by Simon Hall
Dan knew he didn’t want that. But did they spend enough time together to even consider a real, long-term relationship? She was busy with work, ambitious and talented, and his job kept him well occupied too. Could they compromise to make getting together on a more permanent basis worthwhile? The thoughts kept nagging, and he tried to put them aside, doubled his pace for a fast lap of the green.
The park was one of Plymouth’s highest points, dominating the surrounding districts of the city. Most of the houses were in darkness, only a little moonlight sliding off the newer slate roofs. Lines of white streetlights marked the main roads, just the odd car rumbling along, relieved to be home. All else was dark, quiet and still. There was a rustling in the hedgerow next to him, a cat probably, maybe a hungry hedgehog or prowling fox. Dan had seen them in the park before, kept the curious Rutherford well away from their steely predators’ teeth.
‘Come on my classy friend,’ he called to the dog, who was cocking his leg against a wall. ‘Time we went to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a very busy day.’
Chapter Three
DAN HAD BEEN ON holiday at the time of the last shooting; a week’s walking over the Two Moors Way with Rutherford. It was a fond memory, starting in south Dartmoor, finishing on the north Somerset coast in Exmoor. He’d stayed at a variety of old inns and bed and breakfasts, and had deliberately avoided buying a paper or listening to any news. It was a rejuvenating break from the intrusive, everyday world, just him, his beloved dog, pure air and peace.
Dan was polite to people who recognised him, doing his best not to flinch at the dreaded words – “Hey, you’re that bloke off the telly,” followed by the inevitable jabbing finger and, “What you should be covering is …”, or, “What you don’t appreciate is …” and he’d managed to evade their attempts to entice him into reporting whatever painfully parochial controversy was enraging the local community. He’d heard about the shooting when he got back, but hadn’t looked at in detail, hadn’t needed to.
It was just after eight, and he was sitting in the studios’ News Library, the tape of the reports from five months ago ready to play. He’d slept surprisingly well last night and promised himself that an evening run with Rutherford would become a feature of those days when he needed to relieve some stress and empty his mind.
It was a healthier option than the usual beer. Claire had had a few words to say about his alcohol intake and Dan had surprised himself by taking notice. It was, he thought, one of the first times he’d realised how much he cared for her.
The first report began with night-time pictures of a street in Bodmin, police tape fluttering, a constable on sentry duty. A man had been shot dead in his own home by a police marksman, the commentary said. The timing was similar to last night, just after nine o’clock. The implication was there had been a violent row between the man and his partner, which had escalated. Details then became sketchy, but a neighbour was quoted as saying the man had a knife and the woman was screaming. There’d been similar instances in the past. He’d seen the police arrive and then break down the door, claiming to have heard two shots.
Dan hit the stop button and sat back. It could have been a replay of last night’s shooting. No wonder the police thought it suspicious.
The next report came from the day after. It said the Independent Police Complaints Authority had arrived to carry out an investigation, something that was required by law. A dark-suited IPCA spokesman told the camera it would be thorough, rigorous and impartial. There was another interview with a neighbour who said the couple often had noisy rows, but that the man had been friendly enough when they’d passed in the street.
The most striking sequence was a couple of shots of a woman who the commentary identified as the dead man’s sister. She was crying outside the house and managed a few sobbing words to the pack of reporters besieging her. Her brother might have had a temper, she said, but he was a good man who hadn’t deserved to be shot.
Dan rewound the tape and looked back on the report. He didn’t get the same sense of urgency he’d felt at last night’s shooting. Five months ago, the IPCA arrived the day after. It felt like a routine investigation, begun because the law demanded it. The marksman would be exonerated and that would be it, case closed. Last night felt very different.
There were a couple of other brief mentions of the story in the log, the man’s funeral being held and an inquest opened and adjourned, to resume after the conclusion of the IPCA investigation. The dead man had been named as Keith Williams, 43 years old, a mechanic in a Bodmin garage. A photograph, passport style, accompanied the funeral report. He had dark hair, a shadow of beard, looked chubby, a slightly crooked nose.
