The Shadows of Justice (24 page)

So many times, Dan had delighted in the new life that being part of police investigations had brought. But he’d also come to taste the bitterness of what it could really mean. The truths they don’t tell you in books, or on the television. The hopeless impotence of being utterly helpless in the face of so much unwarranted suffering.

And here, on the roof of this grubby concrete block of a car park, and now confronted with this broken and suicidal man, he could have grabbed Adam and screamed into his face.

Why me? Why drag me into this? Why me?!

“Roger!” Dan heard himself shout. “You once offered me a job. Are you still serious about that?”

Newman turned. “What?”

The words were pathetic, embarrassing, even humiliating. And Dan knew it. But he was shaking from the heart, terrified of what may again come to pass here. And if his rambling, nonsensical flailing offered the prospect of an edge of hope, then he would take it.

“It’s just – I reckon I might have had enough of this policing lark. I’m starting to think it’s too much for me.”

And however absurd the attempted conversation, Newman was listening. “I liked you, Dan. You were honest with me. About how
I looked and how to try to get Annette back.”

“I liked you too. I, err – thought we made a good team.”

The breeze pulled at the lapel of the businessman’s jacket. “But you think I killed the Edwards too, don’t you?”

“Well, I—”

“It’s not just Breen. You think so as well. Don’t you?”

Below, the yellow bags were filling fast with air. They looked like the bouncy castles of children’s parties. But they were still less than half inflated.

Dan took a second to consider Newman’s question. It was all he could afford. But when the answer came, it was a surprise.

“No, I don’t think you killed the Edwards. I don’t think it’s in your character, Roger.”

Adam drew in a breath, but Dan ignored him. Newman was listening and that was everything.

“And I don’t think this is in your character, either,” Dan continued. “You’re no quitter.”

“You’re right, I’ve never quit. But now I just don’t see what I’ve got left to fight for.”

Newman shifted his weight and teetered on the ledge.

“Roger!” Dan called, trying to hold back the fear in his voice. “Is this… is it what Annette would have wanted? Is it?”

But there was no reply this time. Newman was staring down at the plaza and the expanse of concrete, as hard and pitiless as iron. His body had begun to sway, back and forth.

“Roger!” Dan shouted, desperately. “What about the business? All your staff! Your charity work? What’s going to happen to all that? Roger! For fuck’s sake, don’t!”

But the pleading was nothing. The resolution was reached and the ending set. The man had spread his arms to fly, just as his daughter did before. Adam lurched forwards, started sprinting, but it was futile, the distance too far, far too far.

And Roger Newman pitched forwards and fell.

Seldom could the inhospitable confines of a police station have felt so welcoming.

Dan couldn’t stop fidgeting and kept scratching at imaginary itches. Even Adam was clearly ruffled. His collar was open, his tie well down his neck, and his dark hair spiky and wild, a legacy of the chase through the heat of the morning.

They hadn’t said a word on the way back to Charles Cross. They didn’t need to. The unspoken understanding was clear.

Just leave, escape, get away. From this dirty, mundane, multi-storey car park, distinguished only as a place which can host the unspeakable. Not just once, but twice. And worse, so much worse, to a family, a young woman and her father.

The walk back was blind and fast. It was more of a flight, an automated escape from the unimaginable and incomprehensible. And mute too, because sometimes there are no words to say.

Claire was waiting in the MIR. At the wretched sight of their arrival, any hostility or criticism was forgotten. She ran over, hugged Adam and then Dan. There was no holding back and neither man resisted in the least. She brought them cups of hot coffee. And despite the heat of the day they cuddled the warmth to their chests.

In the MIR they sat and tried to find some composure amidst the wildfire of what they had faced. First Adam’s mobile rang, then Dan’s, but neither man answered. They just sat, sipping occasionally at the coffee and staring out of the windows. At the line of pigeons on the fume-rotted sill, the limp blue standard hanging from the rusted old flagpole, the bank of silver cloud gathering on the western horizon.

Anything which was not their lives of the last hour.

More cups of coffee arrived. The originals were little touched, but had turned cold.

Claire’s mobile rang. She asked a couple of questions and hung up. Next to Adam she sat and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Sir? Sir!”

No response.

“Mr Breen? Sir!”

Adam took a long drink of the coffee, rose laboriously and walked to the windows. He opened one by all the few centimeters that the Health and Safety regulations would allow and breathed in deep lungfuls of air.

“The Deputy Chief Constable’s on his way,” Claire said, when she sensed some return of life. “He wants to talk to you about ‘how the case is going’.”

