The TV Detective (3 page)

He started walking fast, striding hard, feeling his heartbeat pick up with the effort. Rutherford ran back over and jogged beside him, occasionally stopping to nose at a fascinating patch of grass. Unseen in one of the trees, a wood pigeon freed a forlorn call.

Dan waved an irritable hand. ‘Leave me be,' he called to the bird. ‘You're yesterday's news. I'm trying to give up all that environment stuff.'

The grass was soaking underfoot, the turf wrapping around his shoes. Muddy water started to seep its chill. A motorbike roared past, its engine gunning.

‘Well, look on the bright side,' Dan panted to Rutherford. ‘At least I've still got a job. There's no danger I won't be able to afford to buy you dog food, or have to give you away to an animal home. And that turkey I promised you for Christmas is still going to happen. I know it's your favourite.'

One of the streetlights at the edge of the park flickered and blinked off. Shadows shifted across the grass.

‘And maybe it was time for a change, anyway,' Dan continued. ‘I've been doing environment for five years. Perhaps I am getting a bit stale. Maybe this is the new challenge I need.'

Rutherford stopped, began sniffing at a tump of grass, cocked his leg and left the traditional calling card.

‘Classy, old friend,' Dan scolded mildly. ‘But we were talking about me, and I'd appreciate your attention. As I was saying, perhaps the change will do me good. And it can't be so difficult, being a crime correspondent, can it? OK, so I won't have any contacts to give me the inside track on whatever's going on, and all the other crime hacks will. I won't know any of the details of police procedures, or detective work, or the running stories. In fact, if we're being honest, I won't know a bloody thing.'

Dan walked on, whistling to Rutherford, who trotted over. The drizzle was gathering its strength, turning to a light rain.

‘Maybe we'd better stop this conversation,' Dan told the dog. ‘I don't think it's making me feel any better. Let's go home and have a whisky instead.'

He put Rutherford back on his lead and they headed for the flat. In the darkness of the hallway Dan noticed his mobile was flashing with a message. Four missed calls, one answer-machine message. That kind of insane insistence could only mean work.

It was Lizzie, and sounding more excitable even than usual. Her voice fizzed and crackled from the phone's speaker. A man's body had been found in a lay-by, just outside Plymouth. The circumstances were what the police, with a great bound of insight, and the application of considerable analytical skills, were describing as suspicious.

The man had been blasted to death with a shotgun. The whispered word amongst those who knew had it that the victim was a well-known local businessman. Well-known perhaps, but far from well-liked. The talk already was of a revenge killing, for any one of an impressively long list of notorious misdemeanours.

Lizzie Riley, Editor of
Wessex Tonight
, wanted her newly appointed Crime Correspondent on the scene instantly, if not sooner. He would be fully briefed up and comprehensively knowledgeable, and ready to cut a report about the killing for the late news.

It was proving to be quite a day.

Chapter
Two

T
HE RAIN HAD REGROUPED
its forces and pounded down with renewed fury. Dan squinted through the gloom. Red tail lights blurred in the cascades of water washing over the windscreen and a film of mist fogged the windows. The car hadn't yet warmed up, and he shivered.

It felt like a perfect night for a murder.

His flat was in Hartley Avenue, just outside the city centre, and only five minutes from the dual carriageway A38, the main road between Plymouth and civilisation. The lay-by was just a few miles to the east. It shouldn't take long to get there.

His first story as Crime Correspondent.

He'd expected it to come tomorrow, maybe the day after if he was lucky. To have time to sleep on the idea, to grow accustomed and acclimatised to the new world. And, more importantly, to read up on police procedures, research the running stories.

Not to be cast straight into the fire.

Perhaps it was better this way. Get stuck in, don't procrastinate with too much thinking, allow the nerves to grow. Just learn as you go.

He didn't come close to convincing himself. Dan wasn't surprised to find his eyes watering. He dabbed at them with a sleeve.

He wondered how wise it had been to leave behind the bottle of pills, hidden at the back of the bathroom cabinet. He'd taken it out, stared at it, even opened the lid, been tempted to take one, maybe more, but stopped himself. They hadn't worked before. There was no reason to think they would now.

He turned on the radio, twisted the volume up loud. This was no time to let it take him.

A big story, his first in the new job.

Dan flicked the wipers onto maximumspeed, their frantic arcs forcing back the torrents of rainwater. The car had reached the edge of the city's sprawl, the lines of concrete and brick, the beacons of the streetlights falling behind. Darkness lingered, punctuated only by rushing white headlights. The wheels slewed through the wash of the road.

Now the glowering sky changed colour, tinted with strobes of blue.

Dan indicated, turned off into the lay-by and pulled up by the line of cars and fluttering police tape.

The pack was already there. A dozen of them, clustered around a woman. They were hunched up in their coats, some sheltering beneath umbrellas, all taking notes. A few Dan recognised. Reporters from local papers, news agencies, websites and radio stations, photographers too.

Everyone knew. Everyone had been tipped off. Everyone except him.

