Gary McCann's house sat proudly at the end of a sweeping driveway, nestled behind black wrought iron gates on Meadow Hill Lane. The road was often considered to be the comparative Millionaires' Row of Mildenheath, if there ever could be such a thing. The town hardly had its fair share of millionaires, but Meadow Hill Lane was the closest it was going to get.
DCI Culverhouse pulled off the road and came to a stop before the gates, noticing that Gary McCann's driveway was perfectly sizeable before you even got as far as the gate. He got out of the car and approached the barrier, pressing the brushed silver button on the intercom system.
‘Yes?’ said a voice a few seconds later.
‘Mobile stripper for Mr McCann.’
‘Ah, DCI Culverhouse. It's been too long.’
With that, the intercom crackled with the replacement of the handset and the gates clicked and whirred before slowly swinging open to welcome Knight and Culverhouse in like old friends.
‘Why does he have these gates and walls?’ Knight asked, ‘He's not got a much bigger place than any of his neighbours and they've all got open driveways.’
‘His neighbours probably aren't gangsters and crack dealers.’
‘You'd be surprised. Some of the things that go on behind the most innocent of doors would amaze you.’
‘Nothing amazes me any more, Knight,’ Culverhouse said.
He brought the car to a stop just outside the red brick porch, its twin arches framing the impressive red door. Before they had even reached the door, it opened to reveal the man who Wendy assumed must be Gary McCann. She reckoned he must be just over six feet tall, his greying-white quiff adding at least an extra two inches to his height. He had the eyes and jowls of a hardened criminal, she had to admit, but he certainly cut a respectable figure in his open-necked suit and highly-polished patent leather Oxfords.
‘Nice little place you've got here, Gary. What line of work are you in at the moment?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘Investments, mostly. In local businesses.’ Gary McCann smiled.
‘So I hear.’
‘You not made Superintendent yet then, Inspector?’ he said, ushering the pair through into his large living room. The huge open fire dominated the far wall, with three green leather sofas arranged around it.
‘I think that's about as bloody likely as you being hailed as the next Mother Teresa, don't you?’
‘Oh, I don't know. I do an awful lot for the local community. I’m very well known around these parts.’
‘Yes, but Mother Teresa mostly did good,’ Culverhouse said.
‘I’ve done no bad, you know that, Inspector. You must have seen my record, what there is of it. Not a single conviction for a single crime. Even Nelson Mandela had a criminal conviction.’
‘Mandela now, are you?’ Culverhouse said. ‘And yes, I’m very familiar with your police record as it happens. An awful lot of arrests on suspicion.’
‘But nothing ever proven, isn't that right?’
‘That doesn't make you the Good Samaritan, Gary. It just means we've not managed to catch you yet.’
‘Yet?’
‘Oh, yes. You know I'm going nowhere until I've got your bollocks stapled to my last arrest sheet.’
Gary McCann laughed. ‘I like you, Jack. You've got balls.’
‘So have you. For now.’
Gary McCann shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and smiled. ‘Anyone fancy some coffee? I’ve got some Ethiopian stuff in.’
‘Yes please,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘Extra strychnine for me.’
‘I was going to give you a double dose anyway, Inspector. And what about your colleague here? Sorry, I don't know your name. These senior officers can be terrible rude when it comes to introductions.’
‘Wendy. DS Wendy Knight.’
‘Wendy. That's a lovely name.’
‘That's DS Knight to you, McCann,’ Culverhouse interjected.
‘Oh, I thought we were all on first name terms, Jack?’
‘We are, but she hasn't had her gloved finger up your arsehole as many times as I have.’
McCann smiled again and let out a small chuckle as he headed into the kitchen.
‘Nice place,’ Wendy said to Culverhouse as she heard the clanging of mugs and cutlery.
‘Amazing what the proceeds of crime can buy.’
‘He can't have done anything too bad, guv. If he's the gangland mobster you make him out to be we'd have been able to nail something on him by now.’
‘You ever tried nailing jelly to a wall?’
‘Can't say I have,’ Wendy replied.
‘Try it. The day you get that to stick is the day we get this to stick.’
‘Sorry, only got instant, I'm afraid,’ Gary McCann said as he handed over the mugs to Knight and Culverhouse. ‘Must’ve run out of the other stuff.’
‘Make a habit out of sneaking up on people, do you Gary?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘I don't know what you mean, Inspector. Would you like sugar?’
‘I’m sweet enough.’
‘Indeed. And perhaps that coffee isn't the most bitter thing in this room either, eh?’ McCann said, smiling.
‘I’m not bitter, McCann. Every time you slip through my fingers it only makes me more fucking determined to nail you the next time.’
‘Well, something has to get you up in the morning, I suppose. Now that your wife isn't here to do it.’
Culverhouse began to grind his teeth, his eyes widening at McCann's remark.
‘Oh, sorry. Are we getting a bit too personal? Or was I not meant to know that?’
‘It's hardly top secret information,’ Culverhouse said, almost whispered, through gritted teeth.
‘Nothing ever is, Inspector. Nothing ever is. Not in a small town like this. So, how can I help you? I presume you're not here for the Daz Doorstep Challenge.’
‘We wanted to speak to you about someone we believe you might have known. A Bob Arthurs.’
‘Bob? Radley Stationery Bob? Yeah, I know him. Why?’
‘Well he's a very stationary Bob at the moment. He's dead.’
‘Dead?’ McCann replied. ‘Oh dear, that is a shame. What happened?’
‘I was rather hoping you could tell me. How did you know Bob Arthurs?’
‘Well, he was one of my clients, a business partner. I had invested in his company.’
‘In what sense?’
‘He sold me some of his shares. Temporarily, like. They were short on readies so I bought out some of Bob's stake in the company. He was going to be buying them back over the course of a few years, only he'd fallen into a bit of trouble recently.’
‘Trouble?’ Wendy asked, trying to make her mark on the conversation.
‘Yeah. Couldn't pay back the money a couple of times.’
‘That's remarkably open of you, McCann,’ Culverhouse said. ‘You going to tell us what happened?’
‘That is what happened, Inspector. The last I saw of Bob was over a month ago when I popped in to see how business was.’
‘And how was it?’
‘Not great, but everyone's having a tough time of it, aren't they?’
‘I don't think many are having a tougher time than Bob Arthurs at the moment, if you ask me,’ Culverhouse replied.
‘Well, no. We've all got our health, I suppose. That's the only thing that old Bob had, really, truth be told.’
‘And now he's had that taken from him as well. Who'd do a thing like that, Gary?’
‘I’ve no idea. You mean he was murdered?’
‘I mean he was brutally fucking slaughtered.’
Gary McCann began to pace in front of the fireplace, rubbing his chin with his hand, his head slightly aslant as he seemed to be digesting the news. Wendy glanced at Culverhouse, noting his unimpressed look.
‘Save it for the interview room, McCann. We'll be needing copies of your accounts regarding your business with Bob Arthurs and Radley Stationery. I presume you do have accounts?’
‘Of course I do. I'm very good at keeping records, as you know, Inspector. You'll have to get them sent over by my accountant, though. Here's his card. Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘I’m sure we'll be in contact in due course.’
Gary McCann stood, almost theatrically, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other waving to Knight and Culverhouse as they drove back down the gravel drive towards the now-open gates.
‘Fucking smarmy bastard. I can't fucking wait to nail him over this,’ Culverhouse said, his white knuckles gripping the steering wheel.
‘You reckon the accounts will have holes in, then?’
‘Like a sieve, Knight. Like a fucking sieve.’