One Bad Turn (7 page)

‘I can expect him to fuck up;’ Coupland’s words, as ever, came straight from the hip, ‘A leopard never changes its spots.’ Lynn turned to look at him. ‘You did,’ she said evenly, placing a hand on his chest, pushing him slightly to put some distance between them, ‘you were close to going off the rails when you were his age, you told me so yourself.’ Coupland stared at her. That she could draw any similarities between the two of them… ‘Was it any wonder with my old man?’ he said irritably, ‘After Mum’d gone it was like he resented my existence.’ Coupland had been left to fend for himself most of the time, fell in with a rough crowd that could have been his undoing if the police hadn’t been recruiting the summer he turned 21. Rather than be proud he’d followed in his footsteps his dad had responded as though he’d robbed a bank. ‘Nothing I ever did was good enough.’

‘Apart from marrying me,’ Lynn reminded him with a gleam in her eye, ‘he sent you a card, remember, he must’ve approved.’ When Coupland had moved out of the dingy flat he’d shared with his father he’d never gone back, and the old man seemed to like it that way, living out his days wasting his police pension on drink and the betting shop. Coupland joining the police had been the final straw, and what should have brought them closer pushed them apart. It was as though his father preferred it when his life was fucked up; maybe it made him feel better about the mess he’d made of his own. Yet Coupland saw it differently, reckoned his old man felt he was stealing his thunder going into the force, the job being the one thing he’d been proud of. Coupland blinked away the memory. Lynn had a point though, he of all people should understood how easy it was to cross over onto the wrong side of the tracks, but then was it so wrong to say he didn’t want that for his daughter?

He tried a different tack, ‘Christ love, we’ve both worked hard for what we’ve got, moved to a decent area with a good school, are you really saying he’s what you had in mind for her?’ Lynn shook her head, ‘No,’ she conceded, ‘but we brought Amy up to have a mind of her own.’

‘That was your doing,’ Coupland accused her, ‘what’s wrong with doing as she’s bloody told?’

‘Taxi for Kevin,’ Lynn chided, holding an invisible phone to her ear, ‘says he needs a ride back to the 1950s,’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ Coupland grumbled, ‘I’d quite like to be king of my own bloody castle for once!’ When Lynn spoke next there was laughter in her voice, ‘You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself, Kev, trust me.’ She was right, as she always was, so he did what he always did in that situation and said nothing. ‘You’re going to have to get past this,’ Lynn soothed, nudging him to one side so she could get started on the metal grill, ‘we both need to trust Amy’s belief in him.’

He nodded, but he wasn’t convinced.

*

‘You couldn’t sleep either?’ Ashcroft called over as Coupland entered the CID room two hours before his shift was due to start. He was sitting at Alex Moreton’s desk, leaning back in her chair, a smattering of pastry flakes said he’d eaten breakfast there. ‘Well I’m not here for the coffee,’ Coupland grumbled, glaring at the tarry substance trying to pass for a cappuccino he’d got from the vending machine. Ashcroft flicked the pastry flakes onto the floor, the way single men did when there was no one at home to answer to. ‘Area car’s been out to Broadwalk a couple of times, someone reported a man behaving suspiciously, turns out he’s been on the sauce all evening, was so drunk he couldn’t remember his way home. Kept trying to let himself into strangers’ houses, banging on the front door when his key didn’t work. The last house he fell asleep on the patio.’

‘Enjoying our hospitality I take it?’ Coupland enquired, ‘Yup, bed and breakfast, full en-suite facilities.’ He shook his head, ‘Can you imagine being that out of it?’ Coupland blew out his cheeks, had to cast his mind far back, to the days before he tried behaving like a role model for Amy. ‘Lucky bugger,’ he muttered. What he wouldn’t give to be anaesthetised right now. The phone on his desk gave a shrill ring. He cocked an eyebrow at Ashcroft as he answered, reaching for his car keys as he pushed himself to his feet, motioning for the DC to do the same. A woman’s body had been found at Salford Crescent station.