Dan swore to himself, pulled on a coatand jogged over. Rain splashed up his trousers and into his shoes.

The woman was short, squat, wearing a long mac which almost reached the ground. All the hacks were listening to her intently.

‘… so, we're searching the lay-by now, then we'll start going through everyone who might have had reason to want him harmed.'

‘That's a hell of a list,' an older man grunted, prompting some nods of agreement.

‘Maybe, but it's what we've got to do. We'll hold a press briefing when we've got more to tell you.'

‘Can we name him yet?' a younger woman asked.

‘We're not doing so officially, but that's up to you, of course. His family – what there is of it – is being told now.'

‘And is any of this on the record?'

The woman folded her arms, and there was some muted laughter from the pack.

‘Guess that's a no then,' one of the photographers said. ‘So when do we get some snaps and quotes?'

‘When Chief Inspector Breen gets here. He won't be long.'

Dan just had time to glimpse some of the other reporters' notebooks. The pages were filled with writing. He had managed only a title, “Lay-by murder.”

That was hardly going to make a story. He looked around, to see if he knew any of the other hacks. One woman looked vaguely familiar.

‘Hello,' Dan said, above the noise of the rain. ‘It's, err, Kate, from the Daily Press isn't it?'

‘Karen, from the Weekly News.'

‘Sorry, yes, of course. So, what did she say? The detective?'

‘Sorry, I haven't got time to talk at the mo. Got to file some copy. They'll be doing another briefing later.'

Dan looked around for someone else to ask, but the pack had dispersed, returning to their cars to shelter from the rain. He swore again and jogged back to his own car.

The dashboard clock said it was coming up to nine. The late news was on air at half past ten. It was a fifteen-minute drive back to the studios and it would take at least twenty minutes to cut a report, if they really shifted. So he had to leave here by ten, at the very latest. He had an hour and he possessed no facts and an equal number of pictures.

Thunder rumbled around the sky.

It was not proving to be one of the better days in the life of Daniel Groves.

A thumping on the window startled him. The flattened distortion of a chubby, beaming face pressed up against the glass. The door opened and the soaking figure tumbled untidily in to the passenger seat. Such were the dramatic entrances of Ellis Hughes, the paparazzo known simply as Dirty El, a nickname he had worked hard to win and richly deserved. El's deviousness in pursuit of a lucrative picture was legendary.

‘Evening, Dan mate. Surprised to see you here. Is there some angle about the local wildlife being frightened off by the shooting then?'

Dan explained that he was now a former environment correspondent, but a serving crime reporter.

‘Yip, yip, yahoo!' El reached out a dripping hand and shook Dan's. ‘Welcome to the foul world of filth. You'll love it. Looks like we'll be working together plenty now then.'

They'd long been drinking buddies, El living just half a mile down the road from Dan, right in the city centre, but they seldom met on stories. The photographer wasn't interested in the cute and fluffy animal and countryside tales which were Dan's staple. The snaps that sold were the shockers, so where there was scandal, there was El.

Which could now be very useful indeed.

‘What do you know about what's happened then?' Dan asked.

El looked puzzled. ‘Didn't you get that briefing?'

‘No. I got here too late.'

‘Didn't you get a tip-off?'

‘No,' said Dan patiently.

‘So you don't know nothing?'

This time Dan didn't bother replying. El grabbed one of Dan's scarves from the back seatand started drying himself off. ‘You got to get up to speed mate,' he chuckled. ‘You're so way behind you're not even off the starting blocks. You're trying to race Formula One in a Robin Reliant.'

Dan freed the scarf from El's grip. It was his favourite. ‘So, what's happened?'

‘It's Bray, Dan mate. Big bad Edward Bray, the bastard businessman. He's got his comeuppance. Someone's potted him. Boom, boom, bye bye Bray! It's a corker of a story. Everyone's gonna want the piccies. El's bread's in the oven and it's baking beautifully! Gotta go, think I see the big boss cops coming.'

El was out of the car door and lumbering inelegantly back towards the cordon. Dan groaned, briefly closed his eyes, then followed.

Nigel had arrived and was getting the camera out of the boot. He spotted Dan heading for the cordon and followed.

‘What's going on?' the cameraman asked. ‘I just got this call saying scramble and that you'd meet me here. Someone said you were doing crime now.'

‘
We're
doing crime.'

‘Are we?'

‘Yep.'

‘So what's going on? What happened?'

Dan wasn't surprised to find he didn't want to talk about it. ‘I'll explain later. For now, we've got an hour and a bit to get something sensible together. Let's get on with it.'

The pack had gathered again and Nigel pushed his way through, Dan beside him, holding the microphone. Positioning was all in a media scrum. The closer you were to the front, the better your shot and the clearer the sound.

There was a little resistance from the other journalists, but not much. This briefing felt different from earlier. No longer a gaggle, now the hacks stood orderly and arranged, like a class of children facing a feared teacher.

