ‘only stayed a couple of nights, mind, policeman’s salary and all. Was a bit of a special occasion for us.’ James looked up, ‘We were going to get married,’ he said, ‘you know, in the Elvis chapel, but when we got there we decided we couldn’t do that to our families, deny them their special day.’ Coupland nodded. If his Amy ever did something like that he’d…he dragged his thoughts back to the photo. Didn’t pay to dwell on all life’s possibilities. ‘We decided to blow our money on the slot machines instead.’

‘Any luck?’ Coupland asked.

‘Nah, there’s only ever one winner with stuff like that, isn’t there?’ James seemed to visibly deflate, then in a blink his head reared up, ‘I just don’t get it! She was always so confident. Said she’d never let anyone get the better of her. Always reckoned she could handle herself. We used to watch the news, reports where women had been abducted and killed, “Swear to God, Jamie,” she’d say, “anyone tries to have a go at me and they’ll need A&E by the time I’ve finished...”’

‘She was feisty then?’

A nod. ‘Hard as nails. She’s got three brothers; she knew how to defend herself.’

The FLO returned with a tray laden with a teapot, milk jug and four mugs. She was about to start pouring when Coupland cleared his throat. ‘Biscuits might be nice,’ he suggested, reluctant to let anything stop James now he’d started talking. ‘I don’t think there are any in the cupboard…’ she began, before it dawned on her she was in the way. ‘I’ll pop over to the corner shop,’ she offered, ‘any requests?’

‘Take your time.’ Coupland muttered into his chest. Once the front door closed behind her he resumed their conversation. ‘Sharon get on alright with her brothers?’ James nodded, ‘Now the two older ones have stopped treating her like a china doll, yeah, there’s a younger one too, just started uni, she tends to make a fuss of him.’

‘They a close family?’

‘Yeah, normal you know, had their ups and downs, they were always kind to me.’

‘And what was your relationship like?’

‘With Shaz?’

Coupland nodded.

‘Good, in fact it was great. She was gorgeous, funny, she liked my mates and didn’t mind me playing on the X-box,’ By modern standards she sounded an ideal partner, Coupland agreed. ‘And were you as perfect?’ he asked, ‘What would Sharon say if she had to describe you?’

James’s face soured, ‘That I was moody, sulked when I didn’t get my own way, and that the reason we worked so well together was because she was happy to be the one that always gave in.’ Coupland frowned. The same could be said of his own marriage, Lynn was definitely the grown up in their relationship. ‘Were you often moody then?’ Coupland pressed, ‘Were you prone to losing your temper with Sharon?’ James’s already drawn face clouded over, ‘Hang on a minute, if you’re asking did I ever hurt her…Christ, you’re asking if I killed her, aren’t you?’ He looked about helplessly, flapping his hands around him on the settee like a drowning man trying to stay afloat. Coupland’s voice was quiet but firm: ‘These are routine questions James, its normal in these…situations to question the person who found the body
and
the victim’s partner, and you happen to be one and the same.’

‘So next time I find a body I should run for the hills, is that what you’re saying?’

Coupland shook his head. ‘I’m not saying that at all.’

DC Ashcroft leaned forward in his chair, spoke for the first time. ‘What do you do for a living, James?’

James’s brow creased as he regarded the DC, ‘I’m a financial analyst.’ Ashcroft was unfazed by his answer. ‘So you deal with a lot of numbers, right?’ James nodded. ‘And you what, predict where people should put their money?’

‘Well, in the crudest sense, yes.’

‘And how do you get to those conclusions?’

James creased his brow, ‘I don’t quite see the point-’

‘Just humour me, yeah?’

James shrugged, ‘we look at the fund in question’s past performance, some sectors or industries have certain characteristics that make them more prone to risk, say, than others, for example a pharmaceutical company faces a constant threat from protesters sabotaging its products.’

‘OK,’ Ashcroft said agreeably, ‘well policing is similar to that. We start each murder investigation with a process which has been informed by data collected over a great number of years, which gives us a set of certain characteristics, such as most murders are committed by someone known to the victim, and top of that list is their partner.’

‘Wait a minute…’

‘Wouldn’t you agree that it’s in the interests of this investigation to follow that procedure, to eliminate you from our enquiries as soon as we possibly can, so that all our resources and energy can be spent finding the person who did this?’