Dan stared into the man’s face, wondered what he could have done to make himself the target for a police marksman. Could they have known each other, Keith Williams and the mystery police officer? Could the marksman also have known last night’s victim? Was there some link between the three of them? Or was there nothing to connect them at all, just two random strangers who happened to cross the path of a trigger-happy policeman?
He checked himself. What was he talking about? Where was his sacred journalistic neutrality? They didn’t even yet know if a crime had been committed. They might find the marksman had done his duty, saved two women from being killed or seriously injured.
Dan couldn’t help but suspect not. It just didn’t feel right. He knew he was anticipating the story of the rogue police killer. It was a reporter’s dream. He ejected the tape, placed it back on the library shelf and headed down to the car park.
Whiting’s manner hadn’t improved. The night’s rest appeared only to have refreshed his talent for being patronising.
‘I have a little more to tell you,’ he said loftily to the reassembled press pack, standing once again in a semi-circle by the cordon. ‘It is part of my duty, after all, to keep the ladies and gentlemen of the media informed.’
As Dan had expected, there were the same faces as the previous night and a few new ones too. Journalists tended to be vain creatures and didn’t like to let go of the glory of a big story. No sign of El, though. He must be working on his self-imposed mission, that or celebrating the success of the pictures he’d taken. Dan had flicked through the papers while he was in the office and seen El’s snaps in several.
Haven Close was quieter now. The new morning had broken the night-time’s lines of cars, many carrying their owners off to the daily ritual of work. It was remarkable how quickly normality returned. The ghouls had devoured their rich fill of the spectacle and were no doubt disgorging the gossip, far and wide.
A weak autumn sun was rising in the sky, doing its best to warm the land. At least it wasn’t as cold as last night. Dan had slept in a strange, contorted Z shape to try to ease the ache in his back. It had just about worked, but he was still making a point of standing up straight and not slouching.
‘Our investigations are well under way and proceeding smoothly,’ Whiting continued, his face set in that strange, smirking half-smile. ‘Forensics tests on the house are complete. We believe we have now established exactly where the two police marksmen trod last night. We also know precisely from where the fatal shots were fired. We are not yet in a position to release the dead man’s name as not all of his family have been contacted. We have not interviewed the woman who was in the house when the man was shot. She remains very upset, and we will progress that line of inquiry sensitively. We have also not yet interviewed the marksman who fired the fatal shots.’ His eyes flicked over the pack. ‘That is all I have to tell you for now, although I will hold another briefing here at five o’clock. Do you have any questions?’
‘Are you happy having Greater Wessex Police officers working on this inquiry?’ asked a young woman. ‘Isn’t there a conflict of interests there?’
‘I have full confidence in everyone on the investigation,’ said Whiting smoothly, but Dan thought his voice had risen, grown more sibilant. ‘Rest assured, young lady, I will get to the tru
th of what happened here.’
‘Can we have access to outside the house to do some filming?’ asked Dan.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s an investigation scene. I have to preserve it.’
Dan felt his temper bubble. ‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘I’m not asking to go into the house. I can understand why that’s off limits. But why can’t we just stand on the street outside and get some pictures?’
‘Because, as I clearly stated, it is an investigation scene.’
‘What, the street outside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Surely not.’
‘I assure you it is.’
‘But it’s not in dispute that the officers drove to the street, parked up, then went to the door, is it? All that’s important to your investigation happened inside the house. I can’t see any reason why we can’t get some pictures of its outside from the street.’
There were a couple of murmurs of support from the other hacks. Whiting hadn’t made any allies with the way he was treating them.
‘Quite apart from the investigation,’ he hissed, ‘I also have to consider whether the media coverage might be intrusive and upsetting for the family of the dead man.’
