To Catch a Butterfly Page 18

  “Stanley Buchanan.” Stan looked straight ahead.

  “Thank you.” The officer made his way over to his patrol car and Stan watched as he spoke into his radio. He couldn’t hear, but he didn’t need to. He already knew that it was his son’s car that was involved. He already knew that they were all dead. He already knew that he would have to go home and tell his wife. The officer looked over at him, then put his head down, still talking into the radio. After a minute or so, he slowly walked back over to Stan. “Sir, a colleague of mine is on his way, he’s going to take you see the officers on the scene, just make sure that it’s not….” The officers bowed his head.

  “Is it their car?” Stan turned to look at him.

  “It is a white Ford Escort with four occupants inside Sir, but I can’t confirm if it’s them, my colleague…” The officer struggled to continue, grateful for the rain that allowed him to wipe his face.

  “It’s them, I know it’s them.” Stan closed his eyes. “Oh my God.” Stan sobbed, his chest heaving, his eyes full of tears, he looked at the officers face, “I need to get out.” Stan reached for the door handle and the officer stepped back, Stan pulled himself out of the car and stood, hands by his sides, and felt freezing rain against his face. The officer closed his car door, just as another patrol car pulled up. The driver got out; he stood over six feet tall, “Steve.” He nodded to his colleague. His face solemn. “Mr Buchanan?” He put his huge hand on Stan’s arm, “Sir, I’ll take you to the scene, my colleague will move your car for you.” He waited for Stan to absorb what he was saying. Stan nodded slowly and let the officer lead him over to the police car.

  The first officer watched as they drove away. Then he looked upwards to the sky, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath; he couldn’t remember ever feeling quite like he did at that moment. Four years in the job had taken him to car accidents, youths driving too fast, losing control and hitting a tree, broken bones and nine points on their licence. Sudden deaths, old ladies who had died warm in their beds. Missing children found safe and well, having wandered off from their mothers in the shopping precinct. But not this, he had not witnessed this. He had not felt like this ever before and he knew he would never forget this feeling as long as he lived.

  A car pulled up and he shook his head, partly to flick water off his hat and partly to bring him back to the here and now. He raised his hand and the car pulled up. He walked over to the driver. “Sorry there’s been an accident, you’ll have to turn round.” He looked at the other occupants, all male, all young, all smoking. All shit bags.

  “What kind of accident is it officer, is it a woman driver?” The driver blew smoke out of his open window, his comment amusing his mates.

  “Just turn round.” The officer clenched his jaw.

  “Aren’t you supposed to call me Sir?” The driver pushed his luck. “I want your name and number; I think you’re supposed to call me Sir.” The driver grinned, looking back at his mates, who laughed, waiting for the officer’s reaction.

  “I’m PC 2432 Steven Hall and if you don’t turn around and go away I will tear this car apart inch by inch until I find something to nick you for, you have five seconds you jumped up little fucker.” It wasn’t what P.C Hall said that made the driver comply, but the way he said it. Even jumped up little fuckers knew when to call it quits. Even if they did shout ‘Wanker!’ out the window as they drove away.

  With no sign of any more approaching cars, P.C. Hall walked over to his patrol car and sat in the front seat, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the relentless weather. He listened to his radio, crackled messages being relayed, senior officers barking instructions, arrangements being made to get the passengers off the train, requests for any available units to attend the scene to assist with witness statements. It was going to be long night, Steven Hall looked at his watch, ten o’clock, he wished very much that he was at home, holding his wife and kissing his son and daughter goodnight.

  He looked across at Stan Buchanan’s car and lethargically went over to move it.

  Stan Buchanan remained sat in the patrol car as officers talked outside. Each glancing at him every now and then. Sympathetic eyes. Stan watched police men and women talking to train passengers, some wrapped in blankets, some crying, being led into ambulances that lined the side of the road. The train, still, silent on the tracks. An officer up in the signal box talking to a man in a black uniform. A burnt out Landrover sat in the middle of the road up ahead, smoke pouring up from the tyres. Fire engines parked up by the railway tracks. Chaos. Organised chaos. The rain was easing slightly. Stan opened the car door and got out. A female officer stepped forward and took his arm, “Mr Buchanan, I’m going to take you to speak to Sergeant Moreland, he’ll explain what’s happening.” She slowly walked Stan over to the Sergeant who was talking into his radio.