They'd formed a neat semi-circle, and had left a respectful distance between themselves and the focus of their attention; a tall and lean man, with dark hair and a swarthy complexion. He wasn't wearing a coat, sheltered from the unrelenting rain by an umbrella the woman detective was holding above him. Despite the weather, he was dressed in a fine dark suit, clearly bespoke and expensive, and his shoes had somehow managed to evade the sticking mud and remain impeccable, even shining in the lights of the TV cameras.

El raised his cameraand loosed off a series of snaps. The man's eyes flicked to him, narrowing, and El dropped the camera and mumbled an apology.

‘Who is he?' Dan whispered.

‘Adam Breen. Greater Wessex's top detective. He does all the big cases. You know it's a singer and dancer of a story when he's about.'

The man finished scanning the hacks, nodded to himself, and spoke. His voice was strong, effortlessly dominating the noise of the downpour.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming here this evening. You'll appreciate enquiries are at an early stage, and so there's only a limited amount I can tell you. But what I can say is this. We were called here at six o'clock this evening, when we found a man's body. Paramedics confirmed he was dead. He had been shot at close range. I am assembling a team of detectives, and a major inquiry is getting underway. I would appeal to anyone who might have been passing here earlier, or thinks they know anything about what happened to get in touch. Thank you.'

A pause as the hacks finished their notes, and then came the questions.

‘Is it Edward Bray?'

‘I know some of you believe you are already aware who the victim is, but we are not confirming his or her name at the moment.'

‘What was the murder weapon?'

‘I can tell you it was a shotgun.'

‘Have you got any suspects?'

Adam Breen flicked at a piece of fluff which had attached itself to his sleeve. ‘Aside from the entirety of the human race, it's too early at the moment to have any suspects.'

‘Was the victim killed here?'

‘We believe so.'

‘And he died instantaneously?'

‘Yes, we think so. Now, are there any more questions?'

Dan was writing fast, taking down the details. It was some story. He thought fast, wondered if he had all the information he needed. He was now a crime correspondent, however unwitting and unwilling, and it was a matter of pride for a good hack to pose a smart, thoughtful and perceptive question at a news conference. Sometimes it was simply to get an answer, often just to show you were there and that you had the guts and nous to do it.

Maybe it was time to make his mark, to let the other hacks know a new boy was in town.

‘Err, Mr Breen?' Dan heard himself saying.

‘Yes?'

He had the man's attention. The camera whirred as Nigel zoomed in the shot for the close-up. The microphone was poised.

All was ready. It was time for the first question of his new job.

Better make it a good one. Sharp and slick. Professional and cool. Penetrating and evocative.

A question all the other journalists would envy.

The trumpet fanfare to herald the coming of a new age.

‘Do you think this was a …' Dan hesitated, wondered just what it was he was going to ask. But all eyes were on him. There was no stopping now.

‘… was this a – umm – a professional hit?'

There was an odd silence. The detective studied him, folded his arms. ‘A “professional hit”?'

‘Err, yes.'

A couple of chuckles rose from the pack. A radio reporter whispered something about the rebirth of Chicago in the 1930s. All the hacks, all the photographers were staring at Dan.

And all were grinning.

It may not have been quite the mark he intended to make.

‘No,' Adam Breen said finally, and his voice sounded wry. ‘I do not think this was a “professional hit”, as you so eloquently put it. In my experience, practiced assassins rarely lurk in forsaken lay-bys on rainy nights in the hope of finding their prey, nor do they use shotguns as their weapon of choice.'

The official television rule book says a reporter does his own little address to the eagerly watching world – a piece to camera – when a story suffers a scarcity of pictures and he has important information to impart. Or, sometimes, when he needs to look the viewer in the eye because he's analysing or assessing a situation to give his expert summary, or perhaps simply when he needs to show he's there, at the very centre of events.

The unofficial addendum says it's simply about vanity. And it was surely the moment to announce the arrival of
Wessex Tonight
's new Crime Correspondent.

If he was going to have to stand out in the rain to get a story he might as well reap some glory for it.

When Adam Breen had retreated from the pack, Dan told Nigel to keep recording and did his spiel. He waited for his friend to film the lay-by, the constables on sentry duty and the forensics officers coming and going then took the camera tape and drove back to the studios.

Jenny was on the late shift and waiting. ‘Two rush edits in the space of a few hours,' she noted. ‘You spoil me. And congratulations on the new job. I did warn you to watch out.'

It was a simple edit and they were finished by a quarter past ten. Dan started the report with pictures of the scene, talked about the discovery of a man's body and the police beginning a murder investigation. The only tricky editorial issue was whether to suggest the victim was Edward Bray, but as the police couldn't yet say whether his relatives had been told Dan had no trouble in deciding against it.

Ithad been drilled into Dan from the very start that one of the strongest rules of television, of all media in fact, is that bereaved people should never learn of their loss from a broadcast, newspaper or website report. If there is no good way to break bad news then there is a least worst method. That requires the input of sensitive humanity and certainly not the efforts of a hack.