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the way we weren't able to nick the bastards because of red tape and warrants coming out of our ears. DI Taylor was a good man. One night, we'd gone round to speak to a bloke who'd been battering his wife. She was sat on the stairs sobbing, unwilling to make a statement to us because she knew he'd get away with a ticking off and she'd be in for a right kicking when he got back. We couldn't touch him, despite the blood literally being on his hands. He let me get the first kick in, Taylor did. He stood there and watched as I beat that bastard to within an inch of his life. To this day, I still don't know why I did it, but I knew it was the right thing to do. You could see the pride on Taylor's face, knowing his legacy was in safe hands. And do you know what? The bloke never touched his wife again. Tell me that's what would happen if he went to court and got a fifty quid fine.”
    “It doesn't mean that's the right way to go about things, guv.”
    “Nonsense. Of course it's the right way to go about things. The woman called us because she wanted her husband to stop beating her up. We took action and he stopped beating her up. Job done. None of this namby-pamby political correctness bollocks. That wasn't the first or the last time, but I can tell you now that we got a result every single fucking time.”
    “What happened to DI Taylor?”
    Culverhouse fell silent, his eyes drawn to the dregs in his pint glass. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
    “He's not around any more.”
    “Retired?”
    “In a manner of speaking. He went too far one day. Funny thing is, he wasn't even on duty. He was in a post office queue and some little shit tried to hold it up with a gun. Taylor had seen more than enough of that in his time, so he stepped in. Wrestled the gun out of his hand and elbowed the kid in the face, knocked him clean out.” Culverhouse looked choked. “The kid went down and hit his head on the counter. Died two days later from a brain haemorrhage.”
    “What happened to Taylor?”
    “He was given the option of resigning or being pushed. Stupid old sod left them to sack him. Lost his wife and his house. All he ever had was the police force and when that was gone he lost everything. He always told me he'd die in his uniform, doing what he loved best for his country. Fact is, he died face down in a gutter with a bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hand.” A single, solitary tear built up on Culverhouse's lower eyelid and began its journey down his cheek. “And I will never forgive myself for not helping him. I will never let those bastards ruin our chances of getting real results. And if DS Baxter can take even 10% of that pride and belief with him in his career, I'll die a happy man.”
    “That's why you're tying to fast-track him?”
    “As best I can, yeah. The further up you get, the harder it is for them to get rid of you. I should know.” He let out a small laugh followed by a large sniff. Opening his mouth with a noise as if he'd just woken up, Culverhouse rubbed his red eyes and smiled at Wendy before finishing his beer.
     
     
     

18
     
     
    Gary McCann's house sat proud at the end of a sweeping driveway, nestled behind black wrought iron gates on Meadow Hill Lane. The road was often considered to be the comparative Millionaires' Row of Mildenheath, if there ever could be such a thing. The town hardly had its fair share of millionaires, but Meadow Hill Lane was the closest it was going to get.
    DCI Culverhouse pulled off the road and came to a stop before the gates, noticing that Gary McCann's driveway was perfectly sizeable before you even got as far as the gate. He got out of the car and approached the barrier, pressing the brushed silver button on the intercom system.
    “Yes?”
    “Mobile stripper for Mr McCann.”
    “DCI Culverhouse. It's been too long.”
    With that, the intercom crackled with the replacement of the handset and the gates clicked and whirred before slowly swinging open to