The Shadows of Justice (2 page)

It hadn’t been a day to bother the mythical creatures who would be his biographers, but it felt all the more enjoyable for that. The simple pleasure of a whole day off, a species so rare it could outdo a cross between a unicorn and a yeti.

And that, Dan reflected as he paced across the classical Devon hillside of the springtime, was the result. His mind was skipping on the treetops. It was as if it had overdosed on the relaxation and was throwing up even more bizarre thoughts than the usual eccentric norms.

The fast scampering of padded feet landed the dream-weaver back in the park. Dan wheeled around, although not quickly enough to evade a whack in the side of the legs. Rutherford had kindly brought one of his traditional gifts, a sizeable stick. The master dutifully grabbed one end, but the Alsatian locked his teeth and hung on more determinedly than a shipwrecked sailor to a lifebelt.

“How many times have we had this conversation now? What’s the point of you bringing me a stick if you don’t let it go?”

As always, the logic made no headway. Dan fished a treat from his pocket, threw it, picked up the discarded stick and hurled it across the field.

“Stupid dog!” he called after the lolloping canine. “A couple more throws and it’s time to get home.”

They headed back towards the mansion of Saltram House, its Georgian angles stark in the day’s falling sun. The silver stud of Venus, harbinger of the night, had begun to rise in the southern sky. The fields were filling with flowers, a dotted pallet of yellows, blues, purples and whites. Down in the valley, the Plym had fattened with a seasonal high tide, the silver curl of the river spotted with the odd boat and its shard of a wake. A couple of magpies hopped and chattered a courtship jig beneath the boughs of a veteran oak.

“It’s that time of year,” Dan told Rutherford, who had finally deigned to walk at some approximation to heel. “Maybe we should give Sarah a call, eh?”

The dog turned, wheeling the caber and dealing Dan a sharp blow on the other leg.

“Ouch! Ah, maybe you’re right. She is a bit boisterous for a man making a rapid assault on middle age. Perhaps we should give Claire a ring then?”

Early in the years of their relationship, Dan came to understand that Rutherford possessed a vocabulary, albeit limited. In order of popularity, it ran; food, walk, cats, brush, bedtime. The entry of Claire into their lives had added a new word, and one which achieved the unimaginable feat of rivalling participants one and two.

Rutherford dropped the precious stick and let free a run of excitable barks. Dan patted his head and coaxed a couple of phantoms of floating hair from the dog’s coat.

“Don’t get too excited,” he soothed. “I’m not saying we’re getting back together. We’re just seeing how things go.”

Dan stretched, turned his face to the sky and added quietly, “Or should I say,
still
seeing how things go.”

There were only a few cars left on the gravel outside the house. Most people had finished their walks and returned home for the Friday treat of a takeaway, a night on the town, or just a welcome chance to unwind. The sun was slipping fast towards the horizon and the evening air setting with a chill.

Dan’s mobile began to trill in his pocket. “Maybe I started to relax too soon,” he told Rutherford. “I bet it’s work.”

It wasn’t. Not official work, anyway. The name Adam was flashing on the display.

“Evening, Chief Inspector,” Dan answered, with some relief. “Are you still on for this beer then? I’m just—”

“This is urgent,” came the ruthless interruption. “We’ve got a kidnapping. I need your help.”

***

Dan bundled the reluctant Rutherford into the car and bounced it, roller coaster style, over the speed humps to the main road.

The traffic was sticky, tailing back along the embankment, a sweep of red brake lights stretching around the bend of the river. There were rat runs, but they would probably be clogged too. A woman on a bike picked a careful path through the cars, but was making much faster progress than her competitors.

Dan swore to himself and called the newsroom.

The duty journalist, Phil, keenest of the young trainees, began asking questions, but only very briefly. A sharp voice in the background interrupted and the phone was duly passed across to the Mark XIII editor of
Wessex Tonight
.

“Tell me everything,” Lizzie commanded, and Dan did. “I want a live broadcast,” came the instant reply. “I want a report. I want her parents. I want the cops. I want the lot.”

“Ok.”

“And absolutely no disappearing into the investigation – again.”

“Never, naturally.”

From behind, a siren wailed. Cars started easing aside, clearing one of the lanes.

“I mean it this time,” Lizzie continued. “I’m fed up with your Sherlock Holmes act—”

Dan rubbed a finger over the car microphone. The line produced a satisfactory crackling.

