Jack Culverhouse, more than anybody, knew that sometimes you could just try too hard. That was why he often liked to sit in silence, eyes closed, nursing a glass of water, mug of coffee or preferably something stronger. At least he told himself that was the reason.
The investigation into the deaths of Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott had entered what was referred to as the ‘dead zone’, the period after the initial discoveries, interviews and investigations and the point at which things started to go quiet. The truth was that most murder investigations were wrapped up pretty quickly following the results from forensics and speaking to family and friends. Once that phase was over and there were still no leads, it was time for the meticulous combing of bank records, previous employers, further door to door enquiries and an ever-growing mound of paperwork.
His few stolen seconds of tranquility were swiped from him when DS Frank Vine knocked on the office door and let himself in without waiting for an answer.
‘The Dear Leader wants to see you in his lair,’ Frank said. ‘Sounds important.’
‘It usually is. That’s what being the Chief Constable entails, Frank.’
Frank shuffled on his feet, shrugged his shoulders and left the room. After taking a couple of moments to compose himself, Culverhouse followed.
The Chief Constable’s office was situated on the top floor of Mildenheath Police Station, being both awkward to access and giving the psychological impression of Hawes being top dog — as well as the accompanying views across Mildenheath Common and beyond.
The office of the Chief Constable had once been permanently located at Mildenheath Police Station back when the town was the most prominent within the county, but most central business had since moved to plush new offices twenty miles up the road at Milton House. The vast majority of CID had gone the same way, but Mildenheath had been fortunate to retain a small CID team of its own, partly for reasons of political concession but perhaps more so due to the mechanics of supply and demand.
Hawes’s office was situated at Milton House, too, but he retained one at Mildenheath for times when it would be more practical, such as when Mildenheath CID had complex or prominent cases on the go.
As Culverhouse reached the office, he knocked on the door and waited for Hawes to answer before going in.
‘Ah, Jack. Do sit down. Tea? Coffee?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Culverhouse replied, sitting in the black leather office chair nearest to him.
‘How’s everything going? Any progress?’
‘We’re always progressing, sir,’ Culverhouse said. ‘Perhaps not always as fast as we’d like, but you know these things take time.’
‘I do. I do indeed,’ Hawes replied. It was Culverhouse’s saving grace that Hawes had himself come up through the CID branch of policing and knew the pressures and unexpected deviations the job brought. ‘But unfortunately for us, the Police and Crime Commissioner’s not quite so knowledgeable in this area.’
‘What, policing?’ Culverhouse asked, only half joking.
Hawes chuckled. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Martin Cummings is a democratically elected official, don’t you know.’
‘Funnily enough, he has mentioned it once or twice. Is that what this is all about, sir? The PCC putting on pressure for results? Because I hate to say it, but this pissing about, dragging me into endless meetings for updates isn’t doing anything to speed up the process. If anything, it’s slowing it down. You know what I think about politicians meddling in policing, but when he’s in danger of fucking up a double murder investigation it’s more than a step too far.’
‘Oh, I agree, Jack. I quite agree,’ Hawes said, raising his hands in mock surrender. ‘You’re preaching to the choir on that one. But it’s... different this time.’
‘Different? How?’ Culverhouse asked, cocking his head.
Hawes sighed loudly and stood up from his seat, moving over to the window to look out at his exclusive view over Mildenheath Common. ‘We’re lucky to be here, Jack. In this building, I mean. Right in the middle of a bustling town. Right on the doorstep of the people we protect and the scrotes we’re out to nab. Very lucky. They shut down all the other CID departments and moved them to Milton House.’
‘I know,’ Culverhouse replied. He had always been thankful that Hawes had put his foot down when the government had demanded more ‘streamlined’ policing a few years back and had resisted what otherwise amounted to a complete takeover by county hall.
‘Out in the middle of bloody nowhere. Nearest civilisation, Lower Norton: population 42. Just where you want your finest crew of detectives. I didn’t have much say over that, but I was at least able to kick up as much of a fuss as I could. The Home Office weren’t keen on the prospect of being taken through the courts by people who knew better than them, which is why we got certain concessions. Concessions made to me as the Chief Constable. This CID department being one. But, as you know, the system doesn’t quite have the same... hierarchy any more.’
‘Cummings?’ Culverhouse asked, already knowing the answer to the question.
‘Cummings. I’m sure you already know — we all bloody know — this is the most underfunded police force in the country. Anywhere else, that’d be hugely disappointing. With our crime rate, it’s a bloody travesty. The PCC’s keen to cut costs where he can, and he’s not convinced that running a satellite CID office in Mildenheath is worth the money.’
‘Well he can go fuck himself,’ Culverhouse replied.
‘Quite. But the fact remains that it’s his decision. If the Home Office put pressure on him and he agrees, it happens. If he raises it himself, the Home Office will agree anyway, particularly if it’s going to save them money. My opinion counts for bugger all nowadays.’
‘So what, Cummings is putting the pressure on us to get results or he’s going to ship us all up to Milton House to keep an eye on us?’
‘Not quite, Jack. We’ve more or less got a full CID department here. And all the associated baggage. If he subsumes that into Milton House, there’s no way all the staff will be needed. There’ll be redundancies. And big shake-ups. You practically run the CID show here. Do you reckon you’ll get the same deal up at county hall with Malcolm Pope in the building?’
Culverhouse didn’t say a word. He didn’t trust himself to.
‘And that’s not all,’ Hawes continued. ‘Cummings isn’t keen on me. Never has been. The feeling’s more than mutual, though. The only thing that keeps me from blowing up at him is being able to come and keep an eye on things down here and get away from him for a bit. If we had permanent offices next to each other, I’d be out on my ear inside six weeks. He’s just looking for a reason to do it.’
‘Don’t give him one, then.’
‘Not that easy, Jack. As you know, if someone wants to find a reason, they’ll find one.’
Hawes sat back down at his desk. Culverhouse stared at the telephone sat next to his computer keyboard, mainly because he didn’t want to make eye contact with Hawes.
‘What I’m saying, Jack, is I’m on your side here. What can I do to help?’
Culverhouse swallowed and stood up. ‘Nothing. I can handle it.’