The TV Detective (18 page)

Dan again began the story with Rachel Parker, as she was the most powerful of the interviews, then added a clip of the Inspector, but also put in a snippet of interview with a veteran's group and a local MP. Everyone wanted to voice their outrage on this story.

It was a simple edit and they were done by a quarter to five. Nigel offered to get them a round of coffees from a nearby café while they waited to do the live broadcast, a gift that was gratefully received. The sky was still clear and the evening was rapidly growing colder.

And then, with the work mostly done, the story changed. It was as though fate was in a whimsical mood, and merely awaiting her moment.

Dan's mobile rang. Inspector Getliffe.

‘We've got the plaques.'

‘All of them?'

‘Yep.'

‘What state are they in?'

‘Three OK, two damaged.'

‘Where?'

‘A scrapyard just outside Plymouth.'

It was ten to five. Dan took some directionsand did a couple of quick mental calculations. It would be tight, but just about feasible.

‘Meet us at the yard?' he said.

‘Now?'

‘Yep. We'll do five minutes of filming of the plaques, a quick interview with you, then we'll get it on
Wessex Tonight
.'

They were lucky. The traffic was light, the hour just before the onslaught of the rush and there were fewer cars on the road with the Christmas holiday. They got to the scrapyard just after five.

It was a sprawling place, thick with the smell of oil, filled with teetering piles of rusting cars and muddy and rutted ground. There were a couple of emaciated and rabid snarling dogs, both fortunately tethered with thick chains, and a welcoming sign which said, “Trespassers will be shot”.

The plaques were laid out on a blanket in the boot of a police car. Three had suffered scratches, but two were twisted, bent and buckled, as if someone had tried to break them into pieces. Nigel concentrated his shots on those. The scores and marks cut through the columns of the names of the dead men.

It didn't take much to imagine the viewers' reaction.

Dan took a quick briefing from the Inspector, they did an interview, then jumped back in the car and headed for the Hoe. But now luck had turned against them. Every road they took faced them with more lines of static cars, rows of red tail lights stretching into the distance.

To save precious time Dan worked on the revised script as Nigel drove. One of the most important principles of news states that the freshest pictures should come first in a report, particularly when they're as striking as the damaged plaques. But that would mean re-writing and re-editing the whole story, and that would endanger the cardinal rule.

Get it on air. In whatever form, forget the artistry, just beat the deadline.

Dan glanced at the clock. It was coming up to half past five, an hour until
Wessex Tonight
went out, and they were still sitting in sticky traffic. Time was acutely against them.

There was another way, and it would have to be tonight's weapon of choice. Known in the news trade as the “Delayed Drop”, it was effectively a tease, the presenter telling the viewers there had been some major development, but without letting them see it until late in the story.

Nigel swore quietly to himself, turned down a back laneand started working his way through the rat runs. The car swung from side to side with his manoeuvres, the sodium streetlights highlighting the concentration on his face. They were making better progress now. Dan called Lizzie and outlined his idea.

‘Done,' came the instant response. ‘If that's what it takes. Just make it happen. Now stop wasting time talking to me and get on with it.'

It was twenty to six when they got back to the Hoe. Loud grabbed the tape, quickly spooled through the shots. Dan explained the plan, and the engineer nodded.

‘Bloody good idea. It'll save me poor heart.'

They would present the broadcast just as they had before, except this time Craig would read a revised cue, talking about the plaques being found. Dan would come in with his live link and show the viewers the memorial and the marks on the wall where the plaques had been. His report would feature all the outraged reaction they already had, but after the clip of the MP's interview they would use some of the new shots of the damaged plaques.

In his commentary Dan explained how, within the last hour, they had been found at a scrapyard following a tip-off. Then it was a clip of the Inspector, thanking the public for their help and saying how delighted he was the plaques had been recovered. It was the quickest way of working and guaranteed to get the story on air.

TV purists might not have liked it, but the structure did work well. Dan could feel the viewers' ire building, then their relief at the plaques being found, then another flare of anger as they saw how badly damaged two of them were.

To finish the broadcast, in his live summary Dan told the camera that three men had been arrested on suspicion of theft and criminal damage and were now being questioned. He was thanked, and the programme moved on to its next story, an analysis of how the Christmas shopping season was going and what it meant for the economies of the region's biggest towns and cities.