  “Where’s the car?” Stan asked her.

  “The Sergeant will explain Sir.”

  Sergeant Moreland put out his hand to Stan who looked down at it, he took it in his own, “I’m Sergeant Gary Moreland, Mr Buchanan.”

  “I think the car is my son’s.” Stan looked back, but could only see the end of the train.

  “We’ve established the names of the driver and front passenger; can you confirm your son’s name Mr Buchanan?”

  “Daniel, his wife is Rachel and their children…” Stan broke down, holding onto Sergeant Moreland’s shoulder, his legs weak beneath him. The Sergeant helped him over to one of the ambulances and eased him down, sitting next to him. “Sir, I’m very sorry, there were two children in the car, the little boy is deceased but the baby is alive, she’s been taken to hospital to be checked over. I’m afraid your son and his wife did not survive.”

  “Stevie’s alive? I need to get her; can I go and get her?” Stan looked up, his words broken spoken through sobs. “Is she definitely alright?”

  “Yes, as far as I know, she’s fine, she’s just been taken to hospital as a precaution.” Sergeant Moreland signalled over to a young male officer, waving him over.

  “Where’s my son, I mean where’s the car, where’s Jonathan and Rachel?” Stan abruptly stood up.

  “The car is still in situ, I mean still on the track, they’re still there at the moment, we’ll be moving them shortly. Is there anyone we can call Sir?”

  “I need to tell my wife..” Is all that Stan could muster. “Oh God, I’ve got to tell my wife.”

  Stan Buchanan was helped into a waiting police car and driven home. Not a word was spoken during the short journey.

  Cynthia Buchanan saw the police car pull up outside and dropped the phone. “Oh please God no!” She cried, “Please, please no!” She saw her husband’s face in the street light as he got out of the car. And then she knew.

  CHAPTER SIXTY NINE

  Jack Colman’s hands shook as he lifted a cup of tea to his mouth. “Can I call my wife? She worries if I’m late.”

  “Of course.” Inspector Roberts replied, reading over his notes.

  Jack briefly told his wife what had happened and assured her he was fine, he was just giving a statement to the police. He set the receiver down and picked up his tea again.

  “So, can we just run over this again, you were in the signal box, you saw the first car pull up and stop, you watched as Mr Brannigan spoke to the occupants, then you saw the other vehicle come around the bend, hit the first car, which was then pushed onto the tracks in front of the train.” The inspector paused and looked up at Jack.

  “Yes.” Jack swallowed, still reeling from the enormity of what had happened. “When the train hit the car, I was in shock; I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t believe it.”

  The inspector waited patiently for him to continue.

  “Anyway, um, then I saw this man get out of the second car, the Landrover, he looked like he was hurt, he had his hand on his head and he looked like he was limping.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He
was quite tall, dark hair, medium build, he was wearing a long dark jacket or coat, dark trousers I think, I might be wrong about the trousers, I didn’t see him for very long. When he started running I thought he was coming up to the signal box, but he didn’t, he just ran towards the woods.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No, not really. It all happened so quickly.”

  “Okay.” The inspector repeatedly clicked the top of his pen. “Okay.” He looked up as the signal box door opened and Sergeant Moreland entered.

  “Sorry to disturb you sir, can I have a word?”

  “There’s a little office in there, you can use that if you want.” Jack Colman pointed behind him.

  The two officers nodded to him “Thanks.”

  Jack wasn’t kidding when he said ‘little office’ the two men barely squeezed into it.

  “We’ve got a suspect’s name for the Landrover driver, registration comes back to Frank Samuels.”

  “Frank Samuels, why do I know that name?”