‘Which is an entirely different argument from the one you were just using,’ snapped Dan. ‘Is it your investigation, or the coverage which is keeping us from the house? And if it’s the media, isn’t it a matter for us to decide what we report? It’s nothing to do with you, is it? Not unless we’ve suddenly become a totalitarian state, which I don’t think we have.’
Whiting studied him, his lips parting to reveal those tiny teeth.
‘I have made my decision and I am not prepared to discuss it further. Some members of the media have already breached the bounds of good taste by apparently climbing onto a nearby roof to get pictures of the house. I find that distasteful and a sign of all that is wrong with modern so-called “journalism”. There will be another briefing at five o’clock.’
He turned and paced his upright stride back towards the house, leaving a host of uncomplimentary muttering in the pack. Hacks began phoning the fresh information into their newsrooms. With a big story like this, the ravenous beast of news demanded continual feeding.
‘Pompous arse,’ grumbled Pete, the local Western Daily News reporter. ‘Do you think he was talking about the News? We used that shot El got on the front page this morning.’
‘Snap,’ Dan replied. ‘I thought he was talking about me. We used some high shots too. Ah, let him think what he wants. It’s up to us what we use.’
‘What’s the plan now then?’ asked Nigel, taking the camera off its tripod. ‘When you gentlemen have finished whingeing.’
‘We’re here all day,’ replied Dan. ‘We’ve got to cut a report for the lunchtime news, and do a live bit, then the same this evening for Wessex Tonight.’
Dan’s mobile rang. Adam, and sounding amused. ‘You’ve met the Assassin then?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because he just came back here to the house fuming about some jumped-up idiot of a TV reporter. I asked what the guy looked like, and the description sounded familiar.’
‘He was the one being an idiot, trying to tell us how to do our jobs.’
‘Funny, that’s exactly what he said about you. That and also that you had no idea about duty. He’s got a thing about duty.’
Nigel was nudging hard at his arm, pointing up the street. A blue people-carrier with several people inside had pulled up, another car behind, the door opening, the driver getting out and staring towards them. Dan nodded, held up a finger to indicate he’d only be a minute.
‘Adam, got to go in a sec, but tell me something first. You don’t seem at all keen to help this guy. What’s going on?’
‘Oh, I’m helping him,’ replied Adam, carefully. ‘I’m doing just exactly what he asks. The High Honchos have assigned me to his investigation and I’m doing what he wants. Nothing more, and nothing less.’
‘So not exactly busting a gut? Not getting stuck in there, being your usual scrupulous, dynamic self?’
‘You might think that.’
‘Why?’
‘Well two things. One, I’ve had a look at the circumstances of this shooting, and the previous one. I can’t see anything immediately suspicious. So I wonder why we’re hounding some guy who’s brave enough to carry a gun in the service of his country and use it when it’s needed to protect the public. It’s not easy for these firearms officers, you know. They’re the frontline when there’s danger. They never know what they’re going to be confronted with and what action they’ll have to take. I tried it out when I was in uniform, but it was too much for me and I jacked it in. It’s bloody stressful and sometimes just downright frightening.’
Adam paused, and Dan heard footsteps and a rustling on the line. ‘Sorry, just needed to get a bit further from the house there,’ he said. ‘Don’t want any stray ears on this. And on the subject of the investigation, you’d be wise to be prepared for some action later. This is strictly not from me, as ever, but perhaps having a camera crew in the
Higher Colliford Road
area of Plymouth would be wise.’ Dan scribbled a note on his pad, knew better than to ask for more information. Nigel was nudging him insistently, pointing down the road again. A middle-aged woman was in streams of tears, being supported by two men and another woman.
‘Adam, I’ve got to go, but you said there were two reasons for not being keen to help Whiting. What was the other?’
‘Murky,’ came the reply. ‘Very murky. I’ll tell you more when we next meet.’
