The TV Detective (13 page)

It was just a shame he wouldn't be around to find out more.

A great shame.

Still, it had been interesting while it lasted. Enthralling in fact.

Ah, time to get it over with.

Dan hoped he wouldn't have to face a dressing down as well as being kicked off the investigation. He'd never got the hang of being quietly contrite. His temper wasn't designed for it.

Nor, if he was honest, his arrogance.

He went to speak, but found his voice wouldn't quite come.

Adam looked up, and this time Dan managed a throaty, ‘Well?'

‘Well what?'

‘You know what.'

‘If I knew what I wouldn't be asking.'

It sounded bizarrely like an argument Dan had had with his last girlfriend, prior to her announcing that she would prefer it if not only did they never speak again, she would like them never to meet again, and was considering emigrating in an attempt to ensure that was the case.

It hadn't been a great relationship.

‘OK then,' Dan said petulantly. ‘I mean me, breaking my silly little vows and not staying silent, like a good boy. I mean asking a question, daring to think I might have something useful to contribute. And actually finding something out too. Sure, we don't know whether it's relevant, important or whatever, but it must be better to know so we can work out whether we need to find out. It's an important point, isn't it? What caused the split between Edward Bray and his dad? I thought it was a decent question, and one that should be asked. And if you think …'

With rare self-awareness, Dan realised he was ranting and forced himself to shut up.

‘Well then?' he added, setting his chin in the air.

Adam tapped his pen on the files. ‘You are here on trust,' he said calmly. ‘I would indeed prefer it if you kept quiet. And if there's something you really think you need to contribute, then it would be better if you asked me first. But …'

‘But?'

‘But, as that was a reasonable question and might indeed be relevant, on this occasion we can put it down to beginner's enthusiasm and overlook it.'

Adam went back to his notes, and even had the audacity to begin humming a gentle tune to himself.

A feeling rose in Dan which would grow very familiar over the years to come. He could imagine his hands reaching out to throttle Adam Breen.

He took a couple of breaths to calm himself, then asked, ‘Right, where next?'

‘Back to Charles Cross. I need some time to go through what we've heard from all our witnesses – or suspects – and work out where to take the inquiry next. I doubt it's something you'll find interesting, or useful. You can have the afternoon off, from detective work at least.'

Dan flinched. ‘You are chucking me off the case after all. I knew you would. You're just doing it nicely.'

Adam gave him a look. ‘I can assure you I'm not. When I chuck you off the case, you'll know about it. It won't be at all nicely.'

The fickle princess of luck had favoured him with a kiss.

And, Dan thought, if it hadn't turned him into a handsome prince, it had at least made him feel as though life was running his way.

It was early evening and he was walking down to Mutley Plain to meet El for a drink. In his invitations the photographer always said, “Fancy a beer?', only ever the singular, never plural, but it was inevitably more misleading than a government minister's parliamentary statement. El had never drunk a single beer in his life, and nor had anyone who dared to venture out with him.

A night with El was invariably accompanied by a morning with a sore head.

Dan had got back to the newsroom just before lunchtime to find a prevailing state of excitement. The lack of a manic phone call from Lizzie, demanding a story, had suggested something was going on, and now he found out what. The government had announced a major order for some new destroyers, and in a region with historic naval connections like the South-west that meant jobs galore and for years to come.

Wessex Tonight
would be dominated by the announcement, with a series of reports and live interviews, and for those not involved, that meant the opportunity to quietly disappear, if so minded.

Dan had found himself so minded, and duly planned to disappear quietly.

He had lunch in the canteen, an ill-defined pie, filled out a few expenses claims, checked on the progress of a couple of court cases and generally took it easy. By three, he was ready to slip away, and then, with the timing that only those in league with the Devil can master, El rang. He was babbling about a story, a highly lucrative one, which he badly needed Dan's help with. Could they meet tonight to discuss it? Over a beer, funded entirely by him, naturally.

They could. An El in need of help was a generous friend, it had been a busy and productive week, and a beer or two was clearly justified.

