The Culling

Imogen Swift smoothed the sheet of cream parchment with the tips of her fingers, careful not to crease the edge. The paper was thick and expensive, the sort used for formal invitations rather than anonymous correspondence. Across it, the handwriting flowed in perfect Copperplate, each letter formed with a precision that suggested either long practice or an extraordinary amount of time. Under different circumstances she might have admired it.

She read the letter for the third time that morning.

My dear Imogen,

I watched you yesterday evening as you left the station and crossed the square towards the coffee shop on the corner of Gallows Green. You paused at the crossing longer than necessary, I think, and I wondered whether you were listening to the music that was playing from the open window of the flat above the florist. You tilted your head, just slightly, when the violin rose. It suited you. Most people hurry through that particular stretch of pavement after dark, but you took your time. I liked that. It is a small thing, perhaps, but I have come to value the small things about you.

I hope the coffee was to your liking. You always choose the same blend when you are tired.

Yours, as ever.

Imogen set the letter down beside her keyboard and exhaled. The first had been little more than a compliment about her work on a recent case, signed with nothing more than a flourish. The second had referred to the colour of the scarf she had worn to a briefing. This one named the coffee shop, the precise moment she had paused, the tilt of her head. It was still not a threat. It did not need to be.

A knock sounded on the open door of the small office she shared with two other detectives. Loren Scott stepped inside, a mug in each hand, and closed the door behind her with her heel.

“Morning,” Loren said, setting one mug on the desk. “I take it that’s another one?”

“Third time I’ve read it.” Imogen pushed the parchment towards her. “See what you think.”

Loren sat on the edge of the opposite desk and read in silence. When she finished, she looked at Imogen.

“He knows what coffee you drink?”

“Apparently.”

“And what you do when you’re tired?”

“That’s what he says.”

“Bloody hell, Imo.”

Imogen reached for her mug. The coffee was hot enough to scald, and she put it down again without drinking. “The first one was almost flattering. The second was peculiar. This one feels different.”

“Because he’s following you.”

“We don’t know that.”

Loren gave her a look.

“All right,” Imogen conceded. “We don’t know how often he’s following me.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“I reported the first two. Hale logged them and said he’d keep an eye on the post room. Nothing came of it. I haven’t shown him this one yet.”

“Then perhaps you should.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“Today, Loren.”

Her friend glanced at the letter again. “It’s the way he writes about you. As though he knows you. As though the two of you have some sort of understanding.”

Imogen had noticed that too. There was no request for a meeting, no telephone number, not even an invitation to reply. The writer appeared perfectly content to observe her and report his observations afterwards, confident that she would be interested.

“Yours, as ever,” Loren read aloud, her expression souring. “That’s rather presumptuous, isn’t it?”

“Just a little.”

“Any idea who it might be?”

“No. Someone I’ve arrested, perhaps. Someone who thinks I’ve done them a favour. I meet enough people through work.”

“Someone who knows your coffee order.”

“Yes, thank you. I’d managed to spot that particular detail.”

Loren’s expression softened. “I’m worried about you.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not suggesting you need someone holding your hand, but you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

Imogen managed a small smile. “I know that too.”

“Good. Then I’ll stop lecturing you.”

“An unexpected treat.”

Loren laughed, although the amusement did not quite reach her eyes. She stood and reached for the door.

“Get it logged, Imo.”

“I will.”

Once Loren had gone, Imogen returned the letter to its envelope and took it down the corridor to Sergeant Hale. He read it without comment, then read the previous reports while she waited. By the time she returned to her office, the third letter had been added to the record and arrangements made for the correspondence to be examined and retained.

Hale had also agreed that the coffee shop was worth a visit. There might be CCTV, although the previous evening’s recording would be of little use unless it showed somebody identifiable taking an unusual interest in her.

Imogen knew how slender that possibility was. She also knew that slender possibilities were considerably more useful than doing nothing.

By mid-morning the station was busier than usual. Word had come through that The Culling had delivered another package. Three men, bound and conscious, had been left outside the custody suite shortly before dawn, together with two large evidence bags and a single sheet of paper. The paper listed the men’s names, the address of a lock-up on Pike’s Reach, and a concise inventory: four kilos of cocaine, two unregistered firearms, and a ledger of payments to a former detective.