  “Local con, got previous for theft and assault, bit of a rogue, lives with his missus up at old Anchor Farm.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “About six foot, average build, dark hair. I’ve nicked him a couple of times in the past. Thought we’d get a couple of units over there, he’s bound to leg it home, he’s probably there by now if that’s where he’s gone.” Sergeant Moreland looked at his watch. 22.10

  “He fits the description that the signal man has given me. What about the other witness, this Brannigan fella?”

  “He’s described talking to the victims just before the accident, he saw the Landrover coming towards them, says it was bombing it round the corner, it smashes into the victims’ car, he then says that he saw the guy get out of the Landrover and leg it, said he was limping, he was pretty drunk though, mind you, seeing that has sobered him up a bit. He’s been taken to the nick so we can get some coffee into him, get a full statement.”

  “What about his description of the driver?”

  “Tall, white, medium build, dark clothes.”

  “Right, get two units over there, has Samuels got any kids?” Inspector Roberts asked.

  “No, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t, just him and his wife, can’t remember her name.”

  “Right, two units, talk to the wife, see what she can tell us; make sure the units stay there in case he turns up. I want the house and land around it searched, outbuildings if there are any. See if he’s holed up somewhere. Keep me updated.”

  “Yes sir, will do.”

  “You go too; I want you to talk to the wife.”

  “Yes sir.” Sergeant Moreland squeezed out of the office and made his way outside.

  Inspector Roberts cracked his knuckles. A habit that infuriated his wife. He looked out of the window and could see the car, split in two across the tracks, he watched as firemen carefully carried the first body wrapped in black across to a waiting ambulance crew, they placed it gently onto a trolley. They returned two more times. Two more bodies.

  Inspector Roberts had eleven months to go before he retired. And it was eleven months too long.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Sergeant Moreland checked his watch, ten twenty, he rapped on the door again, he could see a light on inside, but no sign of movement. He had sent officers around the back in case Samuels tried to get out that way. The house was set on two acres of land; it was remote, set back off the road. He waited. Nothing. The officer behind him stepped forward. “What do you think Sarge?”

  “I think we’re going to kick the door in. Make sure when we get in you have your truncheons drawn.” He looked at both of the officers, both young in service. Both chomping at the bit to get into the house and nick this son of a bitch. Sergeant Moreland stepped back. He knew Frank Samuels could be a handful and wouldn’t go without a fight. The night’s events had put a fire in his belly. A family destroyed. The man responsible had run away, a coward, a piece of shit no gooder. Run away like a fucking rabbit. Sergeant Moreland psyched himself up, took a breath and kicked the door in.

  The house was empty, embers in the fire crackling their last in the living room, empty beer cans poked out the top of the bin in the kitchen. Clothes hung airing in the lean-to. Every room was searched, twice. Every cupboard, every nook and every cranny. Torches scanned the outside as more officers arrived to help. Sergeant Moreland pulled himself up into the tractor that stood in the middle of the large back yard. The rain had stopped earlier for a thankful half an hour, but now it came again, as relentless as before, making uniforms heavy on the shoulders of those slipping and struggling as they pulled open corrugated doors, looked in metal dustbins full of scrap metal, and lifted every plank of wood stacked untidily in a heap.

  “Sergeant?”

  Sergeant Moreland climbed down from the tractor, “Yes Joe?”

  P.C Joe Macennan caught the Sergeant’s arm as he slipped stepping down, the ground beneath him covered in an inch of water.

  “Thanks Joe, fucking hell, what a night. Sorry, what is it?”

  “Frank Samuels’ in-laws live about half a mile away from here, in the little pink house off of Straw Lane, I remember getting a call out there once when he turned up pissed, nicked him for drunk and disorderly. I just wondered if anyone’s been sent there, maybe that’s where he’s gone.” The officer squinted at his Sergeant, rain spatting into his eyes. He blinked and wiped his thumb across his eyebrows.

  “Right, okay thanks Joe, I’ll radio it up, you can come with me, seeing as you know where it is, I’ll get another unit to back us up.”

