The TV Detective (19 page)

‘She was nervous though, to see us.'

‘Yes, but as you yourself said, most people are when the police come calling. However innocent they might be, it's only natural.'

‘True enough. I'm glad to see you're listening. I had her checked out anyway, and there's nothing on the computer about her. Paget's got no criminal record of any sort, not even points for speeding. As far as the law's concerned she's completely clean.' Adam looked thoughtful and added, ‘I'm sure I know her from somewhere though. Well, it'll come to me. Right, finally on our little list, Arthur Bray?'

Dan considered the question. ‘I don't want to think it, it's almost too horrible to consider, but yes, I'd have to say he's a strong suspect. He's got the shotguns, he's got no alibi and by his own admission he's got a motive. I certainly think we need to find out what caused the estrangement between him and his son. What do you think?'

‘I think you're right. Not just about Arthur Bray, but all of our suspects. None stands out to me as being the obvious one we should focus on.'

‘So what happens next?'

‘We carry on with the dull bit, which as I told you is the real truth of investigations. We keep working on the case, keep looking at the suspects and the crime, keep hoping for a break.'

More people were filling the bar. It was growing warm, the windows misting. Dan took off his jacket.

‘It still comes down to that vital clue, doesn't it?' he said. ‘Why the murder was put off for a week.'

Adam nodded. ‘I think so. But none of our inquiries have thrown up a reason why any of the suspects would have to cancel something they were planning on the Monday the week before Bray was killed.'

‘And is there anything I can do to help? Any more reports I can put out which might be useful?'

‘You mean you need a story?'

‘Well, I'm never averse to them.'

‘I noticed. No, I genuinely don't think there's anything else you can do at the moment. I reckon we just keep working the case quietly and see what our inquiries throw up. Look, let's leave the work thing aside for now, I could do with a break. Tell me a bit about yourself. Have you always lived in Devon?'

Adam got them some more drinks, then Dan went through his history. As he recounted his story, he noticed it felt oddly like a date, a getting to know you session remarkably similar to what he'd gone though with Kerry.

Like many journalists, Dan had lived an itinerant lifestyle in his younger years. Your first job tended to last only a few months as you were ambitious, ever on the lookout for a bigger newspaper, radio or TV station, or, today, a website. Moving town or city tended to be an annual occurrence, if not even more frequent.

Dan related how he had started in the broadcasting industry as a DJ, on the radio and in nightclubs. It was something he'd begun at university. Bored with his degree in natural sciences, he'd taken it up as a hobby because of a love of music, a fondness for the sound of his own voice, and a belief that the glamour of the job attracted girls. He'd started to get bored with the limited challenges of playing records and talking about them, had crossed over into the radio newsroom, then been spotted by a TV station as having potential and offered a trainee role. For a man with an impressive store of vanity, the lure of having his face in thousands of living rooms, night after night, had proved much too tempting to resist.

He'd got some experience, learnt the TV trade and then taken a job in London. It was the first time Dan had worked in the capital and he'd found it not to his taste. Everything was hustle, be it for a seat on a bus, a drink at a bar, somewhere to live, even, occasionally in the polluted metropolis, for a lungful of air. A job as a reporter with
Wessex Tonight
had come up, an old friend had recommended a more sedentary, but quirky life in the South-west, Dan had applied and been appointed.

He'd expected to spend perhaps a couple of years in Devon. But, as happens to so many in a region renowned as a graveyard of ambition, the good life had beguiled him and in Devon he had stayed.

‘Any regrets?' Adam asked, with one of his usual perceptive questions.

‘Perhaps one. I expected to travel a bit more as a reporter, right across the world even. I wonder what would have happened if I'd stuck it out in London. Maybe I'd have been covering the biggest stories the planet gets to see. But on the whole, no, no regrets. So, what about you? What's your history?'

Adam didn't reply. His finger went to his wedding bandand pushed it back and forth. He looked about to speak, but then sipped at his drink, excused himself and headed for the toilets. Thoughtfully, Dan watched him go, then sat back and looked around the pub. There were so many smiling faces. It was remarkable what a drink and the prospect of some time off could do for people's mood.