Before he left the newsroom, just to reassure himself, Dan called Charles Cross and was put through to the MIR. He'd asked for Adam's mobile number earlier in the week and was answered only with a raised eyebrow. He didn't bother pursuing the question.

A young woman answered, and after the clamping of a hand over the mouthpiece and some ritual background chuckling the detective's masterful voice graced the line.

‘I just wanted to check with you about tomorrow,' Dan said, trying his best not to sound nervous. ‘To see what we're going to be doing.'

‘I'm not sure yet. But at the very least we can start working through what the teams have found out about our various suspects and their alibis – or lack of them. Can you come to Charles Cross for ten and we'll take it from there?'

‘Sure.'

So, he was still on the inquiry, he'd asked his first question in a police investigation and it had been judged by Adamto be a good one. He had a date for the weekend, some beers in prospect for tonight and it would soon be Christmas. The Swamp was at bay, the tablets still hidden in the bathroom cabinet, unused and unrequired. Even the fine weather of the day was holding.

Sometimes life could be almost worth living. Dan allowed himself a brief grin as he walked.

El was waiting in the Old Bank pub, sitting right in the far corner. He was seldom happy unless he sat with his back to a wall. The explanation, he said, was twofold. Firstly, he always liked to see if there was anything happening which might be worth a photograph. Secondly, in all his years snapping various criminals and hoodlums he'd managed to accrue a considerable number of enemies, and wanted as much advance warning as possible if any were bearing down upon him.

El had already got a couple of pints in, so Dan sat down and had a sip. The photographer looked at him expectantly, rocking back and forth on his seat. He resembled a schoolchild who knew a birthday treat awaited when lessons were finally over for the day, and was within minutes of the sacred bell.

Dan realised he wasn't to be afforded any time to enjoy his drink. ‘OK, what is it?'

‘Need your help, badly, badly, badly. Snappy snap a piccie for lots of lovely loot.'

Dan blinked hard. At times of excitement El had a tendency to adopt a language all of his own. Dan was practiced in translation, but even he was left baffled by some of his friend's more impenetrable babble.

‘Meaning?' he asked, patiently.

El explained, in roughly comprehensible English. He'd been tipped off that a local scoutmaster had been arrested on suspicion of paedophilia. It was potentially a big case, the allegations going back twenty years or more. He was a well-known man, prominent in business and the community, a tireless fundraiser for charity and a greatly respected figure of impeccable reputation.

‘They always are,' Dan observed sadly.

In a quiet police operation he had been arrested and taken to Charles Cross for questioning. There he was being held, and was expected to remain in custody for several days.

Then came the problem, the crease in El's contentment. There were plenty of pictures in the various newspaper and TV archives of the man, but none dated from within the last 18 months.

‘So …' El said, grinning.

‘So, a current snap would be worth thousands to you.'

‘Yep.'

‘And probably even more if it could be taken at the police station, to emphasise his fall from grace.'

‘Yeppy yep.'

‘But he's safely in the cells and you haven't got a hope of getting one.'

‘Bingo! The man on the TV holes in one.' El leaned forward, whispered slyly, ‘And the word is that you're in with the cops.'

Dan sat back on his seat. ‘Well, I'm shadowing the Bray case. But there's a big difference between that and getting them to parade a suspected paedophile so you can get a snap of him.'

El pulled a face. ‘There'll be a big night out for you if you can help poor old El. Call it his Christmas present.'

Dan promised he would have a think and perhaps a word in the right places, to see what he could do. But, as often with El, it felt like he was asking the impossible.

They chatted about the various stories El was working on, the usual round of snaps of villains and victims, when Dan's mobile rang.

He jogged outside and answered. It was a withheld number, which usually meant work. But not this time, at least not his official work.

‘Dan, it's Chief Inspector Breen.'

‘How did you get my number?'

‘Never mind that. Are you at a pub?'

‘Well, outside one. How did you know?'

‘I can hear the guilt in your voice. How many have you had?'

