The Shadows of Justice (17 page)

Dan paced a circular route to the Chancellery. First, he walked down Catherine Street, passing the doorway where Annette was taken. He knelt and ran a hand over the pavement, following the cracks and undulations. The space where the white van had parked was empty. A couple of women walked past on the other side of the road, giggling together, not noticing the strange man staring into space, his eyes lost in the past.

He turned and walked back to the plaza. Past the courthouse and the Lady of Justice, a half-moon hanging above her sword. A couple of lights shone upstairs, a window filled with the outline of a person dutifully pushing a broom and another carrying some boxes.

On Dan walked, to the fearful destination of the car park.

There was no police tape left, no sign of what happened here only so very few hours earlier. Cars trundled around the multi-storey, their headlights flashing through gaps in the concrete panelling. A young man emerged from the wooden swing doors and headed for the shopping centre, walking fast.

Life went on as ever it did, and always would.

By the side of a wooden bench the penitent knelt, bowed his head and whispered an apology. And there he stayed, until his knees and back would bear no more. He stretched and trudged up the steps to the Chancellery, nodded to the pair of rectangular door staff and pushed open the door.

And there, at a table, sat Martha and Brian Edwards.

***

Dan stopped, stricken. He half-turned, ready to make an escape, but Martha was on her feet. “Come and join us.”

Spread across the tables was an array of tapas. Olives, tomatoes, cheeses, some prawns, ham, artichokes. And a couple of bottles of the finest of champagnes, two fluted glasses alongside.

“No hard feelings,” Martha went on. “Have a drink on us.”

“What?”

In the one small word was disbelief and incredulity, anger and rage. And although Dan rarely used the word, thought it tired and rarely true to its meaning, now it was precise. There was hatred, a bubbling cauldron burning within, filled with the flames of a thousand fires.

“No – thank – you,” he managed.

Music was playing, a Mediterranean guitar sound. Fans turned in the ceiling, spinning shadows from the spotlights. The place was busy, all the tables taken and people were standing at the bar. More were coming in, pushing their way past.

And now the enmity beat down the disbelief, overwhelmed it effortlessly. The gale filled his sails, irresistible, even if he had a thought to tame it.

Dan stepped over to the table. “You heard what happened? To…”

Martha shrugged. “Yeah.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“You’re still out celebrating.”

“This is our first night of freedom for six months. It’s nothing to do with Annette.”

“Nothing to do with her?”

One of the bouncers had sensed the gathering storm. He stepped into the bar and was lingering behind Dan.

“You come in here, yards from where she died. You eat and drink and you say it’s nothing to do with Annette?”

Martha picked up a prawn and swallowed it. “I’m moving on. It’s something I’ve had to get used to. Maybe you should do the same.”

Dan took another step forwards. He was within feet of the Edwards. The bouncer followed. Brian stood up, inflated himself, ready for the attack he knew was coming.

“Don’t you feel anything? Not even any remorse?”

“Remorse?” The word could seldom have sounded so incredulous. “Look, shit happens in life. It certainly has to me and I’ve managed to tough it out. If other people can’t, maybe they don’t deserve to.”

She took the champagne and began topping up a flute. Dan lunged forwards and knocked the bottle from her hand. It went rolling across the table, bubbles flowing on the wood.

The bouncer sprung, steel arms grabbing Dan’s shoulders and pulling him away. It was all he could do to flail a leg. It hit the table and upset the flutes. One fell to the floor and shattered, crystal ice flowing over stone.

The bar was silent. Everyone watching the little scene.

The bouncer dragged Dan out of the door. All he could hear was the echo of Martha’s laughter and her voice calling for more champagne.

***

The darkness of a bench outside the court was the only possible niche to try to find some calm. The clock aloft a bell tower said the time was just after ten.

Dan checked his mobile. No calls, no messages. No Katrina. No nothing, no one.

A tramp walked past swigging from a bottle of cider. He picked up a cigarette butt and asked for some change. Automatically, Dan dug into his pocket and handed over a few coins.

A plane droned overhead, navigation lights winking on its wings. He watched its path, hesitated, then scrolled down the phone’s address list and found the name.

She answered quickly. “Are you ok?”

“No. Not a bastard, bloody bit.”

In a rush of words Dan told her about the evening.

“Do you want to come round?”

“Yeah. Well, no actually. I do want to see you. But…”

“But?”

“I need to be in my flat. With Rutherford, and just… safe.”

“I’ll see you there in half an hour.”

“Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“It’s not for – well… you know. It’s just for a cuddle – if that’s ok?”

“That’s fine. I’ll see you soon.”

Dan got home only a few minutes before she arrived. They sat up until well into the early hours, staring at the moon, fussing over Rutherford and talking about nothing. It was just a chance to live somewhere else, far from today.