Dan thanked Nigel and Loud for their efforts and was about to drive home when he remembered to turn his mobile back on. He always kept it off during outside broadcasts, as his friends would commonly see him on the television and think it a fitting time to sends texts filled with jibes about his attire, just to see if they could distract him.

The phone beeped its little message alert. There was indeed a text waiting, but it was from a number Dan didn't recognise.

Puzzled, he pressed the read button.

“Can you come to Charles Cross after your broadcast please. We need to have a chat. Adam.”

He stared at the words and sighed. Not even the call from Lizzie, offering an unconditional, and thus highly unexpected, “Well done” lifted his mood. Following the unpardonable slight, the festering of the animosity and the build up of the tension, it was, as they said in those wonderful old Westerns, showdown time.

Dan climbed resignedly into his car and headed for the police station.

Chapter
Sixteen

B
Y THE TIME HE
was trooping up the stairs towards the MIR, Dan had prepared himself for the ordeal.

He was tempted to return the coming broadside. Perhaps to start, he'd point out that Adam was behaving like a control freak or just a child, maybe even add another colourful opinion or two about the way he had been treated while with the Bray investigation.

Then he could go on to conclude that what he did about broadcasting the plaques being stolen had proved to be right. They had been recovered, according to Inspector Getliffe, because of a tip off from a woman who had been watching
Wessex Tonight
's coverage.

But, as always, there was a but. Dan would doubtless have to work with Adam again, and probably the next time there was a big and newsworthy case. He'd quickly learned the Chief Inspector was generally regarded as one of Greater Wessex Police's finest, both amongst his colleagues and the media. He handled most of the major inquiries.

Dan couldn't afford to be frozen out and have Adam Breen refusing to speak to him.

So, when he'd climbed this next flight of stairs and reached the MIR, he knew how he would handle the dressing-down. He would listen to what Adam had to say, politely and quietly. Dan would tell the detective he understood but couldn't agree, and gently emphasise that the plaques had been recovered. He would conclude by saying he would, of course, leave the police station and the Bray inquiry if Adam wished it, but hoped they could work together again professionally in the future.

As he reached the last few steps, Dan noticed his pace was slowing.

It was such a great shame. Shadowing the inquiry had been fascinating. No matter how he tried, he couldn't pretend to himself he wouldn't miss it.

And there was even the thought, just the remote possibility, that on the couple of occasions they'd had a more relaxed chat, Dan had begun to wonder whether he and the enigmatic Chief Inspector might even have been on the long path to becoming friends.

He almost walked into a cleaner who was busily sweeping the floor, apologised, straightened his tie and began taking the last few steps towards the MIR.

Dan wasn't surprised to find his thoughts drifting to home, a restorative cuddle with Rutherford, and the little plastic bottle of pills in the bathroom cupboard.

A dark and cold Monday night, just four days before another solitary Christmas, was a brutally effective wrecking ball for the fragility of your mood.

The Swamp was sucking hard.

Dan hesitated outside the door, rolled his neck, clenched his fists, tried to adopt a calm and confident expression, and walked into the MIR for what he entirely expected to be the last time.

In his life, Dan had come to notice that a fair few of his plans worked and another, probably roughly equal number, didn't. But a much greater proportion than the combination of the two didn't have a chance to make any impact whatsoever on the world.

No matter how much time and effort he put into formulating a strategy, instinct or sometimes just emotion would often take over.

Thus it was that evening.

Adam was sitting on a table, staring broodingly at the line of felt boards, as if willing them to give up the secret of who had murdered Edward Bray. He looked tired, his tie was low on his collar and his skin shining with a gathering sweat.

He turned as the door opened and was about to speak, but Dan got there first.

‘I'm going,' he said. ‘Don't worry about that. I just came to say I got your message, I know what it means and I'm off. You don't have to go on at me, give me a rollocking or a little lecture, or any of that crap. I'm off. I won't bother you again. I just came to say that.'

Dan nodded hard to emphasise his words.

‘But I have to say, I think it's a real shame. Well, worse than that in fact. I think it's stupid. Petty, really, if you want to know the truth. I thought we were working together well. I thought I'd showed you how I could be useful to you. Look at the publicity I brought when you caught that nutter who was attacking the prostitutes. That really did you good. We could have done more like that. I could even have helped you get some witnesses to come forward in the Bray case.'