  “Joe Macennan smiled, “Yes sarge.” He was a keen officer, nine years service, always ready to muck in, get dirty, get rough. He loved nicking shitbags, hated the paperwork that went with it though.

  One unit remained at Frank Samuel’s house, two units made their way to his in-laws. Joe Macennan drove while Sergeant Moreland stared out at the rain.

  “What’s Samuels’ wife’s name?” Sergeant Moreland asked as they neared the house, checking his watch to record the time accurately in his pocket book, eleven o’clock.

  “Helen I think, yeah Helen, I can’t remember her parents’ names, Morgan, something like that. If I remember rightly Helen’s quite a looker, fuck knows what she sees in Samuels, ugly fucker he is.” He pulled the car over before they reached the house. “That’s the one.” He pointed to a small pink cottage, they could see lights on inside. “The back door’s round the side to the right.”

  All four officers walked towards the gate, Sergeant Moreland pointed two to go round and cover the side door “Keep your eyes open, make sure he doesn’t get out of one of the windows.” Sergeant Moreland whispered. When they were out of sight he walked with Joe Macennan to the front door and knocked, a real policeman’s knock. Bang bang bang.

  The door was opened by a small man, balding head with an unconvincing comb over that stood upright as the wind caught it. He looked shocked to see a police officer at his door. “Can I help you?” He said nervously.

  “Good evening sir, I’m sorry to bother you but we’re looking for Mister Frank Samuels, is he here?” Sergeant Moreland tried to see behind the tiny man standing before him.

  “No officer I’m afraid he’s not.” The bald man stared at the Sergeant. “Our daughter, Frank’s wife is here, do you need to speak to her?”

  “That would be helpful, thank you.” The two officers wiped their feet as best they could, “I’m sorry, we might get mud on your carpets sir.”

  “We haven’t got any carpets officer.” He showed them into the kitchen. It was a large room in comparison to the size of the cottage, a huge cooking range stood boldly in the brick alcove. The room was excessively warm. Sergeant Moreland looked at the two women, one stood, one sat. The one standing was a large lady in her sixties, with hair tied back in a small bun, an apron spattered with gravy stains wrapped around her sizeable waist; she stood slightly taller than her husband. The second woman was in
her thirties, slim as a whip and very pretty. Her tousled brown hair was wet, strands of it sticking to the side of her face, she stood up as the officers walked in, her face turned pale before their eyes, she steadied herself, gripping onto a kitchen chair, her breathing was short and quick.

  “Helen, the police are here, they’re looking for Frank.” The bald man stood next to his daughter. Holding her arm. Everyone in the room expecting her to pass out at any second.

  Sergeant Moreland introduced himself and Joe Macennan “Sorry I didn’t catch your name sir.” He asked the bald man, without taking his eyes off of Helen.

  “Michael Morgan and my wife Muriel.” Michael Morgan answered quickly.

  “Helen, Mrs Samuels, we’re looking for Frank, do you know where he is?” Sergeant Moreland noticed the mud on Helen’s boots and the bottoms of her pale blue jeans were soaking wet.

  Helen didn’t answer.

  “Mrs Samuels, we really need to speak to Frank, if you know where he is, you have to tell us.”

  “What’s he done now?” Muriel piped up, crossing her arms over her belly.

  “We believe he may have been involved in an incident tonight, and we need to talk to him quite urgently.”

  “Incident what kind of incident? they’ve had an argument tonight officer, he’s always shouting at her, hits her an’ all, she run over here afterwards, in a right old state, she hasn’t said much, she was very upset.” Muriel pulled a chair up and after helping Helen to sit, she sat down, stroking back her daughter’s hair.

  “Helen.” Sergeant Moreland leant forward, his big hands flat on the table, Michael Morgan hurriedly dragged two chairs across to him and Joe, “Sorry, please sit down, would you like a cup of tea?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, that would be nice.” Sergeant Moreland was parched and the offer of a cuppa was music to his ears. “I’m sorry about this but would you mind if my colleague took a look around the house?”