When finally they got to bed and at last to sleep, they must have known a couple of hours rest at most. The ringing of the phone jarred both awake.

“Dan, it’s Adam. Where are you?”

“Err – what?”

“Where are you?”

“In bed. In my flat. As you might expect, given you’ve called my home number.”

“Don’t try to be smart. I was checking you hadn’t diverted the phone, or something like that.”

“Adam, what are you talking about? Why are you so interested in where I am?”

The detective ignored the question. “And you’ve been at home for the past few hours? After your little showdown with the Edwards?”

“How did you know about that?”

“It doesn’t matter. Is there anyone who can confirm you’ve been at home tonight?”

Dan struggled to sit up. “Adam, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re going to be a suspect, otherwise. Which means I won’t be able to use your help. And I think I’m going to need it.”

“A suspect? Adam! For what?”

“Before I tell you – can anyone confirm you’ve been at home for the last few hours?”

Dan glanced over to Claire, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She was wearing one of his old T-shirts and looking far better in it than he could ever have imagined achieving himself.

“That won’t be a problem. Now, what are you talking about?”

“The Edwards. Half an hour ago there was an explosion in their street. In their house, in fact. It was a big one. It’s wiped the place out. They were blown to pieces.”

Almost as if it was a matter of ego, the biggest stories tend to make themselves known from afar. The Edwards’ house was in Cattedown, just south-east of the city centre. It was probably four miles from Hartley Avenue, but a warning of the explosion was in the air soon after they left Dan’s flat. The darkness of the night sky was daubed a rhythmic blue with the ranks of emergency lights, all reflecting from a haze of drifting smoke.

Dan headed for the driver’s side of the car and was stopped by Claire in full police officer flow. “How many drinks did you have last night?”

“A couple.”

She gave him a detective’s look. It was the equivalent of wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend
You’re lying and I’m well aware of it
.

“We’re headed for a place swarming with cops. Ones who might not be as understanding as me.”

With no further fuss, Dan handed over the keys. Several years ago, when their relationship was skipping hand in hand across the meadows of springtime, he’d picked through the mire of bureaucracy and nominated Claire an authorised driver of the car.

Many times since Dan had been more than grateful. Claire rarely minded not having a drink. She was happy to drive them home from country pubs where a quick half had mysteriously transformed into several pints, as can be the cunning way of beer.

In these dark, early morning hours of a breaking story it was a godsend. The short drive was filled with Dan ringing Nigel and tipping off Dirty El. He also put in a call to the newsroom. Young Phil had landed the dogtime shift, as befits the trying life of a trainee, and was his usual fireball of keenness.

“I’ll call a cameraman.”

“It’s done.”

“I’ll ring the police to get more info.”

“It’s done.”

“I’ll ring Lizzie to let her know.”

“Don’t. There’s nothing she can do and she won’t thank you for being woken.”

“What shall I do then?”

“Just leave it to me.”

“So why did you bother ringing?”

The question made Dan pause. In his last appraisal, Lizzie had dared to accuse him of being a
control freak
. It led to quite an argument as he hadn’t been able to resist the retort of hypocrisy.

He’d eventually, and reluctantly, agreed to try to be more of a
team player
,
whatever that meant. In fairness, he had – several months ago – made a round of teas for half a dozen colleagues, much to their surprise. But the momentum of the zeal was soon dissipated. The appraisal form hadn’t since emerged from under the pot plant, where it was usefully soaking up any stray water.

“I’ll definitely need your help later, Phil,” Dan replied finally, and not entirely winningly. “I could probably do with someone to… err – pick up the pictures so we can get the story onto the breakfast bulletins.”

“Four years at university, a year in journalism college and I’m coming to pick up a memory card?”

“Better go,” the champion diplomat lied. “I’m nearly at the scene.”

The streets were almost deserted, just the odd early worker making their unenthusiastic way and an occasional rumbling post van. Claire accelerated through some traffic lights that were just turning red. Dan felt his stomach lurch. He took a couple of gulps from a water bottle and crunched some mints.

They crossed a roundabout, navigated a sharp corner and pulled up outside Homely Terrace.

***

The Edwards’ house had come close to being erased from existence. It was as if it had been a toy, flicked away by a mighty, reckoning finger.

The roof was entirely gone, destroyed in the eruption of the explosion. Plates and shards of broken slate littered the road, some lying across the bonnets of parked cars. Dan bent down and picked one up, a dagger of a piece. It was still warm. Even here, at the end of the road, there were plenty of scattered fragments; a testament to the force of the blast.

Cattedown grew up around the docks; its southern, waterfront side heavy with the metallic sounds and oily smells of industry. Above it rise the stout towers of the gasworks, and further out is filled with lines of streets. The houses are compact and largely terraced, apart from a handful of favoured roads. The gardens tend to be small and separated by narrow alleyways, usually filled with the flying feet of children at play.