‘Only a couple.'

‘Well, don't have any more. We've got an important lead, but it means a long trip and an early start tomorrow. Can you come into Charles Cross for seven?'

Dan didn't hesitate. ‘Sure.'

They chatted a little more about the details of what they would be doing, Dan hung up, went back inside, finished his pint and made his apologies. It would be the quietest night he had ever known with El, but from what Adam had just said he suspected it would be well worth it.

Chapter
Eleven

T
HE FINE WEATHER PERSISTED
, but its blessing of yesterday had today turned to a curse.

They were driving east, directly into the rising sun. Dan flicked back and forth at the visor and in twenty minutes of irritable experimentation and adjustment managed to prove a rule of motoring. No matter what angle he found for the flap it was never quite right, either allowing the blaze of the sun to dazzle his eyes, or block out so much of the road that he might as well have been driving in Braille.

Adam had reclined in the passenger seat, his eyes closed, and his hands folded contentedly over his stomach. Dan glanced enviously, and a little tetchily across.

‘No, I'm not asleep,' the detective and mind reader said, without opening an eye. ‘I'm just thinking. And yes, I will share the driving with you. In a while, anyway.'

‘Well, thank you so very much,' Dan replied, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

They were heading for Brighton, a long trek, maybe three-quarters of the girth of southern England, across five counties and busy roads. Adam calculated that if they left Plymouth at seven, they would suffer only a quiet rush hour in sleepy Dorset and maximise the chances of an easy trip. Now, for the first time, they were going to meet a man who Adam described as a “strong suspect”.

They passed Exeter and turned off towards Dorset. Now, as if suffering a famine of funding, the roads became thinner, a mix of single and dual carriageway, designed to help the driver where possible, but in fact having the effect of making the area amagnet for accidents. The sun gradually shifted into the southern sky and Dan stopped squinting. He turned on the radio, was rewarded with a irritable grunt from the still reclining detective to his left, and turned it off again.

A couple of colleagues in the newsroom had asked about the glamour of shadowing the police. Dan dutifully built up the excitement of being part of a major inquiry, the initiation into esoteric knowledge and the feeling of the power of justice guiding your actions.

Oddly enough, he'd overlooked to mention he spent much of his time as a chauffeur.

A motorbike roared by. It must have been doing well over a hundred, despite a looming bend. It was followed by another one. Adam opened an eye then closed it again.

‘Take it easy,' Dan muttered to himself. ‘Don't burn yourself out.'

‘I won't,' came the easy reply.

They reached Dorchesterand passed Poundbury, Prince Charles vision of a modern community. It marked the edge of
Wessex Tonight
's broadcast area, and, as if on cue, Dan started to feel twitchy about what he was doing. He'd agreed instinctively to come to Brighton without properly thinking it through and without discussing it with Lizzie.

In principlehis job was self–scheduling. He told the newsroom where he should be going and what stories he should handle. But with a boss like Lizzie that was never going to be the sweet reality.

Dan thought he could probably justify the trip. It was certainly part of his education in the mystic ways of the detectives, and it might be an important breakthrough. But then again, it could well come to nothing and he would be a long way from home if the newsroom started demanding a story.

To distract himself, Dan thought about El's request. But it was a tough ask and he couldn't see any obvious way to help the photographer get the snap he needed. Instead, he worked through the weekend and thought about where he might take Kerry. They could visit another pub or restaurant, but it would surely be better to inject a little creativity.

The car rumbled as they crossed a bridge over a glittering river and with it came the inspiration. If the weather held, Dan had the perfect idea for their next date. It was original and romantic, would make Rutherford happy, and be useful too in a long-running quest which had grown to an inch from an obsession.

‘What are you smiling about?' Adam inquired, this time having the decency to sit up in his seat.

‘I, err …'

Dan debated whether to say, then realised his history of trying to deceive the detective was hardly impressive. But before he could speak, Adam added, ‘Ah, it's a woman thing I think.'

‘Yes.'

‘A new woman?'

