The Death Pictures (39 page)

A pause on the end of the line, then a deep breath. ‘No, that’s going fine. It’s just…’ Another pause. ‘Listen, there is one thing you can do for me.’

Dan felt a jolt of worry. ‘Anything,’ he replied simply.

‘As you’ll remember, certain, err... things happened on the original investigation that weren’t strictly legal. I’d appreciate it if I knew they’d stay absolutely between us. How I worked the case may well get looked at and if that kind of stuff came out…’

The DNA trick. Dan hadn’t told anyone. It wasn’t exactly the best impartial journalist’s practice to get involved in an inquiry and help the police.

‘It’s just between us, Adam. No one else will ever know.’

‘And any details about any information I gave you too please.’

What did he mean, Dan wondered? The inside track on the case? He couldn’t think of anything Adam had told him which was particularly dodgy. And they’d caught Godley. Justice had been done. Surely that was what mattered?

‘Of course,’ said Dan. ‘It’s all entirely between us, as ever.’

The clammy mist turned out to be merely the support act. After half an hour, it gave way to an icy, persistent drizzle. Dan and Nigel looked at each other, then quickly took shelter in his car and waited for something to happen. Nigel read his book, a crime thriller. Dan went through the list of calls he had to make on the story. They kept the engine running to provide some welcome warmth.

It was a forlorn hope. The Home Office was referring all requests for information to Greater Wessex police. The police press office read a statement, which said there were detectives in the prison interviewing inmates about the stabbing. That was all they would be saying and there would be no interviews. The only good news was the outside broadcast wagon’s gearbox had burnt out, so they wouldn’t have to stay here all day to do a live report. No interviews, very few pictures, a TV reporter’s nightmare, Dan thought, staring at the prison’s rugged walls. He sketched out a script, but it wouldn’t be an award winner.

‘Piece to camera time, mate,’ he said to Nigel, who stirred reluctantly. He put the book down on the dashboard, climbed out of the car and took the camera out of the boot.

‘I’ll start the report with your pictures of the prison, the ambulance and those people who might have been detectives,’ Dan said, rehearsing the story. ‘I’ll talk about lots of activity after the killing of Godley and the police investigation. Then we’ll go into my bit to camera. After that I’ll use some of the library stuff of cops out looking for the rapist to recap on what he did and the fear it created at the time.’

Nigel set up the tripod so the prison gate would form the backdrop to his shot and positioned Dan in front of it. The rain was starting to beat in now, and an aggressive autumn wind buffeted them. True Dartmoor weather.

‘Rolling, go ahead,’ said Nigel. ‘And it’d be good if you could do it in one take. I’m freezing.’

The wind flapped at Dan’s coat and he paused to allow it to die down. Then a van began reversing somewhere behind them and he waited for the grumbling diesel engine to stop too. It was always the way. The moment you needed to record an interview or your piece to the camera, an intrusive noise would start up. Pneumatic drills were the favourite, followed by passing aircraft.

‘The Home Office are saying little beyond that the police are investigating what happened here,’ Dan began, trying to project his voice over the percussion of the wind and rain. ‘Greater Wessex police confirmed they have assigned a team of detectives to the case and they’re inside the prison, interviewing inmates. A source within the force tells me that Godley was killed with a knife in the washing room area.’

One take, as requested. Not a bad effort. Just about all the information he had and a bit of colour to spice it up. It would do. He took the tape from Nigel and drove back to the studios to edit the story for the lunchtime news. Just as he got into the car, the rain stopped.

‘Decent stuff,’ was Lizzie’s verdict after the broadcast, a heel scraping in to the carpet. Low today, Dan noticed, only a couple of inches. ‘Is there anything else we can do on it for tonight?’ she added.

He shrugged. ‘Not that I can think of. No one’s saying anything and we haven’t got any more pictures. I used just about everything we had.’ And I don’t want to go back onto Dartmoor in this weather, he could have added, but didn’t. That would be an irresistible invitation for his return.