‘You OK?' he asked, when Adam returned.

‘Yeah, fine. Just feeling tired, and a bit frustrated. It's been a week since Bray was killed. I was hoping we'd have made more progress by now. We could do with a break.'

‘It's just that?' Dan asked quietly.

‘Just what?'

‘Just the case that's bothering you?'

Adam leaned back on his chair, rolled his neck. Finally he said, ‘Yeah, more or less – maybe.' He hesitated, then added quickly, ‘So, you wanted to know about my background?'

Adam picked up his pint and recounted his story. He was a local lad, born and schooled in Plymouth. He stayed on at school to take A levels, but had little idea what career to choose. An uncle was a detective inspector in London, so the young Adam had asked what the life was like and received a sufficiently encouraging response to apply. He had been taken on as a probationer by Greater Wessex Police, and spent several years on the beat.

‘A lot of cops will tell you this is nonsense,' he said, ‘but they were great days. I had my own patch to patrol, I got to know all the people and I really enjoyed it. There were some nasty bits, of course, like this.'

Adam wobbled the crook of his nose. ‘Broken by some drunken idiot on a Union Street Saturday night,' he said. ‘But it goes with the job. For every thug there are a thousand good people out there, and that's something cops don't remember enough. We get used to being lied to and abused, but the vast majority of people are very decent and they're on our side.'

PC Breen, as he then was, had done his time in uniform, was spotted as one of the brighter of the young intake of new constables, and told that perhaps he might consider working in CID. But he decided against it, said he was enjoying his work on the beat and thought that he was making a real difference to the community he served.

Then had come the moment his life changed.

Adam's sister was raped.

‘She's younger than me,' he said. ‘Sarah's her name. She's very clever, very pretty, tall, with long blonde hair. She'd just finished her A levels and was deciding which university to go to. She had her pick, could have done whatever she wanted and gone on to whichever career she chose. The whole of her life was there, just waiting in front of her.'

And now his voice fell. ‘She was attacked on her way home from a night out. Beaten and raped. Put in hospital. She survived, but after that she was a different person. She became quiet and withdrawn. She tried going to college, to see if that helped, but she couldn't stick at her course. She dropped out and got a flat and a job in a factory in Hull. She chose it because she'd never been there before. She wanted somewhere new, away from everything that had happened. I hardly speak to her now, just a brief call at Christmas and that's about it. She doesn't seem to want to know about anything or anyone that might remind her of the past.'

Adam slowly shook his head. ‘The bloke who did it was never caught. And you can guess how that feels.'

An attachment had come up to CID, and PC Breen had duly become DC Breen. Talented and now very driven, a couple of years later he was a Detective Sergeant, five more after that and he was a Chief Inspector.

‘And that is as far as I go,' he said emphatically. ‘I have to deal with enough admin, budgets and management stuff as it is. Any higher up the chain and I'll be unlikely to ever see a criminal again. As a DCI you get to run the biggest cases and actually be a part of the investigation too.'

Over in the corner of the bar, a man had begun playing a guitar. He looked unfocused and well the worse for wear. The music was so far off the notes he was probably aiming for that the tune was almost unidentifiable, but it was a measure of the Christmas spirit infusing the bar that plenty of people dropped coins into his guitar case anyway.

‘So, the job's good,' said Dan, laying heavy stress on the word “job”.

‘Yeah.'

‘What about the rest of life?'

Adam took a deep draw at his pint, then said, ‘You don't give up, do you?'

‘No. I don't. But then, nor do you.'

‘That's true.'

A barman came to collect their empty glasses. Adam thanked him, ran a hand over his stubble and yawned. ‘Oh, I know what I meant to ask you,' he said.

Dan raised a theatrical eyebrow, to make sure the detective was well aware he hadn't missed the U-turn in the conversation. ‘Yes?'

‘Had a good weekend, did you?'

‘In what way?'

‘In the woman way.'

‘Ah.'

‘Ah indeed.'

