Joined Apart

By David Hudson

Chief Inspector Julie Marsden is pushing forty and odds on to die alone. She is apparently short of allure, whatever allure she had having long since collapsed under the excess weight of unreasonable expectation. She is possessed of an absolute certainty that she is exceptionally good at her job, that good men are rarer than rocking horse manure, and that she is the world’s worst mother. How else can she explain Emily Calier - such a pleasant and respectful girl - and Rosie, her own truth challenged and belligerent teenage daughter - so horrible, especially to her? Amidst this angst and inner turmoil and, yes, guilt, lots of guilt, small town Rotherham suddenly has a kidnapping, a death, and at least one murder. Julie’s at the cutting edge. Where she loves to be. But the pressure to get a result is quickly building, Rosie is running wild and out of control, ex-husband, Dennis, is useless, and her new sweetheart, Michael, is her daughter’s head teacher… AND a suspect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jun 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684704262

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Hudson

Copyright © 2019 David Hudson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0427-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0426-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019906862

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 05/29/2019

For

J

enny

Prologue

The Road to Hell

He and his boyhood pals would listen, hearts thumping and ears pressed against the falling-down door, to the buzz of gathered hordes of flies, and occasionally, their curiosity creating courage, they would break into old man Tommy Shoot’s shed to be mesmerised by a rank mixture of dead, crawling, and flying creatures.

Tommy bred his own fishing bait maggots from rotting chickens hanging in a decrepit and secluded old outbuilding. Kids would watch spellbound as he, rod in hand alongside some river, canal, or reservoir, sucked off-white or red tail-flicking maggots, his lime-green pillar teeth sharing saliva with a pink and surprisingly youthful-looking slug of a tongue.

Warmed-up maggots are lively maggots, and lively maggots attract the attention of even the most disinterested of fish.

He hasn’t thought of Tommy, long dead and gone, in years. But lifting putrefying chicken wings for a dare and exploring under crumbling feathers leaves a lasting impression on a ten-year-old’s soul. As he scopes his soon-to-be victim, he has Tommy’s permanently wet and grinning maggot-filled mouth vibrant and present in his torn and troubled mind.

He watches her labour under the weight of two Smart Green bags-for-life that perversely are a startling blue, her lank, grey, shoulder-length, home-cut hair carelessly secured in a poor excuse for a ponytail and weaving without purpose over a distressed best coat that has overstayed its welcome. He suspects that she’s relieved to have completed her habitual late shop and that, for her, days and nights overflow with predictability and brim with monotony. This is her reality. This is what she has become. All things considered, he’s certain that she is content.

But at this moment, he controls all of eternity for another human being, and the adrenalin-fuelled, breathtaking responsibility is devastating. Willpower squeezes from every pore, and he feels light-headed, bilious. Devoid of options, he realises this has to be done and done now. He shudders, making a superhuman effort to pull himself together.

Now is the time for him to step up to the plate. He reminds himself that he is liberating her. No longer taken for granted, she will be free. He will give her in death what she lacked in life. And yet, in his head, a million maggots still wriggle and munch, and Tommy still grins his eccentric wild-eyed grin.

The street is quiet and unpopulated. Cars pass, but nobody notices him, all of them too busy living.

He can actually see his meticulous notes clearly as a picture in his head: Wrap the wire round the first two fingers of the gloved right hand. Next, do the same to the first two fingers of the gloved left hand. Pull apart to create a taught thirty-centimetre cutting machine. Walk quickly towards the target.

Automaton-like, he is amazed to be actually doing it. He’s three strides away from her. No longer imagined. No longer avoidable. If she turns now, it will already be too late. Ready to sidestep around if any last-second movement makes this necessary, he places the wire over her head and around her throat and pulls. Aggression, he knows, is vital if he is to slice the larynx strap muscles.

Hands now together, touching, overlapping, he holds for several seconds, resisting the understandable desire (gut-wrenching yearning) to release too early. One foot between the shoulder blades until her arm flailing ceases and the expected extensive blood spurt comes. With all fight over, her body is limp and lifeless. Even now, especially now, he counts to ten before releasing pressure.

The discoloured length of wire now cut from its reel and dropped on top of a body never designed or intended to fit into a car boot. He throws in the Smart Green bags, motorbike gloves, boiler suit, and heavy work boots.