She studied him, an edge of her black, bobbed hair sliding across a cheek. He could see her weighing up what to do. Not an easy woman to mollify is Lizzie, even if she’s in a relatively calm mood today. He’d have to find something to distract her. What about Abi?

‘Plus there was another story I wanted to look at which I thought might interest you,’ Dan added quickly. He explained about the call earlier. ‘I could set that up for tomorrow, while keeping an eye on the Godley story in case there were any developments.’

‘Done! OK then, we’ll have roughly the same on Godley for tonight and if there are any developments, you can do a live report in the studio. You can cover the Death Pictures tomorrow. But not on the lunchtime news, I don’t want all the other media getting tipped off about the story. I want full coverage. I want an exclusive. I want Abi. I want tears… And hey, I’ve got an idea…’

Her eyebrow gathered into an arch.

‘Let’s really build it up,’ Lizzie continued, her voice rising. ‘I want us to trail that we’ll be doing something big on the Death Pictures on the lunchtime news. I want the actual thing live tomorrow night. The OB truck will be fixed by then. I want you down in McCluskey’s studio with the other pictures. I want you to interview Abi and let her give the clue out live on air. That’d be brilliant. The viewing figures will soar.’

He had to hand it to her, Dan thought begrudgingly. It was a hell of a good idea. But there was just that little tingle of annoyance that he’d wanted to hear the clue first. To see if it meant anything to him, just in case it gave him a head start in the final effort to solve the riddle.

The excitement was back. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to get home tonight and go through the Death Pictures again.

He’d played World Cup football on the Playstation with Tom and been soundly thrashed, but he’d hardly seen a single goal. His son had been delighted with the victory over Brazil – he’d been England of course – but even he had noticed by the end of the match.

‘You OK, Dad?’

‘Yes, fine son.’ Adam shook himself. Whatever he was feeling, it shouldn’t impact on Tom. He’d learn about the agonies of adulthood soon enough. ‘Come on, haven’t I taught you the game’s never over until the final whistle goes?’

A seven-year-old, spotting his Dad was preoccupied. How about that? He felt a nudge of pride. The boy could go on to become a detective. But he wouldn’t know why Dad wasn’t quite there with him. No one would.

He’d gone through it countless times today. Only Dan knew he was the source for the paedophile allegation against Godley. No one in Greater Wessex Police was aware where the story had come from. Dan didn’t know that he had no evidence for it, that it was just his way of getting revenge on the man. And now that revenge had gone as far as it possibly could.

So he was safe, he knew that. His job, his reputation. He could trust Dan. And he’d done the right thing, hadn’t he? The man was a cold and vicious rapist. And he’d caught him, and... The thought echoed in his head. And he’d sentenced him too, hadn’t he? Sentenced him to death.

No. No, no, no. He had no idea why Godley had been killed. It could just have been a fight between prisoners. It happened. It could have been because of his rapes. It could have nothing to do with the news that the man might have been a paedophile. But then again, it could…

A triumphant scream from Tom jolted him back to the living room. Final whistle, four nil. A drubbing. He reached out to shake the victor’s hand, soothed by the smile of delight on his son’s face.

If Godley hadn’t been in prison, who knows what else he could have done? Attack Annie? With Tom here, asleep in his bed, woken by the noise, coming down to find…

Yes, he could live with what had happened. What other choice was there? He’d have to.

Chapter Twenty-three

Dan stared at the ten Death Pictures on the walls surrounding him and tapped a foot on the stone floor. None showed the slightest inclination to give up their secret. He had to admit it. He was just as baffled as before.

He’d tried it on a little naughtily. He could probably justify it as research, but she was having none of it. He’d phoned Abi, arranged with her to cover the release of the clue and asked if she would tell him in advance what it was. Just to prepare, of course, he’d assured her. Just so they could have some graphics ready to illustrate it, to put in on their website when she revealed what it was.