‘Yes.'

‘You going on a date?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where?'

Dan told him. ‘Cute,' came the verdict. ‘Nice idea. It'll make for a good day out.'

‘I hope so. What are you up to at the weekend?'

Adam's expression changed in an instant. A portcullis had come slamming down.

‘Not a lot.'

He settled back into the seat, closing his eyes again. Dan drove on.

Just before they reached the motorway at Southampton, they swapped seats and Adam took the wheel. He drove like a police officer who has people in the car he doesn't quite trust. Every slight manoeuvre was announced with an indicator, and their speed was a constant 70 miles per hour.

Apart from a slight hold up caused by a badly parked delivery lorry near Worthing they made good time. It was only when they reached the outskirts of Brighton that Adam deigned to impart the full briefing on who they were going to see, and why.

His name was Alex Spearing. He was a property developer, and a man who had a sizeable grudge against Edward Bray.

The story went back a couple of years. A hotel on Brighton seafront was closing, the Victorian block on offer for redevelopment. The property market was simmering nicely and there was much interest in turning the building into flats, many boasting balconies and fine sea views. The word was that the contract could be worth millions.

A building firm, which had a history of working with Bray, was interested and got together with the businessman to put in a bid. He would provide the cash, they would do the work on the conversions, the profits would be split.

Such was the interest the sale went to an auction. Bray and Spearing were the final bidders. Both were very well resourced and even more determined.

‘It's not clear from the briefing what happened at the sale,' Adam said. ‘But from what came later, it looks to me like the men got involved in a macho bidding war. I think they offered to pay much more than the building was worth as they tried to outdo each other. Put simply, it came down to pride. And that can be very dangerous. I've seen pride lie behind many a murder.'

Spearing won. At the time, the analysts said he had paid a great deal of money, but, if his plans worked out, and if the property market held up, he could still make a decent profit.

It was one if too many.

The housing market faltered and failed. Prices started to fall, first a couple of per cent, then more, finally gaining momentum to savage losses. Flats were hit even worse. There was a flood of supply and a desert of demand.

Spearing just about managed to keep his business afloat, but he had to sell a large proportion of his properties. He went from being a very rich man to the owner of just another struggling business. It was touch and go whether it would survive.

And, naturally, Spearing could never accept he might just have written the script for his own tragedy. As people do in times of adversity, he looked around for someone else to blame.

And there was Edward Bray.

He had sent threatening letters, and on the occasion of a business trip to Plymouth made a point of going to Bray's offices to make his feelings clear.

On the basis of all that alone Spearing would have been someone the police, in their euphemistic language, would quickly have spoken to “in order to eliminate him from our inquiries”. He would have been phoned, an appointment made, detectives from Brighton sent, not the officer in charge of the case, all the way from Plymouth, and with no warning.

But two other factors came into play. Firstly, Spearing had what Adam contentedly referred to as “form”. And not just any form. As a horse in a steeplechase must enjoy fences and ditches, and an athlete in a marathon must be au fait with endurance, so a potential killer must have a taste for violence.

And Spearing did. He had been convicted of two counts of assault against his tenants, one leaving a woman with minor injuries, the other, a young man, with a broken nose.

He had served six months in prison, and came out a reformed man.

Or so he said.

Because then came the second factor.

Alex Spearing lived in Brighton. The great majority of his business was in and around Brighton. His friends were in Brighton.

But on the afternoon and evening of Monday, December 14
^th
, Alex Spearing was in Plymouth.

They made a brief stop in the city centre, then drove to Spearing's office. Where once he'd had an impressive building at the heart of the commercial quarter, now the company had moved to a few rooms in a run-down terrace. There were plenty of parking spaces available along the street, always a sure sign of an absence of affluence.

‘Right,' Adam said, as he got out of the car. ‘Just another friendly word. This could easily become a nasty confrontation, but, whatever, it's a key interview, probably the most important so far, so if you could keep quiet I'd be grateful.'

