by Simon Hall
‘Yes,’ she whispered, and he dabbed at her face with his handkerchief again.
‘That’s better. You look much prettier without those tears. And have you guessed how our adventure is going to end?’
She angled her head again, managed a small, gappy smile. ‘Is it a pony?’
He smiled back, couldn’t help himself. ‘It might be. But you know I can’t tell you yet. It’s a surprise.’
‘Is it a Dartmoor pony?’
‘It might be. But I can’t tell you any more. I shouldn’t have said what I did, but you’re naughty, you know how to make me talk. It’s a surprise. But if it was a Dartmoor pony, have you thought about names yet?’
‘Yes. I like Brandy, but it depends what colour he is.’
‘I thought you wanted a black and white one?’
‘I think I might like brown now. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.’
He smiled at her again. ‘Well, we’ll have to see what’s about when we go looking. Are you hungry?’
‘No.’ She shook her head, the tail of hair bouncing behind her. ‘Are we staying here tonight?’
‘Yes. Tonight and tomorrow probably. It’s all part of our big adventure for your birthday. We’ll stay in here for a while, then when it’s the right time we’ll go out looking for your surprise.’
‘And find Mummy?’
‘Yes, we’ll find her then. Don’t worry, everything’s going to be all right. Just remember to be quiet and do as I tell you and everything will be all right. We’ll find Mummy and we’ll get your surprise. It’s all a big adventure … the biggest adventure you’ve ever had.’
Chapter Fifteen
CLAIRE GOT TO CHARLES Cross just after eight o’clock on Tuesday morning. She’d slept well and felt refreshed, decided to make the most of the fine weather and walked in. It was something she should do more often, she thought. A bit of exercise got the blood pumping around your brain. It relaxed you before the onslaught of the day and softened the stresses of work.
Dan had often said she should come for a run with him and Rutherford in the morning, but she’d always preferred the seductive warmth of her bed. Maybe she’d take him up on it, see how it went. That way, at least they’d get the chance to see each other more regularly.
First, there was the marksman investigation to think about. Was there the hope of some progress now? Did she have a new lead? She might have. She wouldn’t go further than might at the moment, it was a bit far-fetched after all, but it was possible. The response to her emails had been intriguing. It would be interesting to see what Whiting thought.
The automatic door slid open and she walked in to the front office, all hard grey stone and plate glass. It had to be that way for some of the guests the police entertained. When she’d been in uniform she’d once helped restrain a man who’d been smashing at the glass with a baseball bat. It’d taken eight of them to stop him. The baton gun they’d tried had no effect, the rounds just bouncing off his body, his nervous system not even registering them. He’d been addled with drugs, frighteningly wild.
She cheerily said good morning to the desk sergeant, who told her Whiting wanted to see her immediately she arrived. ‘Immediately,’ he said, ‘the very moment you get in, were his words.’ She felt the warmth of her mood wane.
Claire took the lift up the stairs and knocked on the door of his office. He looked up and beckoned her in. There was a pile of newspapers on his desk.
‘Sit down,’ he hissed, pushing the papers across to her, upsetting the small pile of carefully stacked coins. ‘Would you care to explain this?’
Puzzled, she sat down and picked up a paper, the Western Daily News. On the front was a banner headline, white on black; “Revealed; The Killer Police Marksman”. Beneath the headline was a picture of Martin Crouch. The story accompanying it was thin, just a recap on the two shootings, their similarities and the fact that the Independent Police Complaints Authority were investigating.
The editor had added a few lines of opinion to give the splash more spice. “The police wanted to keep the man’s name a secret, but we believe in public accountability, particularly in cases as serious as the shooting dead of two men. That’s why we publish PC Crouch’s picture today. Rest assured, it is not a decision we took lightly.”
Claire picked up another paper, the Daily Globe. Its headline was “The Killer Cop”. There was another small story about the investigation. She was about to go through the other papers when a hiss interrupted her.