No, she’d said firmly. It’ll go out live on air, so everyone gets to see it at the same time. It’s fairest that way. From there, everyone will have roughly a week, and then, if no one had got it, the answer would finally be revealed.

That had bothered him. Roughly a week? No precise deadline?’ Her answer had been enigmatic.

‘It depends on a few factors over which I have no control. You’ll understand when all is revealed. Joseph gave me discretion about when the answer should be released, within certain parameters. I intend to remain absolutely loyal to what were effectively his last wishes. So all I can say at the moment is about a week.’

Dan had spent last night looking through the Death Pictures and his notes, wondering if there were any time references there, any reason why the answer would have to be given on a specific date. But he’d found nothing.

The clocks were the obvious candidates. He wondered if 9.15 might have referred to a date, but clearly not one in October. Five to ten could, though. The fifth? Was something supposed to have happened on the fifth? Or the twenty-fifth? But then, that would mean the date when the answer was revealed wouldn’t be variable. He pushed his notes away in frustration and got himself a tin of beer and a biscuit for Rutherford. The numbers, he still suspected it was in the numbers, but… there was no disguising it. After all these months of trying he still had no idea about the solution.

Dan didn’t usually get nervous when presenting outside broadcasts, but he could feel a twist of tension in his stomach. Was it more to do with hearing the clue than the actual live television? He suspected so. And was that McCluskey he could feel chuckling away at him again?

Five minutes to on air. Enough musing. Concentrate, he told himself. Be professional. Last checks.

‘This is how it’ll go then, Nigel,’ Dan said. ‘Ready for a final rehearsal?’

Nigel hoisted the camera up on to his shoulder. ‘Ready, mostly willing and passably able.’

‘I’ll start here by the first picture, then walk around the room, going past each of them in turn.’ Dan started walking. ‘I’ll ad lib something about the long-running mystery, the answer contained in the pictures, thousands trying to solve it, something like that. Then, at picture ten, we’ll find Abi who we’ll ask for the clue. That OK?’

Nigel was standing in the middle of the room and had panned the camera around to follow Dan’s walk. ‘Works fine, very nice.’

‘And you’re OK Abi?’

She stood to the side of the last picture, arms crossed and looking composed.

‘Fine, yes.’

‘Ok then, standby. The next time we do it, it’ll be for real.’

The opening music of
Wessex Tonight
played and Craig came in. ‘And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for…’

Dan stopped himself from smiling, knew the camera would be on him at any moment. That introduction was pure Lizzie, simply showbiz.

It was so unorthodox, starting the programme with a story like this, but she had a point. There wasn’t much else going on, and it was the one that people had been talking about. Several had already walked in to McCluskey’s gallery while they were setting up for the broadcast to ask what the clue was. Wait, you’ll have to wait, Abi had told them with a smile. She was enjoying the moment, a tribute to her husband’s gift for drama and suspense perhaps? Outside there was quite a crowd too, at least a couple of hundred. Dan wondered whether this was just how McCluskey had imagined it when he designed the riddle.

In his ear, Craig’s voice was coming to the end of the introduction. ‘…we can cross live to Joseph McCluskey’s studio and our correspondent Dan Groves. Dan…’

‘Yes, here they are,’ Dan said, gesturing behind him to the pictures and beginning his walk. ‘The 10 Death Pictures – or prints, as we know – and contained in them is the answer to a riddle which, if solved, would mean the lucky winner being given the original of the last painting. It’s a prize worth many tens, perhaps now even hundreds of thousands of pounds. No wonder then there’s been such intense interest. Well, the hints in the pictures have been too difficult for anyone to find a solution so far, but help is at hand, right now. It’s your final chance, so have a pen and paper handy.’

Dan reached the last of the pictures, stopped. ‘So now, time for the clue to be revealed, live on air. And here with me to do it, is Joseph McCluskey’s widow, Abi.’

He turned, Nigel panning the camera onto her. ‘Abi, good evening to you, and please, give us the clue.’