Adam swore. “He’s heard about our triumph in the plaza.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s all over the media?”

“Yes.”

“He’s going to throw me off the case.”

“He didn’t say that.”

“And probably give me a disciplinary.”

“He didn’t say that either.”

“He didn’t need to. He’s not coming here to bring me a bouquet and a medal. I should have taken back up.”

“You weren’t to know Newman would run. And that he would…”

Adam closed his eyes and Claire spared him the remainder of the sentence. “There’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“Jonathan Ivy’s downstairs in reception. He wants to talk to you.”

The detective’s demeanour changed in a breath. “Does he now? What about?”

“He won’t tell me. He says it has to be you he talks to.”

***

For Dan, since the early days of their friendship, he had always found Adam a reassuring presence. Whether it was because he represented the authority of the law, or his long experience in dealing with just about every trauma that can be imagined, he had an aura of protection.

On this day, Dan noticed he kept unusually close to Adam as they walked down the stairs to the front desk. It felt like being a young boy alongside his big brother, running the gauntlet of bullies but safe in his comforting stewardship.

Ivy was sitting on one of the plastic seats, fixed to the wall. He was tapping his feet in a distracted way and looking up every time the door opened. His face was flushed, the tip of his long nose curiously red. He didn’t come close to resembling a man bowed with contrition, about to unburden and confess how he had killed a brother and sister.

The desk sergeant buzzed open the secure door and Adam stepped into reception. As if detonated by a trigger, Ivy leapt up and sprang for him, arm held high, ready to strike.

And at that instant, however ridiculous it might be, Adam did something strange. He let out an exasperated sigh.

The distance Ivy had to cover was way too great for an effective attack. And he was far too inexperienced an assailant. With embarrassing ease, Adam ducked under the blow and pinned Ivy’s arm against his back. Carried by his unwieldy momentum, the man crumpled to the floor. And there he stayed, either unwilling or unable to fight back.

“That’s the second time someone’s tried to attack me this morning,” Adam said, heavily. “And it’s beginning to annoy me. So – a couple of words of advice, Mr Ivy. Firstly, only in films do whirling dervishes succeed in their ambushes. It’s generally considered an ineffective way to surprise your victim. Secondly, that was assaulting a police officer, a very serious crime. But, as I wanted to see you anyway, I’ll put your little transgression down to shock at what happened to your friend earlier. Now, we’ll go and have a little chat. If you can manage to behave yourself?”

Ivy scowled, but picked himself up from the floor and meekly allowed Adam to lead him into the police station.

***

Interview Room Two was the smallest of the pair. It was the coldest, darkest and most intimidating, and Adam’s favourite for those very reasons. The room was blessed with the talent to squeeze the resistance from a suspect with its oppressiveness.

Ivy’s face had lost some of its warrior’s hue, and he looked more sulky than aggressive. A truculent lip protruded. It was not as pronounced as the impressive reach of his nose, but not far off.

“It’s a disgrace, what you made Roger do,” Ivy began, but Adam was in no mood for more criticism.

“And it’s not what I want to talk about. So unless you’d like me to charge you with assaulting a police officer, keep quiet until I ask you a question. At which point, confine yourself to answering it, and make it short, sharp and truthful. Nothing more – got that?”

The diving board of Ivy’s lip edged a little further out, but he didn’t demur.

“It’s this simple,” Adam said. “Did you play any part in killing the Edwards?”

“No!” he exclaimed, as if offended.

The detective leaned forward, so he was peering directly into Ivy’s eyes.

“You had nothing whatsoever, in any way, to do with it?”

The usher inched his chair backwards and turned away. And Adam seized on the discomfort and was upon him.

“Why can’t you look at me?”

“Because I don’t like you getting too close. I don’t like my personal space invaded.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Yes!”

“So you had nothing to do with killing them? And you know nothing about who might have killed them?”

This time Ivy returned Adam’s look, straight and unflinching. “Nothing.”

Claire opened a file. Ivy glanced nervously towards it. Carefully, she handed Adam a piece of paper. From his station, next to the door, Dan could see it was an expenses claim.

“Well, Mr Ivy, this is interesting,” Adam announced, in a meaningful tone.

“What is?”

“Our little piece of research.”

Dan squinted through the gloom. The detective was tracing a hand over some car parking charges.

“What research?”

“Your background. A bit of psychological analysis, too. And guess what it says?”

“What?”

“That you’re easily led. A born follower. So – this is how it goes. Roger decides to take revenge on the Edwards.”