‘They’re all the same. All the same picture.’
Claire looked up at Whiting. He was leaning forward menacingly across the desk, the top of his head shining under the strip light. ‘And what do you have to say about that Claire?’
‘I don’t understand. I don’t see what this has to do with me.’
‘Tut tut, Claire. Tut tut. Whatever you may have heard about me, whatever some of your colleagues here may say, one thing I am not is naive.’
She felt a swirl in her stomach as realisation spread. ‘You’re saying you think I had something to do with this?’
‘That,’ he said, leaning back but his eyes still flicking over her, ‘will be a matter for the investigation to decide. All I am saying is you knew his name, you were in a privileged position in this inquiry, and you have the …’ he paused, slowed his voice, ‘… the contacts to make something like this happen.’
Claire was stunned, couldn’t find the words. Those narrow eyes stared at her. A sudden anger burst through the numbness.
‘How dare you?’ she spat. ‘How dare you? I am a loyal and dedicated police officer without a blemish on my record. How dare you accuse me of leaking details of an investigation because of my private life? How dare you!’
She jumped up from her chair, grabbed for the door. ‘I intend to report you for what you’ve said here. I’m going to find the most senior officer I can now, and I shall call in the Police Federation too …’
‘You don’t have to report me,’ Whiting said smoothly. ‘I am suspending you. I will notify the appropriate senior officers in due course. You will be subject to a formal disciplinary investigation. Now you will go home and not return until you are called. You are forbidden from contacting any other police officers, pending the investigation.’
A brief pause, a more sarcastic tone. ‘I suggest you keep away from journalists too. You may leave.’
Dan sat in the corner of the newsroom, his shoe and sock on the floor. He’d folded the sock over to hide the inch-wide hole in the toe. It was time he did some clothes shopping.
Ali, one of the office first-aiders was carefully wrapping a bandage around his ankle. It didn’t seem to have stopped the throbbing, but it might give some support and prevent it getting any worse. He’d promised her if it didn’t feel better in a couple of days he would go to the doctor. Fat chance, Dan thought. He hated doctors and anyway what spare time did he have with Nicola still missing? A bandage would have to do.
It was curiously relaxing, having someone tending to you like this. It reminded him of his early days at school, in the nurse’s office with yet another grazed knee. He was always skinning his knees chasing a football around the playground. The stinging antiseptic wipe of the wound, the soothing white cream, the reassuring words. He didn’t mind a bit of attention, so long as he wasn’t too badly injured. What man did?
His mobile warbled and he answered it, whispering an apology to Ali. Claire.
‘Hello, how are you doing?’ he asked, a little concerned. She never called him in the daytime. ‘Still busy on the case?’ He paused. ‘You’re what? He’s done what? The bastard! He can’t do that, of course he can’t. Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out. I’ll find out who got the picture, but I think I’ve got a pretty good idea already.’
Dan pulled on his sock and shoe, thanked Ali and hobbled to his desk. Lizzie wasn’t about yet, but she’d be here in a few minutes. She wouldn’t take kindly to him working on anything other than the Nicola case. That didn
’t give him much time, but it should be enough.
He took a couple of newspapers out of the rack, scanned through them. There was the marksman’s photo, just as Claire had said. The credit by the side of the picture read Ellis Hughes. Exactly as he suspected. He called El’s number.
‘Hello?’ said a sleepy voice.
‘Been out celebrating?’ asked Dan angrily.
‘Oh, hi, Dan. No, mate, not celebrating. I was busy negotiating with all the papers last night. It kept me up late. I got the name and a snap of the marksman you see.’
‘Yes, I’d noticed that. It’s caused real ructions.’
El yawned loudly. ‘Thought it might.’
‘How’d you get it?’
‘Between us?’
‘Of course.’