A wave of queasiness and cold sweat flows over him, threatening to ruin all his plans by causing him to be sick. His breathing urgently needs to return to normal.

His mother has often said that good boxers aren’t those who are good at hitting; they’re the ones who avoid getting hit themselves. He thinks of her, and he calms.

He’s very proud of himself. Maggots banished, temporarily, to the past, where they belong. A good start.

But there is still an awfully long way to go.

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday, 12 November—Morning

Bejewelled earrings that could lacerate at twenty paces, a red-fluorescent-lipped toothy laugh, and Hollywood film star wavy hair, and dressed always in black, Brenda has sizeable arms that either spread or dangle, depending on whether they are animated or at rest. Her sixteen-stone, two-hundred-thirty-pound frame has squeezed into this eight-foot-by-ten-foot office between eight thirty and five o’clock for the last six years.

Confrontation is Brenda’s least favourite thing. So why become a traffic warden? Better yet, a supervisor of traffic wardens! Mumbling to herself, she staples two documents together with unnecessary force and, in a timorous parody of a pacing weightlifter psyching up to attack an impossibly weighted bar, works herself up to mildly offended.

It’s not as if I haven’t told Oliver enough times. The guy doesn’t listen! None of these Neanderthals likes taking orders from a woman, much less a big black woman, but he’s going to have to learn that he can’t just go around doing what he damn well pleases.

The meeting with Oliver, who is already on a written warning and so out of order this time that he needs to be suspended pending dismissal, is bound to be a doozy, and her head of section, while seeming to be helpful, is busy sapping every scrap of the remnants of her confidence. He’s even sent a long and comprehensive list of instructions as to how to play it.

For God’s sake, Brenda, he’s all wind and piss. Little-man syndrome. If it’s worrying you this much, I’ll come over and deal with the poison dwarf myself!

But despite a yearning to offload and to let smart-arse bossman earn his salary for a change, she has politely declined his patronising offer and decided that this is for her, and only her, to take care of. Pride and self-respect—at this moment, luxuries that come at a high price—are keeping her in the game.

That said, there’s no getting away from the fact that Oliver burrows under her skin like a mole on methamphetamine. The best she can do when he’s involved is to minimise damage—and Oliver Thurwell does damage better than anyone does damage.

The commotion in the outer office signposts that, unlike Elvis, Oliver actually is in the building. She hears a sharp rat-tat-tat, and before she can shout come in, the door flies open. In an instant, he’s sitting across from her, that big round prison-pallor-painted pumpkin head beaming from ear to ear.

You wanted to see me, Miss Jackson? The deliberately barbed and slimy emphasis of Miss is calculated to irritate.

"Yes I did, Mr Thurwell. Two can play at that game. Thank you for coming. It’s about your shift yesterday and, I have to say, your record over the past eighteen months." She delivers this as she’d rehearsed while tossing and turning in the early hours. It’s a good start.

No reply. Seeing the smirk still fixed to Oliver’s frosted-glass complexion, Brenda sighs inwardly. If she were to retrain as a postwoman, she’d be done by midday. And they only have to worry about slavering Alsatians and rampaging Rottweilers. Delivering letters for a living suddenly seems a much more mouth-watering career prospect.

You had a total of two formal complaints from the public on your file before yesterday, and after just one eight-hour shift, this rose to six. Four complaints in just one day, Mr Thurwell. Four complaints. Again, he gives her nothing more than that supercilious bloody grin.

A Mr Thompson says you pushed him.

He was about to feed the meter. I merely prevented him from doing so.

You can’t lay hands on members of the public, Oliver. You know that. Are you accepting that you did in fact put your hands on Mr Thompson? And that you did push him?

"Mr Thompson, sneers Oliver with exaggerated disgust. He’s barely old enough to drive. No more than a hoody, a lout. Brenda takes off her varifocals and fixes her glare. Yes, I pushed him," he says. Still the sunny smile.

Our next call about you came from Mrs Jameson, who said you called her a … Brenda searches her copious notes for the exact word: tart.

"She had a skirt that was more like a belt, and she had left her car with one wheel on the pavement. Tart was appropriate."

You admit you called her a tart?

I do.