At the bottom, impressed in deep burgundy wax, was the seal every officer recognised: an executioner’s axe with a small notch in its blade.

Detective Inspector Marlowe had organised the response. Two teams were at the lock-up. The former detective was being brought in for questioning. The three men were in separate cells. The atmosphere was one of brisk satisfaction rather than surprise.

Imogen stood at the edge of a conversation between Marlowe and two constables who had been first on the scene.

“Clean as anything,” one of the constables was saying. “No injuries beyond the marks from the cable ties. They said he spoke to them, but they won’t tell us what he said. Just kept repeating that he’d told them to wait for us and not be stupid.”

“And the evidence?” Marlowe asked.

“Bagged and labelled. He’s even put the serial numbers of the guns on the note.”

“Which doesn’t tell us where he found them,” Marlowe replied. “I want the lock-up searched properly and every exhibit accounted for from the moment we received it. We can hardly put The Culling in the witness box to explain himself.”

The constable nodded.

“Commissioner wants a briefing at eleven,” Marlowe continued. “Make sure we’re ready.”

Imogen waited until the constables had moved on. “Do you want me on the interviews, sir?”

“Not this morning. You’re still on the domestic from New Dunsfield. Finish the statements and get them to CPS.” He glanced at the folder beneath his arm. “If the former detective decides to talk, we may need someone to go through the old files. Charlemagne’s already mentioned you.”

“Me, sir?”

“He seems to think your perspective is useful.”

“I’ll finish the statements.”

She returned to her desk with the knowledge that Raymond Charlemagne had, once again, noticed her work. The Commissioner had supported her application when she transferred from Crow Marsh, and he had continued to take an interest in her progress. She was grateful. She was also aware that his interest was not entirely professional; he had known her parents through the charity work they had done before the murders, and he had never quite stopped treating her as someone he owed a measure of protection.

Most days she found that reassuring. Today, with the letter now recorded as evidence, she wondered whether his protective instincts might complicate matters if the investigation eventually pointed towards somebody he knew.

At eleven she stood at the back of the briefing room while Charlemagne listened to Marlowe’s summary. The Commissioner was a tall man with steel-grey hair and piercing blue eyes, and the habit of remaining still while others spoke. When Marlowe finished, Charlemagne asked about the former detective’s access to police information and whether the lock-up lease could be traced to any of the names already in the system.

Satisfied with the answers, he thanked the room and left. On his way out he paused beside Imogen.

“Swift. How are the statements coming along?”

“Nearly finished, sir. I’ll have them with CPS this afternoon.”

“Good. And the other matter?” His voice dropped. “The letters. Hale mentioned them to me last week. Anything new?”

“A third one arrived yesterday. I’ve reported it this morning.”

Charlemagne’s expression changed very little. “Anything more concerning than the previous two?”

“He’s been watching me outside work, sir. He knows where I go and what I order when I stop for coffee.”

“Have you any indication who it might be?”

“Not yet. We’re looking at the circumstances.”

“Keep me informed.” He paused. “If additional resources are needed, ask. I’d rather we dealt with this before it becomes something larger.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Cullingford has worked hard to become the sort of place where a young woman can walk home after dark without looking over her shoulder. I intend to keep it that way.”

He nodded and continued towards his office.

Imogen watched him go. She believed him. Charlemagne had spent years rebuilding a police force whose reputation had once been scarcely better than that of the criminals it was supposed to pursue. Five years ago, the lock-up on Pike’s Reach would have been one of dozens, protected by officers who took a share of the proceeds. Now the officers were honest, the evidence was being examined, and the men who had once operated with impunity were either in prison or had left the town entirely.

The Culling had played an enormous part in that transformation.

Imogen had read the old crime statistics. She had spoken to officers who had stayed through the worst of it. She knew what The Culling had cost, and she knew what he had achieved. His methods were unlawful, frequently brutal and sometimes fatal. She could acknowledge all of that without pretending the town had been better off before he appeared.