It was still cold to touch, but the hours free from the deep freeze had been enough to thaw it. The skin felt like plastic, giving under his fingers but then slowly reasserting its shape. The bristles were still hard and stiff and scratched against his hand as he ran it over the forehead. The eyes were closed, screwed shut, as though the creature had known its fate and wanted to shut it out, find some escape. The blood of the severed neck was dry, hard, smooth, it flaked a little as he probed it.
He took the small notepad and pen from the table, put them into his pocket. Important those, silence was vital, he couldn’t risk a word. Not at this stage. But she would still have to know what it was he wanted. It was almost comical, committing a crime where you had to write down your demands. But they wouldn’t be laughing when he’d finished. Quite the reverse. He picked up the stocking too, put in into his other pocket.
He checked the address one last time, but he knew exactly where he was going. He’d carried out the reconnaissance of all his targets thoroughly. That was one of the first things the army drilled into you. Plan well. Be prepared.
Only the letter now remained, lying on the table, neatly addressed. The white envelope was pristine and he wouldn’t fold it. It was too important. It would be delivered as it was now, in immaculate order. He liked the touch of politeness he’d added, too. It showed a certain class, befitting his beautiful plan. Not just “Dan Groves”, or “Groves, Wessex Tonight reporter”, nothing so crass.
Mr Daniel Groves,
Wessex Tonight,
Crime Correspondent,
And Pig Lover.
He stared at the letter, then turned slowly to the frieze which covered the wall. It was filled with images of Dan, lines of his posed publicity shots from Wessex Tonight, the awkwardness of the forced smile forming its boundaries. Inside was stuffed with a tumble of images, enlarged and photocopied cut-outs of his head, fading articles from newspapers about the cases he’d worked on, a couple accompanied by pictures of Dan kneeling beside Rutherford, the dog’s tongue hanging out as he panted at the camera.
The cutting at the frieze’s centre was from the Daily Bulletin, a full-page splash, detailing how Dan had solved the riddle of the Death Pictures.
‘Let’s see if you’re as good with my little puzzles,’ he muttered to the article. ‘I hope you are. Because the stak
es are going to be so very much higher this time.’
He picked up another photograph from the battered old table, the final touch to the masterpiece of artwork, the pride of his collection. It showed Dan bending down, talking to a party of primary school children, their engrossed faces all rapt in attention. He’d taken the picture himself, when he’d visited the Devon County Show to meet the unknowing star of his planned spectacular doing his reluctant publicity work on the Wessex Tonight stand.
He’d even had a brief chat, nothing more than “Good morning, and keep up the fine work”, and shaken hands, struggling to contain his bubbling rapture at the knowledge of what was to come. That had been months ago, and since then he’d wondered so many times if his beautiful plan would ever really come to fruition. But now, at last, it was time.
He paused, then added the photograph to the last corner of the frieze, nodded knowingly and smiled, as if at an old friend.
They both had so much to look forward to in the coming days.
Detective Sergeant Claire Reynolds thought it was the tamest raid she’d ever led. No smashing down of doors with sledgehammers, no sweaty, constricting body armour, no running in and shouting, no desperate struggles with drug-ridden suspects in the semi darkness of paint-peeling kitchens. Just a key in a well-oiled lock and a gentle walk into a pleasantly decorated hallway.
Martin Crouch’s home was classic Plymouth suburbia; semi-detached, two bedrooms, probably dating from around 1900. It was well maintained, better than her flat, certainly. The house was a lemon yellow; the guttering a newly painted black to match the front door and wrought-iron gate. The border of roses in the garden was tidily clipped, the lawn even and smooth.
Inside was similarly ordered, a little beige carpeted hallway with a couple of photos of a young woman, a small lounge with a comfortable-looking burgundy three-seater sofa and matching armchair, a standard lamp to the side. Both faced onto a wide screen television with satellite system. A magazine on the square wooden coffee table was open on the week’s football fixtures, a couple of games circled in black ink.