Adam was shifting on his chair, his mouth opening to say something, but Dan had sped into his flow and wasn't about to stop.

‘I don't know if you noticed, but we got the plaques back. That was a real disgrace, a dreadful thing to do, nicking them. I don't care what you're going to say, about me disobeying your orders, or being here on trust, or a crime like that not being a matter for CID – of course it was one for CID! What's the point of your job if you don't tackle the crimes which bother the public the most? And that one did. You should have seen the reaction we got when we broadcast the story. And the tip off about where the plaques were – that came from someone who saw the reports I did. Did you know that? Did you even bother watching them? I'm not saying that I single-handedly got the plaques back, of course I'm not, but I certainly played a big role in helping.'

Adam was getting up from the desk now, raising a hand, but Dan had by no means finished.

‘And if you really want my opinion, and I probably shouldn't say this, but I'm going to anyway, then I think you're being daft. Well, worse than that– ridiculous in fact. I reckon you did want me off the inquiry after all, no matter what you said about giving me a chance, and this is your golden excuse to do it. I've done everything I can to help. I've done background research in our library for you. I've driven you around. I've offered to make the media work for you. I even asked a couple of questions, and you yourself admitted that they were good ones, that they might have been important to the case.'

Adam now had both palms in the air in a gesture that oddly didn't look angry, not even reproachful, instead just calming. But Dan was riding on the swings of his temper and gaining momentum all the time.

‘And do you know what? I shouldn't say this either, because it'll probably give you even more satisfaction now that you're kicking me out, but I've really enjoyed shadowing the inquiry and working with you. I was all nervous and intimidated when I got moved onto doing crime. But you've taught me masses, and I really appreciated that. And you know, I even got to enjoy it. And I was stupid enough to hope you might be coming to value having me around, and that you were starting to see that I could really help.'

And now Dan had to pause. He had no choice. He'd run out of breath.

When he'd gulped in one more quick lungful of air, he added, ‘Right, so that's it then. I'm off. I'm going. Just say what you've got to say, get yourpathetic little lecture out of the way, and I'll be gone.'

He folded his arms and stared defiantly at Adam. There was a silence, then the detective said, ‘I only wanted to apologise.'

Dan blinked hard. ‘What?'

‘I wanted to apologise. For how I behaved earlier. Oh, and to thank you as well. For helping us get the plaques back.'

A bizarre memory flitted through Dan's mind. It was from his childhood days, many years gone. He had a skateboard and had found a backstreet which ran straight and true down a lovely long hill. He'd walked to the top, gathered his courage, stepped onto the board and kicked himself underway.

Quickly he'd begun to build up speed until he was careering downhill at an exhilarating rate. Lampposts and bins and doors and gates were flashing past, but he rode on, eyes wide with the excitement, concentrating hard on keeping his balance.

The thrill of the descent was dizzying. On and on he'd hurtled, delighting in the freedom and adventure, his heart racing, his chest breathless.

Then a car had backed out of a drive, right into his path, and he'd smashed into the bonnet.

Fortunately, Dan was blessed with the pliable body of many young boys, and so was only bruised and winded. But the sudden and shocking halt to a seemingly irresistible momentum was exactly what came to his mind with Adam's words.

‘Oh,' said Dan.

It was several seconds before he could find a follow up to his inspirational response, one which contained the same number of letters, but was notreally any more communicative.

‘Ah.'

A little more time elapsed before Dan added, ‘You wanted to … apologise?'

‘Yes.'

‘And – thank me?'

‘Yes.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh.'

Adam took off his tie, carefully rolled it up and placed it into his jacket pocket.

‘Well, there was one more thing,' he said.

‘Yes?' Dan replied, warily.

‘To ask you if you fancied a beer.'

‘Now?'

‘Yes.'

‘Tonight?'

‘Still yes.'

Dan found that he did indeed very much fancy a beer.

Before they left the MIR, Dan rang his downstairs neighbour, went through his usual round of apologies about the unpredictable beast that was his work and asked ask him to look after Rutherford. Walking into the city they found it was that rarest of Monday nights, a busy and boisterous one, so they avoided the centreand instead found a run of bars in a backstreet off the Barbican.