It was an uncomfortable position for a police officer to occupy. Imogen had never found it particularly difficult to defend.

The belief did not make the letter she had received any less unwelcome.

She finished the statements by two and delivered them to the CPS liaison. On the way back she thought of the shop on Gallows Green and the violin. She had paused. She had tilted her head. She had not known anyone was watching.

At her desk she opened the New Dunsfield domestic file. The victim’s husband had returned after a separation and broken three of her ribs. The statements and photographs were clear, and there was sufficient evidence to proceed without relying solely upon the woman’s testimony. Still, the ordinary details of her kitchen kept pulling Imogen’s attention elsewhere. A mug left beside the sink. A shopping list attached to the refrigerator. A packet of biscuits on the table.

She thought of her parents’ kitchen in Crow Marsh, and the morning she had found the back door open and the kettle still warm.

For a moment she sat motionless, looking at the photographs without seeing them.

Then she closed the file and returned it to the cabinet.

Loren appeared again just after four, carrying her coat.

“I’m heading off,” she said. “You staying late?”

“Not tonight. I want to get home while it’s still light.” Imogen stood and reached for her own coat. “Walk with me as far as the square?”

They left the station and crossed St Ephraim’s Ward in the late afternoon sunshine. The square was busy. Imogen noted exits and sightlines out of habit, then caught herself doing it. Here, a woman sold flowers from a stall and two boys argued about football beside the fountain. People moved as though they expected to arrive safely at home.

“You’re quiet,” Loren said.

“I was thinking about the domestic. The woman kept apologising for the state of the house. As if that was the part that mattered.”

“People do strange things when they’re frightened.”

“I know.” Imogen adjusted the strap of her bag. “It reminded me of something. After my parents died, the liaison officer kept asking whether I wanted the house cleared before I went back in. I said no. I wanted to see it as it was.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I thought if everything was still where they’d left it, some part of them would be there too.”

Loren walked beside her in silence for a few moments.

“Was it?”

“Not really.” Imogen looked towards the flower stall. “After a while it stopped feeling like their house and started feeling like a place where something terrible had happened and nobody was going to do anything about it.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“Partly. Raymond encouraged me to apply. He said Cullingford needed officers who understood what happened when people stopped believing the law could protect them.”

“And you agreed with him.”

“I still do.”

They reached the edge of the square. Loren stopped beside the bus shelter and turned towards her.

“Will you be all right tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Imogen.”

“I’ll be careful. I’ll check the locks, and I won’t open the door to anyone I don’t know. I’ve already spoken to Hale. What else would you like me to do?”

“Have dinner with me?”

Imogen smiled. “That’s a rather transparent attempt at keeping an eye on me.”

“Is it working?”

“Not tonight. I’m tired, and I’ve got food that needs using.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Perhaps.”

Loren regarded her for another moment, then leaned forward and gave her a brief hug.

“Ring me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

They parted at the bus stop, and Imogen walked the remaining fifteen minutes to New Dunsfield.

The district was newer than the rest of the town, with purpose-built blocks of flats, wide windows and small balconies. Her building stood on a quiet side street lined with young trees. She let herself in, collected the post from the box in the lobby and took the stairs to the third floor.

There was nothing unusual in the post. A utility statement, a catalogue she had forgotten subscribing to, and a leaflet advertising a new restaurant in Gallows Green.

She unlocked her front door and stepped inside.

The flat was as she had left it that morning. Light filled the sitting room through the tall windows. The sofa was the one her parents had bought the year before they died; she had had it reupholstered in a pale fabric that suited the modern walls. The armchair beside the window had belonged to her father, who had insisted that no other chair in the house was half as comfortable. Its upholstery had survived better than the sofa’s, and she had kept it exactly as it was.

On the bookshelves were the volumes she had brought with her and the ones she had added since: legal texts, a few novels, and the complete set of Nathaniel Hathaway’s published work.

She had read Justice in the Dark and The Penitent State before she applied to Cullingford. His arguments had given shape to questions she had already been asking, although she had not agreed with every conclusion he reached.

Meeting him had been an unexpected pleasure.