The railway station, close to the university, had two lines. Used by students and commuters alike, the commuters either working in Manchester’s city centre or at the opposite end of the line - Preston, Lancaster and Blackpool. Two police vans now blocked the entrance to the station and a Police Community Support Officer was securing tape around the base of the footbridge. Another officer diverted traffic away from the roundabout on the station approach. Coupland slowed his vehicle long enough for the uniformed man to clock him and get out of his way. In his rear view mirror he saw more police vans approach, parking across any potential vehicular access to the station, including blocking off entry to the industrial site opposite. DCI Mallender’s car was parked adjacent to the police vans and Coupland followed suit. Soon enough the place would be swarming with journalists, better to create as much of a barrier as possible. The DCI’s shock of blond hair stood out against the uniformed officers’ flat caps. He was pointing to the other side of the bridge, waving his hands impatiently, within minutes access to the bridge from the other side of the track was cordoned off. Coupland climbed out of his vehicle. Turning to Ashcroft he pointed out a PCSO shepherding would-be commuters away from the station waiting room. ‘You need to shut this place down otherwise people will be turning up here every half hour until rush hour is over. Have a word with the staff in the ticket office, no more trains to stop here until I give the all clear,’ he commanded. ‘Right Sarge,’ Ashcroft made his way to the crowd standing by the glass fronted ticket office.

Coupland caught Mallender’s eye, the DCI inclined his head, waving him over. The victim had been discovered at the base of the footbridge. She was white, early thirties. Two rings on her wedding finger. She wasn’t dressed for work, the dress she wore was flimsy, the heels suggested she wouldn’t be walking far at the other end, a cab even, given the likelihood of rain. Her body lay awkwardly at the foot of the stairwell, her long hair fanned out around her. Straw coloured liquid trickled from her ears. Coupland knew that if he lifted her head the back of her skull would be shattered. He stepped closer, looked up at the bridge, for the moment keeping his thoughts to himself. ‘I suppose it’s possible she jumped,’ Mallender suggested. ‘Nobody jumps backwards,’ Coupland said, ‘this one was definitely pushed.’ ‘Forensics will confirm it,’ Mallender nodded at the army of white-suited ants moving toward them. ‘This one’s not a robbery either.’ Coupland eyed the shoulder bag lying beside the victim, its contents spewed across the path as the DCI turned to him, ‘Once it’s been photographed and the contents logged I want you to go through it. Get her ID’d and let her poor family know.’ Coupland nodded at a pile of vomit two metres away from the body. ‘The person who found her?’ he asked. Mallender shook his head, ‘Not the person who reported it, we already checked. He’s worked for the rail network for years, a ticket inspector now but back in the day drove high speed trains till he failed his medical.’

‘So it’s not the first dead body he’s seen then.’

‘Nope, though it’s the first time one still had the head attached, as he was kind enough to share with me.’ Coupland moved back from the body, mindful not to step in the puddle of sick. A sample would need to be taken for a DNA match. ‘Who’s the crime scene manager?’ Mallender broke eye contact. ‘DC Turnbull.’

‘God help us,’ Coupland muttered.

‘He’s had the training,’ Mallender reminded him, his tone sharp, ‘I know two murder investigations at the same time will be a drain on our resources but we have to make the best of it.’

‘Talk of the devil,’ Coupland remarked as Turnbull made his way over to the crime scene, stepping tentatively on the metal plates that had been put in place to protect the locus. He had blue footwear protectors over his shoes and he carried a clipboard. Mallender made his way over to speak with him, pointing at Coupland and the woman’s personal possessions that had spilled from her bag. Ashcroft, dressed in a CSI suit, made his way over to Coupland. ‘Jesus,’ he stared at the victim as he approached her. He craned his neck to look up at the bridge then back down at the position of her body, ‘She didn’t jump, then.’

‘Nope.’ Coupland watched a CSI log each item beside the victim before placing it into an evidence bag.

‘Two bodies in three days, could still be coincidence,’ Ashcroft muted.

Coupland laughed then, a small harsh sound that contained no mirth, ‘You sound as confident as a Greek banker, even so, we treat this as a separate investigation until we know otherwise.’

The CSI carried the evidence bag over to Turnbull who put on a pair of reading glasses before cross referencing the contents onto a pad on his clipboard. Once the items had been logged, he pushed the glasses onto the top of his head before making his way over to Coupland, asking him to sign for the contents before handing the evidence bag over to him and countersigning the form. Coupland turned to Ashcroft. ‘Better get an FLO assigned and on standby.’ Ashcroft nodded and headed towards the parked vans before pulling out his mobile. A moment later he held the phone away from him as he called over: ‘There isn’t anyone spare, they can assign the PC who’s at Sharon Mathers’ place, at least she’s experienced.’ Coupland nodded. Ashcroft spoke into the phone before ending the call. Coupland took a moment to observe once more the activity going on around the body before making his way over to Ashcroft and handing him his keys, ‘You can drive while I go through her belongings.’ The photographer had arrived, was setting up his equipment while the forensic team worked around him. ‘Don’t forget to bag the vomit.’ Coupland instructed Turnbull, ignoring the scowl that flitted across the officer’s face. ‘You’re good to go, Sarge,’ Turnbull reminded him, writing ‘sick’ onto the itinery on his clipboard when nobody was looking. Coupland baulked at Turnbull’s words as he climbed into his car.