Miss Oliphant, your third in as many hours, Oliver, alleges that you deliberately stood in her way as she ran weighed down with shopping for a bus.

We did collide. It was an accident. I couldn’t move because I might have lost my vantage point. Brenda raises her eyebrows. Oliver shrugs. I was watching to see if the owners of a particular car, who, I could tell when they parked, were troublemakers, were going to be late back and liable for a ticket.

So you saw Miss Oliphant running and still didn’t get out of the way?

I was there first. He exudes all the confidence of a man who knows he’s right.

Mrs Carter says that you cuffed her thirteen-year-old son.

He was swearing at his mother.

It is none of your business, Oliver!

He’s scoring points, and Brenda’s annoyed with herself, her loss of control noticed and pleasing Oliver immensely. She pulls herself back to purely professional.

You are formally suspended, Oliver, pending a dismissal hearing. You are to leave your uniform in the locker area and hand over your locker key to me now. A letter will be sent to you as soon as possible with the date of the dismissal hearing. You would be very foolish not to bring a union representative with you to that hearing.

I don’t believe in unions. I am not now, I have never have been, and I never will be in a union.

Well, I’ve told you what I advise. What you do is up to you. Brenda is tired of hitting her head against a brick wall. She wants him gone and consigned to her past mistakes box. Why should she care?

The locker key skids across the desk, flicked from his trouser pocket like a gunfighter quickly releasing a Colt .45. Oliver starts to push himself up from his chair, still smiling, still showing no emotion or concern.

One moment, says Brenda. Oliver eases himself back into the chair. You will be on full pay until that dismissal hearing. What happens after that depends on the outcome. You should be ready to deal with the possibility, Oliver, that you will dismissed—and more quickly than you might think. You will then have no money coming in.

Thank you for your concern, Brenda.

Now standing, Oliver reaches for the door handle of the airless pastel-shaded box that is just big enough for one overfilled filing cabinet, three bending and about-to-collapse shelves, and one paper-strewn desk, complete with one overworked telephone, two chairs, no natural light, and Brenda’s substantial frame. Perversely, Oliver Thurwell always seems invigorated and liberated by his encounters in this confined and oppressive space.

You should know, Oliver, that Mr Thompson and Mrs Carter have said that they have contacted the police and will be seeking compensation from the council. We have apologised on your behalf to all four complainants.

Thinking that she is formally ending the interview, Oliver, with no warning, spins like an Olympic ice skater and, in an instant, is leaning over the desk and staring into Brenda’s face. He is so close that she can feel his warm wet breath against her skin. She tries to pull back, but his sudden domination of what little space is available leaves her with few options. Stan Laurel has become the Terminator in the blink of an eye.

"You! Apologise for me! How dare you presume to speak for me! You will regret this, madam. You will personally regret it, and your excuse for a council will regret it! His voice drops to a far more menacing whisper. Brenda feels cold sweat run down her back. If I’m attacked, Miss Jackson, I fight. I fight to the death, Miss Jackson. To the death."

Absurdly diminutive, Oliver Thurwell then pirouettes quickly and negotiates his exit in an exaggerated yet calculated fashion. The door not yanked or slammed, he’s gone. The extraordinarily measured departure hits Brenda harder than if he had punched her.

This is someone who says what he means and means what he says. Brenda is shaking. That wee fella has frightened her more in a two-minute tirade than anyone has done in her forty-one years of life. He intends to exact retribution. He’s making promises, not threats. Divorced for seven years, Brenda, for the first time in all that time, wishes she had a man at home. She and her children are in mortal danger.

Her limbs are like lead and feeling as if they’re strapped to her body. Opening her desk drawer to reach for her much-thumbed address book is now an almost impossible, arthritic task. After an age, she has the book open and on the page needed. With a superhuman effort, she summons up sufficient concentration to press, slowly and deliberately, the appropriate telephone handset numbers. She hears her disembodied voice say, Hello, Main Street Police Station? I want to report that a man has just threatened to kill me. And I believe him.

CHAPTER 2

Monday, 18 November—Early Morning

A steady eleven-minute walk from his second-floor flat on Frederick Street, and Mr Myer, part-time caretaker of Eastwood Methodist Hall, is still less than prepared to begin his 7 a.m. shift. He’s cold and ready for his first cup and toasted teacake breakfast, but that dustbin lorry is hot on his tail. Any wheelie bin not standing ready and out on the street will be left with little thought and no regret.