The first occasion had been a careers event at his school, where she had been invited to speak to pupils interested in joining the police. She had expected the celebrated author to be rather intimidating. Instead, Nathaniel had been warm, attentive and unexpectedly funny. They had subsequently encountered one another at charity fundraisers and other community events, and over time a genuine friendship had developed.

There had been a period when she had rather fancied him. Loren had teased her mercilessly about it. Nathaniel, however, had never given the slightest indication that he regarded her as anything other than a younger friend whose career interested him. Imogen had eventually accepted the situation with what she considered considerable dignity.

She still enjoyed his company. He was one of the few people with whom she could argue about the relationship between justice and punishment without either of them taking offence.

She put her bag on the sideboard and went into the kitchen.

Supper was pasta, salad and a glass of wine. Afterwards she washed up, checked her phone and settled on the sofa with a book. Loren had sent a message confirming she was home, followed by a photograph of the enormous takeaway she had ordered for herself.

You could have helped me with this, the accompanying message read.

Imogen replied that Loren had only herself to blame for ordering enough food for a family of six.

The exchange made her smile.

Most evenings, the ordinary sequence of arriving home, making supper and settling down with a book was enough to put the working day behind her. The flat was her sanctuary. She had chosen the furniture, the colours, the pictures on the walls. She had arranged the things that had belonged to her parents alongside the things she had bought herself, until the whole place felt unmistakably hers.

Tonight she found herself listening to noises in the corridor.

A neighbour’s door closed. Footsteps passed outside. Somewhere downstairs a dog barked twice and fell silent.

At half past eight she got up and checked the front door.

It was locked.

She stood looking at it for a moment, irritated with herself, then returned to the sofa.

She managed three pages before putting the book down again.

The letter was still at the police station, but she had made a copy of its contents and brought her notes home. She retrieved them from her bag and sat at the dining table.

She read the words slowly.

The crossing. The music. The tilt of her head. The coffee.

All of it had happened in public. There was nothing inherently extraordinary about someone noticing a woman stopping to listen to music, or even recognising her at a coffee shop.

But the writer had known which blend she ordered when she was tired.

That was different.

She tried to remember the previous evening. She had left the station late and crossed towards Gallows Green, intending to buy a coffee before going home. The shop had been nearly empty. The woman behind the counter had commented that Imogen looked as though she needed something stronger than coffee, and Imogen had laughed.

She had sat by the window for twenty minutes, too tired to concentrate on the report in front of her. There had been another customer at a table near the back, although she could not remember whether it had been a man or a woman. Someone else had come in while she was there.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture the scene.

Nothing.

The writer might have been inside the shop. He might have watched through the window. He might have followed her from the station, or he might have been waiting in Gallows Green before she arrived.

There was no way to know.

Imogen reached for her notebook and began to write. She recorded the date of the incident, the approximate time, the location, the route she had taken and everything she could remember about the other customers. She noted the staff member’s appearance and the position of the tables. She made a separate note to establish whether the shop’s CCTV covered the seating area or the pavement outside.

She would give the additional information to Hale in the morning.

When she finished, she read through what she had written. It was not much, but it was a beginning.

She placed the notes back in her bag, ready to take to work.

Then she stood and crossed to the sitting-room window.

New Dunsfield lay below, orderly and well lit. A couple walked hand in hand along the pavement. A man paused beneath a streetlamp to check his phone before continuing towards the corner. Across the road, lights shone from the windows of the opposite building.

There was nothing to suggest danger.

She had chosen this town because it had become safe. The Culling had made that possible. She still believed the results justified his methods, however difficult those methods might be to defend in a court of law. She still believed the streets outside her window were safer than the ones she had left behind in Crow Marsh.

Yet someone had watched her yesterday evening, had noticed how she moved and what she ordered, and had taken the trouble to write it all down.

She wondered how many other evenings he had watched her without bothering to mention it.

Imogen drew the curtains.

Before going to bed, she checked the front door once more. Then she turned off the hall light and went into her bedroom, leaving the flat in darkness.

For the first time since moving to Cullingford, she wished her windows did not face the street.