Dan was about to push at the double doors of the first of the welcoming line when Adam stopped him.

‘What?' Dan asked.

‘Which door were you going to try? Of the two?'

‘The left-hand one.'

‘I reckon it's locked.'

‘Why?'

‘Try it.'

Dan did. The left-hand door was indeed firmly locked. Adam pointed to the handle of the door on the right. It was shiny with wear.

‘Just another little example of police work,' he said. ‘If you're still interested.'

Smug is a wonderful word. It's short, sharp and often unbeatably appropriate.

They walked into the bar, and this time Dan stopped.

‘What?' Adam asked.

‘The shoes.'

The place was mainly filled with men, and most were wearing white trainers. All of which were far too bright to ever have seen any sporting activity, except perhaps for running from the forces of the law.

‘A little example that I'm still interested in police work, and even hope that I might have some talent for it,' Dan added. ‘White trainers equals lager drinkers, equals no good ales, equals not our kind of place, wouldn't you say?'

They walked further down the street, found a bar which was quieter and filled with people wearing normal shoes. Dan was going to get the drinks in, but Adam said it was his round, part of the apology for his behaviour earlier, and made for the bar.

There were a few free tables, so Dan picked one at the back of the room. The chair was padded and unusually pleasant for a pub, unlike those places that seem to think comfortable chairs beguiled customers into relaxing, drinking more slowly and so spending less money.

Adam brought the drinks over. The beer was good as well.

‘I think I like this place,' Dan said. ‘We must make a note of it.' He checked the menu. ‘The food looks tasty too.'

They sipped at their drinks. Adam leaned back on his chair and said, ‘Right, shall I bring you up to date on the Bray investigation?'

‘Please do.'

‘It won't take long.'

That was an impressive understatement. It took just a sentence. There was no update. Despite the team of detectives looking at the background and associations of all the suspects, they had found nothing new to suggest an undiscovered burning motive or obvious opportunity for murdering Edward Bray. All remained as had been earlier. They had a list of suspects, some of whom appeared better bets than others for the killer, but no clear indication who had carried out the murder.

‘Right then,' Adam said. ‘Let's make the leap from facts to feelings. But first, I'd better warn you– this can be dangerous. It's important not to get fixated on a suspect for no better reason than that you've got a feeling he might be the killer. On the other hand, instincts are an important part of police work. So, let's go through our list. Do you have any real sense who the murderer might be?'

Dan swirled his drink.

‘No,' he said. ‘No strong feeling. I did get the impression Gordon Clarke was hiding something. He didn't seem comfortable with being interviewed and I reckon he looked more than a little relieved when we left. But that could be because of any old business fiddle.'

‘It could. Plenty of people get uncomfortable with the law around. And he's got a good alibi.'

‘Yes. As have Hicks and Stead, but …'

‘But what?'

‘I don't know. I just felt – it's difficult to put into words, and it's about Hicks rather than Stead, but it was a kind of feeling that he would be able to kill Bray. I could sense the loathing in him. Maybe it's because of those stories we did that he featured in, but I felt he could be a killer.'

‘Both Hicks and Stead have got decent alibis too. Not perfect, but decent enough.'

‘Yeah, I suppose so. Is there such a thing as a perfect alibi?'

Adam smiled. ‘Not often. With some diligent work I can normally knock a hole in most of them.'

The mainpart of their pints had already disappeared. It was often the way with the first drink of the evening. Dan went to the bar and brought back some replenishments. The bar staff were efficient and friendly. This place truly was a find.

‘What about the others then?' Adam asked. ‘Penelope Ramsden?'

‘I still think she's an outside bet, even though she's got no alibi. I thought she was genuinely upset at her boss's death.'

‘OK. Eleanor Paget?'

‘More of a possibility. She's got that steel about her which might give her enough resolve to kill. The hospice staff are scared of her, that was obvious. And just look at the way she stood up to Bray – that can't have been easy, given what we know he was like, and the fact that he donated all that money to the hospice. She could have hated him enough to kill him, maybe even to stop the changes he was trying to make to the hospice. Although she was charming, I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of her. I bet she can be ruthless, but I suppose that goes for anyone who gets to a senior position in a company or organisation.'