The Rookie, page 1
The Rookie
A Knight & Culverhouse Prequel Novella
Adam Croft
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
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1
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.’
2
The cereal rattled against the inside of the bowl as Bill Knight poured it from the box before adding milk.
‘Here you go, sweetheart,’ he said, passing the bowl to his daughter, Wendy. ‘Michael, have you got your bag packed?’
‘I’m doing it now,’ came the ever-so-slightly stroppy reply from the living room. Bill decided it was best to let it slide. Sometimes you had to pick your battles.
He’d always tried to make the morning rituals as routine as he could, but it wasn’t always possible — not with his work patterns at the moment. Putting family first was important to Bill, but unfortunately he was the only one who thought so. To everyone else, being a murder detective with Mildenheath CID was the pinnacle of his achievements. He guessed some people had different priorities to him.
If he was honest with himself, he’d have to say it was just a job. Sure, he liked what he did and he got a lot of value from it, but as far as he was concerned there were far more important things in life. Things like family.
As he put two slices of bread in the toaster for his own breakfast, he caught the familiar sight of his wife, Sue, out of the corner of his eye. She was standing in the kitchen doorway with her arms folded, her fluffy white dressing gown covering her body as she blinked into the lights, her tousled hair a remnant of a good night’s kip.
‘Morning. Sleep well?’
‘Yes, thanks. There’s no need for you to do all this, Bill. You’ve got enough on your plate.’
‘Nonsense,’ he replied, smiling. ‘It’s your day off. You deserve a lie-in.’
Sue raised her eyebrows and made a murmuring noise of disapproval. ‘At least I get days off. Maybe you should ask your boss what the word means.’
‘I’ll put a notice in the paper,’ Bill replied, winking at her. ‘Dear criminals: Please stop murdering people. Lots of love, Detective Inspector Knight.’
Sue moved closer to him and whispered. ‘Don’t use that language in front of the kids, Bill. They don’t need to hear things like that.’
Wendy, as astute as ever, soon piped up. ‘Daddy, do lots of people get murdered in Mildenheath?’
‘No,’ her father replied, bending down and placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘No, they don’t. It’s just that the investigations take an awful long time. We can be working on the same case for months or years. And we deal with a lot of other stuff, too. And cases from outside of our area. This is a very safe town to live in, alright? Just you remember that.’
‘It’s safe because of you, though, isn’t it, Daddy?’
Bill considered this for a moment. It wasn’t something he’d ever expected to hear from his daughter at such a young age. At the same time, it showed contrasting levels of maturity and naiveté in a way Bill couldn’t quite put his finger on. Wendy was starting to become an inquisitive little soul, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to start being honest with her about the world she was being brought up in.
‘I’m just one cog in the machine, sweetheart. Cogs are ten a penny round here.’
Seemingly placated by that, Wendy turned back to eating her cereal and reading her battered old copy of Five on a Treasure Island.
‘I should be home on time tonight,’ Bill told his wife. ‘Unless anything crops up, of course. I was thinking we could open a bottle of wine and watch something on the box.’
Sue smiled at him. ‘That’d be nice. But it’s a Thursday.’
Bill winced. ‘Ah. Yes. Council meeting. Tomorrow, perhaps.’
‘Let’s see what time you get in first,’ she said, the inference being that she was pretty sure he’d be late tomorrow night, as he was most nights.
He didn’t have the heart to tell Sue that she had it easy, that most of his colleagues were home well after eight o’clock in the evening. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her that he’d sacrificed his chances of ever being promoted past Detective Inspector because of his determination to always put his family first. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been passed over for promotion because there was someone else who put in longer hours or took more overtime. Sure, another promotion would put more money on the table, but life wasn’t all about money. Money can’t buy you happiness, his old mum always used to say.
‘Want me to drop the kids at school on the way?’ he asked, through a mouthful of toast.
‘No, it’s alright. I’ll get dressed and showered and walk them in. Won’t take long. Will do me good to get some fresh air. And I want to pop into the Haltmann Road development, see how they’re getting on building the new doctor’s surgery . I’ve got to report back at the meeting tonight.’
‘Alright. Don’t forget your hard hat,’ Bill replied, kissing his wife and children on the cheek before grabbing his briefcase and heading for the car.
3
Jack paused for a moment outside the entrance to CID. This was it. The moment he walked through that door, he’d be Detective Constable Culverhouse. His foot would be in the door of CID and it was up to him not to bollocks it up. He was fairly sure he could manage that. After all, how hard could it be?
Taking a deep breath, he pulled down on the handle, pushed the door and walked in.
He straight away felt the eyes of the people in the room turn to him. All conversation stopped. He recognised DI Taylor from the photographs he’d seen of him in the papers over the past few years, usually after receiving commendations from the mayor. In the flesh, though, he seemed a lot bigger, and the look he was giving Jack made him feel extremely uncomfortable.
‘PC... Uh, DC Culverhouse, sir,’ Jack said. ‘I’m joining your team today.’
‘I know,’ Taylor said, without moving. ‘And the first thing you need to learn is to knock before opening fucking doors.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘You will be. So. Culverhouse. Got a first name?’
‘Yes. Jack.’
‘Right, well that’s my name, so you can’t be having that. We’ll call you No-Knock.’
Jack shuffled slightly. ‘Sir.’
‘Fortunately for you, you’re just in time for the morning briefing. Otherwise you’d have a whole new nickname altogether. Sit down.’