Good didn’t come into it at all.

While Ashcroft manoeuvred the car back ono the main road Coupland pulled on a pair of plastic gloves before removing the woman’s mobile and purse from the evidence bag. He opened the clasp on her purse and pulled out a debit card. ‘Maria Wellbeck,’ he replaced the card and looked through the other sections. ‘Forty five pounds in cash and a train ticket to Oxford Road.’ He switched on her mobile. ‘S’funny,’ he said, after a minute or so had passed, ‘no missed calls.’ Ashcroft shrugged, ‘Maybe she was going away?’

‘No bags or suitcases,’ Coupland observed, ‘besides, she wasn’t dressed for travelling, she had a flimsy dress on with tights, for a start,’ Coupland swiped his finger across the smartphone, ‘good thing nobody locks their phones any more,’ he tapped the screen until he found her email account which had been set up to display messages without the need to log in every time. ‘Bingo,’ he grinned, ‘there’s an email here confirming an order from Next, giving a delivery address on Fire Station Square.’

‘Where’s that?’ Ashcroft asked, ready to tap a postcode into his phone’s GPS. ‘Don’t bother,’ Coupland pointed to a cluster of buildings beyond the roundabout, ‘it’s there.’ What was once the forecourt of Salford Central Fire Station was now a public space with trees and benches. The fire station itself, a red brick and terracotta building with a shaped gable featuring a clock face had been converted by the university to accommodate its council chamber and three small boardrooms. The fire engine bays had been redesigned into meeting spaces although the firemen’s poles had been retained. The properties behind the main building consisted of smart red brick terraced houses and this was where Maria Wellbeck lived. A blink of an eye and they had pulled up outside. Ashcroft switched off the engine and waited. Coupland caught his eye as he took his time unbuckling his seat belt. ‘Never gets any easier, this bit,’ he sighed. Delivering the death message. The moment he walked into someone’s life and fractured it.

As they approached the front door they heard a baby crying from an upstairs window that was slightly ajar. ‘At least we can’t get the blame for waking the child up,’ Ashcroft said as he pressed the doorbell. An harassed looking man dressed in suit trousers and a shirt half hanging out of his waist band opened the door. He made a point of looking at his watch, ‘Christ, you’re a bit keen aren’t you, I’ll take a leaflet and we’ll call it quits, eh?’ he offered. Coupland held up his warrant card, Ashcroft’s was displayed on a lanyard around his neck. The reaction was immediate, the man’s shoulders dropped and his face took on the look of a frightened animal. He took a step backwards, as though trying to distance himself from what was to come. ‘Mr Wellbeck?’ Coupland asked. The man nodded in slow motion, his mind trying to compute why two sombre looking cops had turned up at his door. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Coupland and this is Detective Constable Ashcroft, may we come in please?’ Wellbeck said nothing, but stepped back a few more paces to allow them access. As they stepped into the hallway a much older woman came down the stairs carrying an infant. The child looked no more than six months old and was grizzling, their face red and legs banging against the woman’s hip. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked as Wellbeck showed the men into a living room that had been smart once, but had since been hijacked with baby paraphernalia. ‘Are the bottles ready?’ the woman asked; ‘Only madam here isn’t as patient as her brother.’ She turned to the detectives, ‘twins,’ she beamed, as though she hadn’t got over the novelty of saying it. ‘Please, Mr Wellbeck,’ Coupland said, ‘it might be better if we can go somewhere private, where you can sit down.’

‘I’ll stand if it’s all the same,’ Wellbeck said gruffly, regaining some of his composure. He tucked his shirt into his waistband and held his arms out for the child. ‘I really think you’d be better doing as I suggest,’ Coupland persisted. Wellbeck stared at him, ‘Is this about Maria?’ he demanded, causing the woman to gasp. He half turned towards her, ‘They’re police,’ he said evenly.