“Sorry, you’re breaking up,” he called.

The siren was growing louder. It was a cop car, heading for town. Dan waited for it to edge past, then stamped on the accelerator, pulling hard into the slipstream.

Now they were shifting, cutting through the traffic and almost at the end of the embankment.

The policeman was eyeing his mirror. Dan rummaged in the glove box and found the ‘Police Forensics on call’ sign. He’d once borrowed it from a scientist, and had stupidly and repeatedly forgotten to return it. He placed it in the windscreen.

The cop nodded and focused back on the road.

The strange convoy sped on.

They were almost at the city centre.

***

The street was cordoned off, a young policeman standing a proudly upright sentry – the telltale sign of the new recruit. Along the pavement, four scenes of crime officers were kneeling and studying a doorway, faces hard to the ground, fingers probing. In the red-yellow hue of streetlight and dusk, their plastic suits shone like human fireflies.

The police helicopter hovered overhead, the beat of its rotors battering the ground. The shameless detritus of an English city centre: discarded shopping bags, parking tickets and penalty notices chased each other in whorls and eddies. The searchlight worked the road with a ring of white, twitching, shifting, swinging to each new target.

Detectives stopped passers-by. Some were let go immediately, others questioned in shouted interrogations, rapid notes taken.

A tall, slim figure walked quickly around the corner and towards the doorway. Even in the gloom Adam was unmistakable, with his upright gait, impeccable hair and mandatory smart suit. He moved like a stork and suffered a similar fondness for preening.

The detective’s radar was working as efficiently as ever. Before Dan could wave, Adam beckoned. Like the best of experienced officers, Adam could ask a question without need of a word. His gaze had only to find Rutherford, busily sniffing at the fascination of a manhole cover.

“We were out walking,” Dan shouted. “You said it was urgent, so he had to come.”

Adam rolled his eyes, but began striding away, bent double to shelter from the assault of the chopper’s noise. It echoed from walls, street, windows and pavements. The man-made hurricane of flying air pulled and pummelled at their hair and clothes.

He led Dan to an alleyway opposite the SOCOs. They were concentrating on a large picnic basket. The wicker cradle was on its side and spilled out a series of packets wrapped in cling film.
A couple of thermos flasks lay there too, with another resting in the gutter.

The alley was narrow, lined with the litter of cigarette butts and streaked with dark fingers of damp. The mustiness of dirty drains lurked. A spray of graffiti claimed the territory for
Caz
.

The Valkyrie of the helicopter banked east and clattered off into the night, the sudden quiet a release of the booming pressure in the surrounding air.

“This’ll have to be quick,” Adam said. “The victim’s Annette Newman, only child of Roger Newman.”

“The kitchens and carpets man?”

“That’s him.” Adam pointed to where a couple of white-overalled figures were dusting at the doorway, the odd puff of a silver-sparkled cloud lingering in the half light. “She was taken there. A witness saw her being dragged into a white van.” A police officer ran past, talking into his radio. In the distance, more sirens wailed.

“What time?” Dan asked.

“Quarter to eight. Just as it’s getting dark.”

“So the city’s got a few people about if you need to blend in, but not too many if you want to avoid loads of witnesses.”

“And the roads are still quiet for a getaway.”

Adam’s mobile rang. “As many as you can get,” he said, quickly. “And fast.” The detective hung up and added, “Firearms teams.”

“So – the soup run?” Dan prompted, nodding over to the SOCOs. “Which would make sense of the sandwiches and flasks.”

“You know about that?”

“It was all over the media. A part of settling that well-publicised spat with her dad.”

“Right,” Adam replied thoughtfully. “Which means…”

“Any criminal would know too. And if she does the same routine each week, there’s your opportunity.”

“Or invitation,” the detective added, grimly.

Rutherford lifted a leg and left his traditional insignia on the alley. It was a mark of the intensity of Adam’s focus that this figurehead of the law didn’t even comment.

“We’ve got a partial plate for the van,” he said. “Can you do a newsflash?”

Dan was about to head back for the cordon when the fast sound of hard shoes stopped him. He knew who it was without needing to turn around. Rutherford had begun a low whine of delight.

The
z
of
Caz
looked more like a two. Graffiti artists should take better care. Illegal though the art may be, if it was worth the risk of creating then surely it was worth making it understood.

The line of a perfect bob of dark hair edged into vision.