Jack walked over towards the desk Taylor had indicated. It was bare, other than a stack of blank paper and a telephone. This was where it all began. This was where he’d call witnesses, take down notes, draw up the connections that led to murderers, gangsters and fraudsters being caught and banged up.
In his reverie, he’d completely tuned out from what Taylor was saying. He blinked to turn his blank gaze into focus on the DI and picked up what was being said.
‘I don’t think there’s much further we can go down that path,’ Taylor said, speaking to another detective, who Jack assumed was aged around thirty-five, although the slight beer belly added a couple of years. The detective nodded at Taylor and tapped a chunk of ash from his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk.
‘Onto another case altogether,’ Taylor said, raising his voice slightly as he addressed the room, ‘yesterday afternoon we received a call from a woman in Wilman Street, reporting a burglary in progress at a neighbour’s house. By the time officers got there, the kid had gone. She got a good look at him, though, and one of the officers reckoned it sounded just like someone he’d had a word with a few days earlier after some cars were getting broken into. Local kid by the name of Gary McCann, apparently,’ the DI said, looking at the name he’d scribbled down in his notebook. ‘I reckon if a couple of us go over there and lean on him, he’s more likely to cough than if the old woodentops wander in with their truncheons hanging out.’
Jack tried to force a laugh in order to join in with his new colleagues. Just a couple of days before he’d been a woodentop — or uniformed PC — himself.
‘What say you and me go over there this morning, No Knock?’
Jack blinked and nodded. ‘Sure, sir. Would be a pleasure.’
The other detectives sniggered and muttered to each other. Jack could see he was going to have to do things a little differently now. His new colleagues were all older than him and seemed to have formed a clique that he’d have to fight to be accepted into.
It had been similar when he’d first joined the force. As in many jobs, newcomers were either treated with an air of suspicion or as a plaything. Jack had never considered himself to be a jumpy sort of person, but the first few weeks on the job had soon steeled nerves he didn’t even realise he had. His first few nighttime beat shifts were punctuated by colleagues jumping off rooftops and out of bins with the sole intention of frightening the life out of him for their own amusement. He’d heard the stories of CID officers getting physical with suspects or local toerags, but he’d never seen anything himself. If that sort of thing went on, it was something kept well behind closed doors.
Right now, he didn’t care what else went on. The only thing on his mind was knuckling down and getting on with the job. And that meant going to see this suspect.
4
The Northwood Road estate had been built around twenty years earlier, as part of the effort to bring vast amounts of much-needed housing to Mildenheath. It wasn’t the most salubrious part of town by any stretch of the imagination, but it was home to large numbers of the employees of the local automotive companies and printworks, who kept the town booming.
The McCann residence was one such house. As Taylor and Culverhouse pulled up outside, Jack had a fair idea of what they’d find inside. He’d been to many houses like this before. Good, honest, hardworking folk. But it was impossible to deny that reports of criminality on the Northwood Road estate were higher than elsewhere in the town.
The lad who answered the door looked to be around Jack’s age, although it was difficult to put a number on it. Jack estimated a year or two either side, at most.
‘Morning,’ DI Taylor said, holding up his identity card. ‘You Gary McCann?’
‘Depends who’s asking.’
‘I am. Your mum and dad in?’
McCann shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Good,’ Taylor said, pushing the door open and barging his way past. ‘Mind if I take a seat in here?’
McCann seemed to know better than to argue, and stood aside to let Jack in.
Once all three of them were in the living room, DI Taylor smiled and looked up at McCann from an armchair. ‘Nice place this, ain’t it?’
‘S’alright.’
‘Your mum and dad must work hard to keep it looking like this. They must be proud of what they’ve earned.’
‘S’pose so.’
Taylor leaned forward. ‘You’d be pretty pissed off if some little git broke in and nicked half of it, wouldn’t you? You’d want to see him nicked, wouldn’t you? Want to see him spend years behind bars, shitting into a bucket and picking razor blades out of his soap.’
Jack watched as McCann’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘Where were you at four o’clock yesterday afternoon?’
‘Here,’ the lad said, without even thinking.
‘All afternoon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Anyone who can corroborate that?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah. My mum and dad were at work. I was here on my own.’
‘Doing what?’
‘At four? Sitting in the garden. Catching some rays.’
‘Nice weather yesterday, wasn’t it?’
‘Stunning.’
‘Reading a book, were you?’
‘Magazine, actually.’
‘Which one?’
‘Smash Hits. It’s my sister’s, but I don’t mind it.’
‘Who was on the cover?’
‘Paul Young.’
‘Local lad done good. Still got the mag?’
‘In the kitchen.’
Taylor looked at Jack and flicked his eyes towards the door. Jack understood the unspoken instruction and went into the kitchen.
It didn’t look as though it had been refitted any time in the past few years, but it was neat and clean. The dishes were dutifully stacked in the drying rack next to the sink, and the white porcelain tea, coffee and sugar jars stood proudly next to the electric kettle.
In the corner of the room, next to the open doorway into the dining room, was a stack of papers. Jack could see the corner of the magazine sticking out from the pile. He pulled it free and looked at the cover. There was Paul Young, resplendent in a flowery shirt and sunglasses, holding a photograph of himself. The cover told him this particular issue featured Marc Almond, Duran Duran, Marillion, Shalamar, Jimmy the Hoover and “hit songs by the Thompson Twins, ELO, Tom Robinson, the Eurythmics and many more”.
