PC Jack Culverhouse opened the door of his Vauxhall Chevette and stepped out onto the tarmac. The rain had been beating down heavily overnight, but the morning sun had since broken through and the air was filled with the scent of spring. It had been a warm few days, and it was looking as if all the predictions of a long, hot summer were going to be proved correct.
In just a few minutes’ time he’d be able to call himself DC Culverhouse, having been offered a position — albeit probationary — as a Detective Constable at Mildenheath CID.
This was where the real fun was to be had, he thought. This was where the serious crime was investigated; the sort of crime he’d come into policing to put a stop to. He knew it wouldn’t be quite like it was on the telly, as much as he loved The Sweeney and that new show, Minder, which had started a year or two previously.
This was his first time at Mildenheath Police Station, despite having worked in the county since he’d joined the police. He’d wanted to join CID before even applying to become a police officer. It had always been his ultimate goal. And to be able to do that job in a place like Mildenheath, with its reputation for being a town that was on the turn, was manna from heaven for Jack.
His eighteen months in the force had been an eye-opener, to say the least. Training had been less intensive than he thought it would be, and he’d been thrown onto the streets with nothing but a walkie-talkie and a truncheon.
Fortunately for him, the truncheon had been all he’d needed for his first nick. He’d had a tip-off from an old lady on the street that a man was trying to break into a car round the corner. Jack had peered round the bend and seen the young man trying to prise open the door of a Ford Cortina. Mere seconds later, Jack’s truncheon had made its first of many contacts with a shinbone and the man was under arrest.
Now, things were going to be different. Now he’d be able to stalk around out of uniform and arrest murderers and big-time gangsters. His days of nabbing car thieves were over. Crime in Mildenheath was becoming far darker, far more sinister.
Mildenheath had always been a fairly quaint, pleasant market town. The sense of community had been strong. It was a place where people looked out for each other, where you could keep your doors unlocked overnight. If some local scrote tried to break in, his own mother would shop him in if it meant keeping order in the local community.
That had all changed, though. Like much of the country, Mildenheath was turning, evolving. Jack had noticed a change in people in the past couple of years. A sense of entitlement was starting to creep through. People were becoming more insular. Priorities were no longer on family and friends; they were on work, on money, on climbing up the ladder of life. Suspicion was in the air wherever you went. Suspicion of neighbours, suspicion of strangers, suspicion of foreigners. The country was starting to fracture, and Mildenheath was no different.
Those were never thoughts at the forefront of Jack’s mind, though; purely observations that he was barely aware of. For Jack, things were going quite nicely indeed. And they were about to get a whole lot better. He strolled into the reception area of Mildenheath Police Station and took a good look around. His new home, for the time being at least. Though permanently, he hoped. He strolled up to the front desk and spoke to the middle-aged man seated behind it.
‘Morning. I’m here for CID. I’m new today.’
‘Okay, mate. What’s your name?’
‘Jack Culverhouse,’ he replied, watching as the man scanned his eyes across various bits of paper on the desk in front of him. Behind him were rows and rows of filing cabinets, each topped with a decent stack of files which evidently didn’t fit inside.
‘No... Can’t see any record of you here. We’ve got a John Culverhouse, mind. Any relation?’
‘No. Yeah. That’s me,’ Jack said, noting the confusion on the man’s face as he did so.
‘Thought you said your name was Jack?’
‘It is. Well, that’s what I’m called. Jack’s a nickname for John.’
‘Is it? First time I’ve heard that,’ he replied, as if Jack had just given him the secret recipe for Coca Cola. ‘So should I call you Jack or John?’
‘Jack. Unless you’re my mum. Or arresting me,’ he replied, letting out a slight nervous laugh.
‘Do I need to arrest you?’ the man asked.
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
The man looked at Jack for a few seconds, summing him up, then nodded. ‘Right you are. Through that door over there. Down the corridor, third door on your left.’