Jeremy Myer—either his parents hadn’t seen the link or were religious, bordering on stupid, or his dad, always a joker, had been sent to register the birth and came up with Jerry for a laugh—remembers his solitary but warm bed and can feel the moisture condensing on his bushy lip-duvet moustache. His ear-covering lumberjack hat affords some protection from the cold. Dustbin lorry or no dustbin lorry, his first stop has already been to switch on his two-bar electric fire and fill his kettle. But he’s fed up and already determined to be as awkward as possible when the sequence-dancing old folks arrive at ten.

He spots the bins.

Kids! Nothin’ better to do than make work for others! Not like my day. Don’t know they’re born these days! Jerry is furious.

Three black wheelie bins, one so full that its lid can’t close properly, are sitting next to the disused outside toilet across the dilapidated red brick back yard. One white plastic bin bag with yellow ties, beginning to spill its contents of teabags, paper plates, and throwaway cutlery, is roughly propped at their side. Jerry put that full to overflowing white bin bag with the yellow ties into the bin himself, and some kid has taken it out and put something else in. Typical.

When he was a kid, he was taught respect, but such is not the case any more. Spoiled rotten kids of today, they think they can do what they like.

I’m here again, still drinking tea, the morning after the night before, as Rosie reraids the fridge, this time for breakfast Frosties milk.

Good day at school yesterday? Attempted communication begun and the usual I’m surprised you’re home, I was beginning to forget what you looked like, reposts delivered like a pro.

I’ve realised, probably a little late, that love and hate can coexist surprisingly easily. I desperately want to batter the brazen con artist to whom I gave birth and who hasn’t been near school on any Monday for the last month. I love her, but I like her less and less. In fact, at this precise moment, I can’t stand the lying cow. She doesn’t give a toss about me, and she’ll take as long as I’m willing to give. If I’m ever going to salvage anything from this car wreck, for my daughter and for me, there must be changes. It’s time for me to play some winning cards of my own.

Chicken and rice for tea, with that mustard and honey sauce you like.

Whatever. Another door slams.

The jolt precipitates a numbness that lasts a few minutes, but Jerry already knows that this morning’s events will change his life forever.

Previously mundane images of feet, legs, a head, and such a pretty face, all rammed into that unexpected place and in that unnatural position, will unyieldingly intrude when least expected. He can’t believe how porous to every detail his brain has been shown to be. He can see the tangled but cared for hair, the stretched wide-open eyes, and the glimpse of oh so ordinary teeth in the slightly angled mouth.

How he wishes he’d ignored the dustbin lorry, left the bins to somebody else, and stayed safe in his solitary but warm bed.

What I get from my daughter is very different from the respect and admiration I enjoy at work, where colleagues take time to actually make eye contact and smile before saying, Good morning, ma’am. I’m admired, even envied by some. I’m a bloody role model! Today, and increasingly, I find I need that deference just to get me through, the painkiller to which I’m becoming addicted.

Rosie left to get herself to school. The school is ready to let me know if she bunks off again so that I can turn up, knock politely but insistently on whatever door behind which she’s skulking, and regain control, for a little while at least.

My short journey listening to John Humphries bully a politician on Radio 4 completed, and Izzy, my purple Mazda R8, parked in my designated and conveniently placed parking space, I throw Big Bag over my shoulder and ready my depleted self-esteem for a much-needed top-up.

As I reach the stairs, there is as always a smile and a greeting for me—a soothing balm. I place my coat on the shaped wooden coat hanger that keeps it looking pristine and then place the hanger on the hook in the corner behind my cleared desk. I’m in a different and much more hospitable world—a different woman.

WPC Samantha Jardine brings my start the day right coffee.

You said that you wanted to interview a Mr Oliver Thurwell, the traffic warden, yourself, ma’am, so he’s in for ten. I’ve taken the liberty of asking Hunter and Keighley to send Paul Drury-Smith down because Mr Thurwell has no solicitor. Mr Thurwell is here already.

Looking at my watch, a habit, I know very well that it’s only just nine. I flick my hair so that it rests over my collar, another habit, and drop into my executive, office chair that’s become my familiar and functional cardigan. I’m now ready for whatever the policing world has to throw at me.