‘I took a part time job in the cops’ club at Charles Cross doing bar work. I reckoned he would come in with some police mates at some point. That was why I had me hair cut and coloured, so they wouldn’t recognise me. Well, last night he came in with a couple of others for a drink. I knew it was him because I was keeping an ear on all the gossip in the room and his mates were chatting to him about it. They were giving him a pep talk.’
‘And you snapped him?’
‘Yeah. It wasn’t easy though. I had to hide the camera in the storeroom and get the picture through a little crack in the door so they wouldn’t notice. They’d have confiscated the camera if they knew. I kept the shot really tight, just his head, so there wouldn’t be any background for them to work out where it was taken. Not that it matters now. I’ve got the snap and quit the job. But I didn’t want them coming after me with some trumped-up charge. You know what they’re like.’
‘And how’d you get his name?’
‘That was the dodgy bit. I thought they might suss me then, but I think I got away with it.’
‘What did you do?’
‘There were only a few people in the club, so I started with some others and just went around saying I’d been told by the club secretary to check membership cards were up to date. Being cops, they could hardly refuse. Crouch got his out without so much as a whisper. So bingo! One snap, one name, and El hits the jackpot.’
The phone buzzed with a few bars of tuneless warble, followed by the inevitable limerick.
‘It made quite a splash,
And raked in the cash,
So now El is flush,
He’s feeling lush,
And offering you a good beer bash!’
Dan didn’t bother trying to interrupt, felt his anger calming. He could hardly blame El for doing his job and his creativity and persistence were impressive. Plus, it was partly Dan’s suggestion which had led to the paparazzo going after Crouch. And if his interpretation of El’s awful limerick was correct, he was being offered a free night out on the proceeds.
‘OK, mate, but just one thing,’ he said, more calmly. ‘If anyone asks you how you got it, you’d be able to tell them categorically it was nothing to do with me? You don’t have to say how you did, just that I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ El sounded puzzled. ‘That’s no problem. It’s even true. But why?’
‘It’s just that I’m working with the cops on this Nicola case, and I need them to trust me. So if a detective calls to ask you about it, you can tell him I was nothing to do with it?’
‘Sure.’
‘OK mate, thanks for that. I’ll let you get back to sleep then.’
‘I’d better get up,’ said El through another yawn. ‘I want to get down to court. There’s a bigamy case the tabloids might fancy. Guy married four women apparently, and none of them knew about the others. The redtops love stuff like that. Dunno how he does it. I can’t pull one. Maybe he’s got my share.’
Dan tried not to smile. He was about to hang up when he saw Lizzie striding through the swing-doors of the newsroom. Her eyes fixed on him and she immediately headed over. Her heels were high today, four inches he reckoned, a sure sign of danger. It wouldn’t hurt for her to overhear this.
‘Oh El, just one more thing,’ he said, over loudly. ‘We’ll want to use the picture on the programme tonight. How much?’
‘Well mate, I was flogging it to the nationals for a couple of grand a time. I can do you a discount as a pal, but a man’s got to make a living, and …’
‘Right,’ Dan interjected. ‘Well, I’ll ask again, but this time you might bear in mind the help I gave you in finding the mystery woman in the Death Pictures riddle and the wonderful American holiday that paid for. That, and having an in to the police hunt for Nicola, something which might provide you with lucrative tip-offs if – and only if – I’m in the right frame of mind to do so.’
‘Point taken mate,’ chirped El. ‘It’s always useful to have a friend in the know. You can have the Crouch snap on me.’
Dan felt the shadow over him. ‘Morning boss,’ he said, still staring at his computer screen. He typed a couple of words as though sending an email to the newsroom, telling them they could use Crouch’s picture for free.
‘Morning,’ she said suspiciously. ‘What are you up to?’
He looked up and tried for a hurt expression but his face just wasn’t built for it. ‘I’ve come in to do some early work on the Nicola case.’
Dan pointed to the papers and Crouch’s picture. ‘I saw this and as I had the contacts, I thought I’d make sure we got the snap. It’s ours, and no charge either.’