“No—”

“But he knows we’ll come straight to him, because he’s the obvious suspect.”

“He wouldn’t kill them. You don’t know him. It’s just not him.”

“So, he needs an alibi.”

“No!”

“He comes to you. He tells you about his idea. He convinces you to go along with it – after all, it’s no more than justice, is it?”

“No—”

“You agree.”

“No!”

“Between you, you come up with a plan to kill the Edwards. In fact, do you know what? I think it’s your idea, the gas explosion. Because we know you were working in the courts during that last case, where the gas company was on trial for the explosion in the bungalow. You’ve got all the information you need. You suggest it to Roger and you decide to do it.”

“No! That’s not Roger. He’d never do something like that.”

“But you would, wouldn’t you?”

“No! I was on the computer all night. I couldn’t – I wouldn’t.”

“Really?”

“Really. Honestly!”

“You know, we detectives usually think that when someone says ‘honestly’, they’re definitely lying.”

“No! It’s the truth! I swear!”

Adam held the man’s look. And Ivy looked right back. He was defiant, holding fast to his denials. And they had nothing on him. No evidence, just the theory of a motive.

It was a conclusion Adam must also have reached, even if he couldn’t resist a little more pressure. “Alright, Mr Ivy, you can go. But if I were you, I’d have a think about what you’ve said, and whether it might be in your interests to come back later and tell us the truth.”

***

From the MIR they watched Ivy walk out of the police station and make his way towards the courthouse. He moved hurriedly and occasionally glanced back over his shoulder.

“What was that about asking him to come back later and tell the truth?” Dan asked.

“No idea,” Adam grunted. “Just a desperate bluff, I suppose.”

Claire put on a knowing half-smile. “Do you think he had anything to do with the killing?”

“No idea to that one, too. You?”

“I don’t know, either. I wasn’t sure if he was lying or not in that interview.”

“Mr Perception Man?” Adam prompted.

“Likewise, I’m afraid,” Dan replied. “He’s one of those I can’t read.”

Adam stared silently out of the window and picked distractedly at a thread on his trousers. Mobile phones tended not to work in the interview rooms, situated as they were in the bowels of the building. Dan took advantage of the revival of the signal to check his messages. There were three, all from Lizzie.

The first demanded a follow up story on the Edwards’ deaths. The second informed him about Roger Newman jumping from the car park, insisted that it was reported on the lunchtime news and asked why he wasn’t aware of it.

“I was aware,” Dan muttered. “All too bloody aware.”

The final message was a rant. If he could not be relied upon, she was sending the bright, up-and-coming talent that was young Phil to cover the events of this morning. Amidst the barrage of words was the threat of disciplinary proceedings for deserting his post at a time of national emergency, or words to that effect.

Dan pulled a face at the phone and deleted the messages.

“We’re in the same leaky boat,” he told Adam, and related the reckoning which now hung above him too.

“Don’t worry,” the downcast detective replied. “All we need do is solve the case in the next few hours. That way I make the Deputy Chief happy again and you get an exclusive to placate your editor.”

Further attempts at levity were, by tacit agreement, redundant so they lapsed back into a sullen silence.

Claire had been on the phone to some of the other detectives working on the inquiry. After a few minutes she returned with news, she said, both good and bad.

“Give me the good first,” Adam replied resignedly. “I could do with it.”

“Deputy Chief Constable Flood got held up authorising some phone taps. He won’t be here until later this afternoon.”

Adam’s hand went to his tie and straightened it. “The patron saint of detectives is back on the beat. We’ve got a bit longer to crack the case and save me from death by disciplinary.”

“But then there’s the bad news,” Claire added, carefully. “Judge Templar wants to see you in his chambers as soon as possible.”

***

They found Templar engaged in an experiment. He was attaching varying sized pieces of Blu-Tack to the balls in his Newton’s Cradle and timing the effect it had on the swing of the spheres.

Dan was reminded of the Eggheads’ analysis of his computer, and that curious mix of personalities. The businesslike note to the Ministry and his membership of a dating club. Dan was surprised to feel a sympathy stirring for the judge, and a wondering of what the future might hold when the foundations of work were removed from his life.

Adam stood quietly while Templar concluded his observations. The final test involved a huge lump of the blue mass being stuck to one of the balls that then hardly twitched under the swinging attack of its colleagues.

“I’ll show Newton how to conserve momentum,” the judge chuckled. “Oh, this is so much better than locking up the lawless. I’m just sorry I didn’t discover it before.”