James lowered his head, ‘I suppose so,’ he agreed. Coupland nodded appreciatively at Ashcroft and continued with his questions. By the time the FLO had returned with two packets of biscuits: ‘Everyone likes chocolate digestives but you can’t beat Hobnobs for dunking,’ the tea had gone cold and Ashcroft had just finished reading James’s statement back to him. Shoulder’s sagging, James rubbed shaking hands over the stubble on his chin. ‘I wish to Christ we’d got married now,’ he said sadly, ‘grabbed our moment when we had it, but you never know it’s your only chance at the time, do you?’

*

They drove in silence for a while. ‘Poor sod.’ Coupland said.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Ashcroft. Still, you could never be too careful. ‘Check out their bank balances,’ Coupland instructed, ‘did he owe anyone any money? How was he really doing at work? What were their life assurance arrangements, had he recently set up a new policy?’ Ashcroft nodded, pulling out a small pad he jotted down a few notes, ‘I’ll go to his work and check what his colleagues have to say about him,’

‘Agreed,’ nodded Coupland, ‘and find out whether he’s been putting it about.’ Coupland sighed, it brought no pleasure always thinking the worst of people, but at least his opinion could only improve.

They parked outside Donald Gillespie, the firm of accountants where Sharon had worked for five years. The office was situated on Barton Road, a two storey red brick building with a beauty salon upstairs. It was just past nine o’clock. Coupland watched someone open the blinds, sipping from a mug one handed as they carried on a conversation with a colleague behind them. They then moved on to unbolting the door. ‘Ever fancied a nice nine to five?’ Coupland asked, ‘Get home to the missus the same time every night, only dealing with your clients during the day?’ Greater Manchester Police’s clientele tended not to respect business hours. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’ Ashcroft sighed, ‘too late for me now though, I’m no good for anything else.’ Coupland nodded glumly, like most cops he was entrenched in the chain of command, work involved following orders or giving them out, he wasn’t quite sure how it worked in civvy street, didn’t think he’d be too successful
negotiating.
‘So is there a missus, then?’ Coupland asked, ‘Or even a mister?’ he added, mindful of the equality and diversity course he’d been sent on six months ago, a punishment from Curtis for addressing female civilians as ‘love’. The women hadn’t minded, but the newly promoted Superintendent had taken exception on their behalf. Flexing his muscles, likely as not. ‘There’s never been a mister,’ Ashcroft replied, ‘and no missus to speak of either, not anymore. It was a woman that drew me into the Met, only that’s where the fairy-tale ended. We were both from up north originally but she had a bee in her bonnet about moving to London. She’d have happily left if I hadn’t gone with her, same as she stayed put when I decided I’d had enough. She’s a DCI now.’

‘Doesn’t always work, both of you being in the job, especially if you want different things.’

Ashcroft pulled a face. ‘She said I lacked ambition.’

‘Nice.’

A girl in her late teens hurried up the road carrying a carton of milk. She entered the accountants in a flurry, shaking her head and waving her hands as though saying the bus was late wasn’t enough, the story needing embellishing somehow. Coupland glanced at Ashcroft. ‘They’ve had long enough to enjoy normality. Let’s go and break the bad news.’

‘Can I help you?’ The receptionist asked. It was the girl who’d arrived late; Coupland noticed her mobile semi hidden beneath a file on her desk. Not two minutes through the door and already she was texting someone, probably to tell them she was late again and what she’d had for breakfast. ‘Can I see the boss, love?’ Coupland replied, reaching in his jacket for his warrant card. ‘Show them through Cara,’ A voice behind her called out. A man in a dark grey suit and checked shirt stood at the far end of the main office. He looked at Coupland as though he knew what he was, didn’t need his warrant card to prove it. Coupland felt different in his holiday clothes but the set of his face must have given him away for the man said nothing further, just watched as Cara lifted the counter hatch to let both detectives enter, his eyes never leaving them as they made their way through several desks scattered around the room, all occupied by clerical staff tapping away onto computers, some of them wearing headsets. It was as though the mood of the two men in their midst was contagious, everyone pausing their work to glance at them before frowning and throwing curious looks at each other. The man had moved to stand in the doorway to his office, his eyes searching Coupland’s face for some sort of clue as to the purpose of their visit. There was an office beside his; through the open blinds Coupland could see a desk and chair, a filing cabinet. The door to this office was closed. ‘That’s my deputy’s office,’ the man said, following Coupland’s gaze, ‘Sharon Mathers, she’s normally in by now,’ he said furrowing his brow, ‘was it her you wanted to speak with?’