Dan stepped back, a crumpled drink can creaking underfoot. The
C
was far more artistically formed than the
z
. A fine three quarters of a ring. A steady circle suggested a natural talent, or so it was said.

The whining from Rutherford was growing louder. The dog started to pull at the lead.

An elegant figure in a black trouser suit was blocking Caz’s artwork and dominating Dan’s eyes. He managed a tight smile, before busying himself calming Rutherford, whispering to the dog and smoothing his fur.

As calmly as ever, in her gentle but authoritative voice, Claire said, “Mr Breen, we’ve got the ransom demand. But there’s something very strange about it.”

Darkness. Dense blackness. The tight pressure of thick cloth. Gripping teeth and mouth, binding her head and swaddling her eyes.

No light. No matter how hard she blinked, the blindfold wouldn’t move.

Pure darkness.

But noise. A continual rumbling. Wheels running on tarmac.

She was in a car. In the boot. Trussed up in a box of metal, resting above some tools and a spare wheel.

No. She could bend her knees and stretch her legs. There was space. And air.

And it was moving. Fresh air flowing and playing over nose and hands and ankles.

A memory. Bending down. To the tramp. With a sandwich, a smile and a flask of hot coffee, steaming in the evening light. A hand coming up to meet her. A sweet smell and a swirling sickness.

Legs buckling. Falling. Eyes rolling and mind running along a narrow corridor, towards a distant circle of light. Head lolling, too heavy to hold. Arms grabbing. Doors opening, two doors, white doors, more hands. Floating free in a spinning netherworld.

Then blackness.

She felt her stomach churn, snorted in a breath, bit back the bubbling vomit.

A van. She was in the back of a van.

A new noise: a whine of brakes. The engine growling.

A different momentum. Turning.

Her body sliding across the cold metal floor. Faster. Unable to stop.

And now a shock. A presence in the blackness. A sudden pressure in the small of her back. A foot. Pushing her casually away. As indifferent as if she were a sack of rubbish waiting to be discarded.

Someone was there. Hiding in the darkness.

Someone unfeeling and uncaring. Heartless and ruthless. With no picture, no sense of who it could be, still she knew. As surely if it had been tattooed upon her thoughts.

She tried to call out. Form words, force them from her mouth, through the biting gag.

Hello? Who is that? Where are you taking me? What’s happening?

But the constricting material allowed only a breathless moan.

And no voice rose in return. There was only the noise of the van. Building again.

But he was here. Alongside her. Studying her.

Eyes caressing her cheeks. Sliding downwards. Across her chest. Stopping, lingering, savouring the sight. To her stomach now. On to her thighs.

And between.

He was moving closer. Just the hint of motion. A creak of the van’s floor.

And breath. Into her ear. Hot breath. Creeping across her face. Stinking breath. The curdling stench of a filthy mouth. So close against the prickling flesh.

The vomit rose again. She gulped and heaved. Shuddered, whimpered.

And now a touch. A finger. The scraping edge of an uneven nail. On her neck. Just below the ear. So softly she could only just feel it.

But her skin jumped at the sensation, as if trying to run.

The teasing pressure was toying with a patch of fine down. The dirty, exploring nail. Hovering above a single freckle. Lingering. Circling it. Pressing a little harder.

The rumbling of the van grew again. But joined by the beat of a regular bumping. And the sideswipe of a rushing wind.

A bridge. They were crossing a river, maybe a valley.

The finger was moving again. To her throat.

Her body tensed with an iron tautness. Ready for the soft touch to switch to the sudden slash of a knife. The killing blade slitting through helpless skin.

And to feel the life’s blood flood from her.

She waited. And waited. Because there was nothing else she could do.

But still the finger teased her throat.

And now slipped downwards. Over clenched and tense muscle. To her chest. Pushing aside the cotton modesty of her shirt.

Inching towards her breast. Reaching the laced edge of her bra. And rubbing it. Running along the patterned ridges. Picking at the delicate whiteness. Moving towards her shoulder.

Pulling at the strap.

And now back to the swell of flesh. Stopping, hesitating.

Annette tried to curl herself into a ball. But the gripping ropes would grant no refuge.

The finger pushed harder, as if to penetrate her body.

Sweat flooded around it. Tiny rivulets rushing to escape the fearful pressure.

As she waited for the next assault.

But the finger was gone.

There was only blackness. And the incessant rumbling of the van.

But the man was still there. In the darkness.

Close by her side. All around her.

And everywhere inside her mind.