Dan tapped a hand on the table. ‘How did you know?'

‘It would have been harder to miss. You practically swaggered into the MIR this morning.'

‘Did I?'

‘You did.'

Dan explained what had happened on Saturday, but, being a gentleman for once, he left out the unexpected events at Kerry's house. His swagger of earlier probably said more about that than mere words could.

Adam nodded and smiled, but it was a tired look. Dan hesitated, then said quietly, ‘So, what about you? Is there a woman in your life?'

The smile disappeared. Adam's finger went again to his wedding band. He finished his pint, then said, ‘Another?' and disappeared to the bar before Dan had time to answer.

The man with the guitar had completed his improvised set, which prompted more people to donate money than had been the case while he was playing. The place was a little emptier now. It was one of those feeder pubs, where people meet to start the evening, for a chat and to begin the lubrication process, before moving on to bigger and noisier bars.

Dan noticed he was feeling relaxed. The beer was doing its fine work, accompanied by the reassurance he wasn't being kicked off the Bray case. He could have sworn Lizzie issued some unqualified praise earlier for his work on the war memorial story, but perhaps that was just the hallucinatory effect of the alcohol.

It was a common enough syndrome. After a few beers, Dan could feel handsome, charismatic, and sexually magnetic, but usually had the benefit of the solid anchor of self-awareness to understand it was only a passing dream.

Adam brought over two more pints and sat down. He stared into the amber liquid, then lifted his head and watched the headlights of the passing cars.

Dan waited quietly.

‘All right, all right,' Adam said, finally. ‘Her name's Annie. And that's the problem. I don't know how much in my life she is.'

Even from the small, passport photograph, she was evidently a beautiful woman. Long dark hair swept over her shoulders, and her eyes were an enticing shade of brown. Adam's hand trembled as he held out the wallet containing her picture.

‘And you've seen Tom, my son,' the detective added quietly, shifting the pictures around.

It could have been a picture of the young Adam. Tom had his father's dark and tussled hair and was smiling in the not quite convincing way that many people have when unused to adopting the expression.

Dan made the usual noises about Annie's looks and Tom's handsomeness. He let the silence run awhile, then said, ‘So, what's the problem?'

Adam took a long drink of his beer and rubbed at his eyes. ‘It's my fault,' he said. ‘My fault entirely.'

It was the old story, but with a twist. Annie was a nurse, and they'd met at a bar which was having an “Emergency Services Night”, back when Adam was a Detective Constable.

‘I tried to impress her with talking about how important CID was, how busy, how exciting, all the big and dangerous cases I worked on. Standard man stuff, you know how it is. We were in the corner of the bar, having to shout above the music. And she said to me – “What big case are you on at the moment then?”'

Adam's face slipped into a wistful smile. ‘I had to admit I was on the trail of a couple of people who were nicking diesel from farmers' supply tanks. Well, I was only a probationer at the time really. She laughed, I laughed, and that was it. We were together from there.'

They'd seen each other for a few more months before moving in to a rented flat just outside the city centre. All was going beautifully and Adam had proposed. Being the old fashioned type, he'd asked Annie's father for permission first and it had been happily granted. But he'd managed to keep it as a surprise and waited until he and the unknowing bride were taking a summer evening's walk on the Cornwall coast.

‘It was like Hollywood,' he said mistily. ‘The sun was setting away to the west. The sea was lapping gently below us. Birds were wheeling in the air. I took her hand, stopped her, said there was something I had to ask and popped the question. She said yes straight away. It was beautiful.'

Adam didn't mention whether he or Annie had cried with the moment, but Dan didn't need to ask.

They bought a house together in Peverell, a three bedroom, semi detached Georgian place. It was a little run-down, and as often with newlyweds they were short of money, but they worked hard together to renovate it.

The perfect love story just got better. Annie became pregnant. They refused to be told whether the child was a boy or girl, wanted to wait for the surprise. And on the 4
^th
July – ironically, Independence Day, as Adam pointed out – Thomas Clive Arthur Breen was born. The boy's middle names were taken from Annie and Adam's fathers.