Dan noticed his throat was feeling dry and his back had begun to sweat. Memories of the hunt for the man who attacked the prostitutes flitted through his mind, the knowledge that at any second he could be facing someone armed and desperate to escape.

‘OK,' was all he managed to say.

Adam checked his reflection in the car's windowand strode into the office. A young woman was squatting down, filing some papers. Beyond her was another door, a little ajar. Adam pushed past and into the room at the back.

‘Morning,' he said, cheerily.

‘Oh fuck,' replied the man sitting behind the desk.

Spearing turned out to be surprisingly affable, ostensibly at least. When Adam had explained what he wanted, the businessman visibly relaxed.

‘I thought you were the bailiffs,' he said. ‘Come to take what little I've got left. The bastards.'

He spat the words with a sting of bile. It could hardly have been clearer his business was on the cliff edge, and the land beneath eroding rapidly.

Adam went through a string of questions about Spearing's dealings with Edward Bray. Dan noticed the technique was exactly the same as his own when interviewing. First, the gentle warm up questions to establish a relationship, get the person talking, then hit them with what you really wanted to ask.

There was the hint of an odd smell in the room, which Dan couldn't place, but which he knew he'd met before somewhere. He sniffed hard, but couldn't bring the memory home. Under the desk, out of sight of Spearing, Adam's foot tapped against Dan's ankle. He took the hint, sat still and breathed easily.

The room was tatty, and apart from a board covered in letters and memos, many of them ringed with redborders, no attempt had been made to make it look more businesslike. Dan wondered how much fight Spearing had left to keep his company going. Everyone, however tough, has their threshold of surrender.

He was a tubby manwho looked pasty, tired, and drawn. His appearance was nigh the opposite of the photograph Adam had in his file. In that, Spearing was much thinner, dressed in a well-cut suit, had a tan and looked strong and healthy. Now the man's hair was too long and straggled over his ears, and there were a couple of stains on his jacket.

‘I should have asked,' he said. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?'

Adam declined the offer. ‘Then do you mind if I pop to the loo?' Spearing asked.

The detective nodded and Spearing got up, walked out of the door and down a corridor, towards the back of the building. A door crashed open and through the window they could see Spearing lumbering fast towards a gate in the back garden.

It had surprised Dan that, in contrast to the police dramas he'd seen so often on the television, his experience of the investigation so far had revealed very little swearing. But now, for the first time in their acquaintance, Adam found a profanity.

‘Arsehole,' he said, but didn't get up from his chair.

Spearing was wrestling with the gate, tugging at it, but it refused to give. He glanced over his shoulder, stood backand gave it a mighty kick, then another.

Still Adam didn't move.

‘Do you think we should do something?' Dan asked mildly.

‘We have done something,' Adam replied. ‘Remember the little stop in town?'

‘Oh yes. Sorry. In all the anticipation and excitement, I forgot.'

Still the gate wouldn't move. Spearing took another run up, slammed himself into it, then yanked hard at the handle. This time it flew open.

He pulled himself upand lurched towards the opening, straight into the arms of the two waiting police officers.

‘Right then, let's try again,' Adam said, when Spearing had been escorted back to his seat. ‘And this time, if you could bear in mind that you're a suspect for murder and that I've had a little rummage through your desk.'

The man's mouth fell open, although it wasn't clear which of the points Adam had raised was bothering him the most. It was cold in the room, but despite that Spearing was sweating.

While he was outside, Adam had opened a couple of drawers in the desk and found a clear packet containing a white powder. He dipped in a fingertip, tasted itand nodded to himself.

‘Cocaine?' Dan asked. ‘I think I recognised the smell from the toilets of the odd shady nightclub I've visited.'

‘Yep. You did your best to give us away by gulping at the air like a dying fish, but it'll be a useful bit of leverage.'

‘Sorry. I'm doing my best, but I don't think I've quite got the hang of police work yet.'

Adam didn't reply, just waited for Spearing to return.

‘Right then, about the murder of Edward Bray.'

‘I didn't kill him.'

‘You didn't like him.'