Sam?

Yes, ma’am?

Hobnobs, Samantha, Hobnobs. We both laugh. I like Sam. She is me a long, long, long time ago.

As Sam leaves to forage for biscuits from our private biscuit drawer, I’m left to ponder, again, my meeting with Michael. Something is happening here, and I’m not altogether sure that I like it. My life is complicated enough already.

Deep in thought, I realise that Sam has returned more quickly than expected and is standing in the office doorway, looking apprehensive.

No biscuits, eh? How will I cope with nutty Mr Thurwell without getting outside a Hobnob? I’m … Sam is taking all this far too seriously. How long have we worked together? I say with an exaggerated sigh. I’m only joking, Sam. Do me good to stay hungry for once.

It’s not that, ma’am, says Sam. The body of a woman has been found just off the St Anne’s roundabout on Frederick Street. It’s suspected foul play.

With the team on its way or there already, and with no real strategic reason—in fact, on a whim—I decide to take Sam with me to Frederick Street. We’re loading up Izzy in no time.

Despite her natural excitement and apprehension over her first murder case, she is visibly amused. I get in and then manhandle Big Bag across me, then across her and the gear lever, through the narrow space, and onto the more shelf than back seat. One hand on Izzy’s wheel, I fight to steer, hopefully avoiding parked cars, and engage my seat belt at the same time. What can I say? I’m one of life’s multitaskers!

Lots of thoughts rattle through my increasingly unpredictable brain as I drive the six or seven minutes from Main Street to St Anne’s roundabout. I have no doubt that Bycroft will let me run the show. His Sheffield office is more than half an hour away, but the odds are that Bycroft will be on the scene before I am. A good copper likes to personally see, feel, and do, as well as read and think, and I have to admit that I’d do exactly the same in his shoes.

The Eastwood Methodist Hall caretaker phoned 999—first response—no more than an hour before. The crime scene was secured within minutes. Behind the big white media-proof tent, my head-to-toe white-boiler-suited team are already in place and taking charge.

Colin arrived first and rustled up a cup of tea for the caretaker before talking with him in detail about what he did or didn’t know about the victim. Sergeant Pridding and Sergeant Renavent are doing everything by the book. Nice, nonthreatening Colin is exactly the right man to interview the caretaker, who’ll no doubt be in no fit state for pointed and searching questions, but who will divulge his best and most accurate information in these raw first few moments.

Suited and booted, Sam and I crackle like sun-baked leaves as we walk steadily towards the black wheelie bin. Despite knowing all too well what we would find inside, we’re both shocked and upset, though we work hard to show no reaction. The victim is a female estimated at thirty-nine or forty—about my age. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does.

There’s a CCTV camera trained on the front of the building, ma’am. Sergeant Pridding waits for me to look away from the dead body before continuing. I’ve put a call into the CCTV team at the centre, and they’re looking through the footage for the last week. He pauses. The medical team are asking if the victim can be removed from the bin so that they can do a proper examination.

All photographs and measurements have been taken, ma’am, says Renavent, anticipating my next question.

I look at my sergeants. Jim Renavent again speaks first.

They’re calculating from rigour that she’s probably been dead forty-eight hours and from hypostasis that she was killed somewhere else and brought here. Garrotted with, they think, strong wire. There’s a piece of wire in with the body, ma’am. It looks at this early stage like it’s the actual piece used.

Thanks, Sergeant. No doubt Dr Wong will confirm, reject, or refine that in time, but it’s useful to have somewhere to start. Then, turning to Pridding, I say, Tell them they can take her out, Bill. I want that CCTV footage information on my desk before I get back. No excuses, no ‘we’re busy and short-staffed’. This is top priority. I want you to kick arse if they drag their feet. Get that wire to the lab.

Yes, boss. Bill Pridding is already on the move.

Jim, find out where the caretaker lives, and get a car to take him and Colin back there. And then let me know. Sam and I are going to have a chat with him, but in his own familiar surroundings, not here.

As Jim Renavent walks briskly the few metres to where Colin and the caretaker stand, I turn to Samantha. "Tell the barmy traffic warden to get himself down the nick for two this afternoon. Give