‘Good,’ she said, a stiletto grinding into the carpet. ‘I’ll take a report on it. We’ll put another hack on the case. Not you. You,’ she added quickly, jabbing a sharpened fingernail at him, ‘back on the Nicola story. I want more. I want lots, lots more. I want every detail. I want every nuance. I want every twist and turn. I want wall-to-wall, and day-to-day. OK?’
Dan hid a sigh, picked up his satchel and hobbled towards the doors.
A crowd of thirty detectives and uniformed officers had gathered in the Major Incident Room – or MIR, in police-speak – at Charles Cross for the morning’s briefing. Some had come back from leave or given up rest days to join the search for Nicola. There was a great pride in that, thought Adam. The abduction of a child was unique in bringing police, the community, even the media together. He could feel the edge in the atmosphere, didn’t like to think what would happen to Gibson if he even hinted at resisting arrest.
Assistant Chief Constable Alan Hawes stood at the back of the room, keeping as low a profile as he could. But everyone knew he was there, had cleared a circle around him. A case like this would always have the High Honchos hovering close behind. They’d had a brief chat earlier.
‘Don’t want to get in your way old chap,’ he’d said, in his ex-army officer way. ‘Just carry on as you would normally. You’re one of our top detectives and we trust you to do things your way and get a result. I’m only here to help, if you need more resources, that sort of thing. It makes sense if I’m on the ground, to authorise it straight away.’
The man had almost been convincing. But the High Honchos had heard about Gibson’s security guard stunt, of course. Were they wondering if he was still up to the job of finding Nicola? Keeping an eye on him? Preparing to replace him if he didn’t get a result quickly?
It was another pressure he could do without and he pushed the thought aside. Finding Nicola, he had to concentrate on that and that alone.
A tactical firearms commander was here too, chatting with a couple of the force’s top marksmen. They’d been brought in from a course they were leading and might well be needed. They knew Gibson had a gun and could easily use Nicola as a hostage.
His treasured green felt boards had been set out at the front of the room, all five of them. No matter how much of modern policing became reliant on computers, he would always believe that the only way to feel the vital connections in a case was to see them in front of you, the links between the players physically made real.
Some other detectives thought it was a quirk, a weakness even, bu
t he never doubted its importance. It kept the team focused on who they were hunting and why. It was effectively a mission statement, set out in front of them.
In the centre of the boards was a picture of Gibson, just head and shoulders, the one he’d used in his application for the Security Guard job. Adam stared at it, couldn’t help but think the man was smirking at him.
Next to Gibson was a photograph of Nicola. Around the two were postcard-sized notes headlining the various avenues of the inquiry. When one became a positive lead it would move and take the far left board for itself, ready for the other strands of that part of the investigation to gather around it. So far, the board was blank. He needed to fill it, and fast.
‘OK, folk, settle down please. We’ve got a lot to get through and time’s against us.’ What could he tell them? What leads did they have? Not many was the diplomatic answer. Just about none would be more honest.
‘Here’s how things stand. We haven’t found Gibson’s car yet. It’s a vital element of the inquiry and we need to. That’s out priority today. It’ll give us the first hint where he’s gone. There was no CCTV near where he lifted Nicola, and the A 38 is just a couple of minutes away. That’s a motorway standard road. He had a head start on us of about an hour, so he could be up to 70 miles away.’
Adam pointed to a map on the wall. ‘That puts him anywhere from halfway into Cornwall, right up to the eastern edge of Devon. He can’t be further. The automatic number plate recognition system would have clocked him as soon as the alert went out. So at least we’ve got a defined area to concentrate on. We’re going through the cameras on all the main roads, but so far we don’t have an indication of where he might have gone.’ He paused, emphasised the words. ‘We need to find that car. It’ll give us our best clue.’
A young woman detective at the front put up a hand. ‘Yes, Gill?’ asked Adam.
‘Is there no hint at all of where he might have gone, sir?’