The Edwards’ place was on the end of the terrace. A
For Sale
sign had been knocked over in the garden of the house next door. Otherwise it was remarkably untouched, apart from a couple of shattered windows. A diagonal line of jagged bricks, the remains of what was once its neighbour, swept down from the eaves to where the living room window had been.

The bricks traced half of an empty rectangle, a couple of warped prongs of the window frames drooping at wilting angles. What was once a supporting wall now stood only knee high, blackened with fire and ash. Leaning across it was the charred wooden stump of a standard lamp, topped by spindly wire, its shade consumed in the flames. Inside, the hint of an easy chair and sofa were piled together against a wall along with a table, layers of wallpaper peeling above.

A couple of shoots of orange and red flame flickered inside the house. Arcs of water from the jet hoses swung to their new target. Grey and black smoke and white steam mingled and rose together from the ruin. The air reeked with the acrid tang of burnt plastic.

Dan sniffed hard and thought he could sense another, more subtle, odour. He coughed hard, swallowed and tried again. This time he could scent it more clearly.

He tapped Claire’s shoulder. She too sniffed the air and nodded.

The street was filled with fire engines, police cars and vans. Arc lights had been set up, illuminating the terrace and the ragged wound in its flank. A constable loomed into view, ushering arms aloft, his intent instantly neutered by the shield of Claire’s warrant card.

At the end of the road Nigel pulled up, grabbed the camera and tripod and began filming. Even after the turmoil and emotion of yesterday, and the early call out, he looked fresh and worked fast. He had the spirit of a man less than half his semi-century of years.

Dan edged along to where Adam was staring at the remains of the house. “A revenge killing?” he asked.

“It could have been an accident.”

More convincing explanations had issued from the mouths of politicians drowning in the quicksand of yet another scandal.

“All right, that looks most likely,” the detective conceded. “But it’ll be a while before we’re sure. It’s one hell of a mess. It’s a gas explosion.”

Claire nodded. “We thought so. It’s still in the air.”

“The Edwards?” Dan asked.

“Didn’t stand a chance. The bodies are in there. But… it’s not pretty.”

An unspoken question rose from the ruins of the house and wound its way around them.

“I suppose we’ve still got to find out who did it,” Dan said, at last.

“Yes, we have,” Adam replied, firmly. “No matter who suffers it, or who commits it and why. A crime’s a crime.”

“Is it?” was Dan’s quiet rejoinder.

***

The standard news editor’s question to any reporter covering a fire is –
Did you get to film any flames?

It’s a measure of how fast you are on the scene, and so how impressive the pictures are. The problem is the fire brigades are always a foe as they tend to selfishly extinguish the conflagration as soon as possible.

Nigel took only minutes to get to Homely Terrace and was happily filming not just with flames, but also the evacuation of the rest of the houses in the street. Which left Dan the simple task of pouncing upon those who could best be charmed or browbeaten into providing an interview.

He captured three. The first was an older lady, who spoke of the night “being like the Blitz”,
a statement which will be familiar to journalists throughout the kingdom. A younger woman talked of the explosion shaking the foundations of her house. Her partner agreed and eloquently described a fireball reaching up into the sky and debris clattering to the ground.

Powerful though the descriptions were, it was something else that marked the interviews in Dan’s mind. All three of his contributors were awake when the explosion happened, despite the time being around four o’clock in the morning. The reason was a car alarm which had gone off only a few minutes before.

Light was shading the sky. The time had edged on to twenty to six. The first of the breakfast bulletins took to the air at half past. Lizzie was renowned for shaming the lark, and one of her first instincts was to check the world of
Wessex
news. Getting a report together was the next priority.

Nigel was mouthing some words, but Dan wasn’t hearing. He was staring at the space in the terrace where the Edwards’ house had once stood.

“Are you ok?” the cameraman called, a gentle hand shaking his thought-miner of a reporter’s shoulder. “I said – you’d better get going to the studios.”

“Sorry, I was… somewhere else.”

“You’re not trying to be a detective again, are you?”

They were interrupted by an ambulance driving fast up the street. Nigel span the camera to follow it.

“Bit late that, isn’t it?” he asked.

El had materialised from the shadows of the dawn, as was his way. “I’d have reckoned so. From what I hear, the Edwards are toast.”

Two paramedics jumped down from the cab and headed along the pavement, towards the remains of the house. Adam was nowhere to be seen, so Dan called him.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ve found a body.”

“The Edwards?”

“No, they’re still in the house. It’s someone else. Buried under rubble at the front.’

“Who?”

“No idea, yet.”

“Alive or dead?”

“Alive – just. Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Just one more thing,” Dan interrupted. “Because you’ll want to hear it. I reckon I know how the Edwards were killed.”