The TV Detective

by Simon Hall

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘Blimey what?’

  ‘Well, you accused me of being a bit crime fiction earlier. That sounds way off the radar. I thought she was genuinely upset.’

  Adam nodded. ‘OK, for what it’s worth, that was my feeling too. But this is an illustration for you, and another important lesson. Get used to being lied to. Believe no one. Suspect everything and everyone. It’s a cop’s way.’

  ‘Nice. How lovely and cheery.’

  ‘You wanted to know about police work. That’s the way it goes. It’s a world of deceit.’

  The door of the offices opened and a couple of young men walked out, lighting up cigarettes.

  ‘Right,’ Adam said. ‘So, in a word, what was the main point to come out of that interview?’

  ‘The meeting.’

  ‘That’s two words, but yes, spot on. The cancelled meeting. If what Penelope told us is true – and we’ll check the incoming calls to the company, but I bet we get another untraceable pay as you go mobile – then whoever killed Edward Bray planned to do it the week before, but called if off. And so – why might he, or she, do that?’

  Dan tapped a finger on the steering wheel. ‘He got cold feet? Something else came up which meant he couldn’t make it? Maybe an illness, something like that. Or perhaps the gun didn’t arrive in time. Any one of a load of possible reasons.’

  ‘Exactly. But find that reason and …’

  ‘You’ve got your murderer.’

  ‘Absolutely. So, we have an important clue. Now let’s go talk to some of the other possible suspects, see what they were doing the Monday before Bray was killed and whether they might have had reason to cancel any appointments.’

  Dan started the carand was about to put it into gear when Adam’s radio burbled.

  ‘Emergency! Back up required! Emergency!’

  It was a call to all available officers to head for Millbay. The man who was attacking prostitutes had struck again, but this time he’d been spotted as he tried to escape. Police officers were giving chase, and needed help to corner him.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Adam snapped. ‘Go!’

  Chapter Seven

  DAN CRUNCHED THE GEARS and squealed the car out onto the road, accelerating hard. It was like being a boy racer again. He looked over at Adam, expecting a reproach, but received only an approving nod. The detective had his radio clamped to his ear, monitoring the chase.

  ‘Keep going, don’t hang around,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to miss the fun.’

  He relayed the story of what had happened. There were few prostitutes on the streets now after the attacks and the man had gone to a massage parlour. The women, already jittery enough, were suspicious. They’d shut the door in his face, but he’d been quick and strong, jammed it open with a foot and slashed at one woman with a knife. She’d suffered a couple of defensive wounds on her hand and arm, but wasn’t seriously injured.

  Upstairs, another of the women called 999 and a passing patrol was scrambled. They’d spotted the man running away, chased him along a couple of streets and alleys, but then lost him. The cops were sure he was still in the area and wanted back up to help flush him out.

  Dan took the turn into Millbayand found a patrol car barring his way. He pulled up. Adam hopped out, had a quick word with the officer who was on sentry duty and beckoned to Dan.

  ‘They reckon he’s down here somewhere. We’ve got him boxed in. Come on, let’s go hunting.’

  Dan hesitated. ‘Come on,’ Adam snapped. ‘There’s no time to waste.’

  The description of the man they were hunting danced before Dan’s eyes. About six feet two, powerfully built and carrying a long and vicious knife, which he wasn’t afraid to use.

  Around them, police vans were pulling up and cops were assembling. All were wearing body armour and stab vests, some protective helmets too.

  Dan and Adam were wearing suits. Standard, soft cotton suits.

  ‘Err,’ Dan began. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘You not feeling up to a little sport?’

  ‘Well … I am a hack, not a cop.’

  ‘You wanted to see police work in action. This is it. The real thing. Either follow me now, or get the other side of that cordon.’

  Dan’s throat felt very dry. ‘OK,’ he managed, and jogged after Adam.

  Drizzle was drifting from the sky, clammy and cold. They were in one of the older areas of the city. The terraced houses backed onto cobbled alleys. The place was thick with passages, gardens, lock-up garages and sheds. A thousand places to hide.

  Dan found himself thinking– you could walk past the man without ever knowing he was there. The first you’d realise was the white hot pain of the knife between your shoulder blades. And then the darkness of enveloping death.

  He started shivering.

  Adam was a few paces ahead, scanning back and forth. He was half crouched, moving slowly, stealthily. A couple of large green wheelie bins were pushed back against the wall. The detective edged towards them, then sprung forwards.

  Nothing.

  ‘All clear here,’ he said, cheerily.

  Dan didn’t move.

  ‘You can walk on now,’ Adam added, pointedly. ‘It’s safe. Come on.’

  A couple of cops jogged along the alley. Adam held a brief conversation, directed them up a passage to the left.

  ‘I’ll go straight on,’ he said. ‘Dan, you take the passage on the right.’

  The words felt like an assault.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘Up there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That little passage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Adam replied, patiently. ‘Just scream if you see anything.’

  ‘I will,’ Dan replied, with feeling. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  The passage was narrow, just wide enough for two people walking side by side. Every few yards there were wooden gates, leading into back gardens. The stone paving was full of moss and slippery with the drizzle.

  Dan took a step forwards, trying to tread as gently as he possibly could. The area sounded unnaturally quiet. The police must have sealed it off, stopping all the traffic.

  In this few hundred square metres was a posse of police officers, in full protective gear, with batons, CS gas, taser stun guns, firearms and a desperate knifeman.

  Not to mention Dan Groves, TV reporter, a man who had never faced a violent confrontation in his life, who was armed only with a notebook and pen, and protected solely by a cheap suit.

  He couldn’t have felt more out of his depth if he’d been treading water in the mid Pacific.

  In the distance, a siren squealed. Dan spun around, screwed up his eyes. There was nothing behind him.

  Ahead was a couple of piles of rubbish, some cardboard, some wood, a line of bins. And all these gates. Behind any of which could be …

  He stopped the thought before it grew.

  His heart was thumping hard.

  Dan’s mobile rang. He jumped at the sudden sound, fumbled for it. Lizzie.

  ‘Have you got me a story yet?’ she barked.

  ‘I was just about to call you,’ he lied.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’

  ‘I’m with the cops. They reckon they’ve got the guy who’s attacking prostitutes cornered. In Millbay. Can you get Nigel down here, and fast?’

  She hung up without answering. Dan suspected he could take that as a yes. He switched his phone to silentand checked around. There was no sign of anyone.

  He took a pace forwards, then another. Ahead, on the left, was the first gate. It was brown, chipped and covered with mildew. Tentatively, Dan reached out, then pushed at the handle.

  It was securely locked.

  He almost smiled.

  The brick walls on either side were too high to climb, and many were topped by barbed wire, or inset with shards of glass. If the man was here, he
must have gone through one of the gates, or be hiding behind the rubbish or bins.

  Dan stepped gingerly on.

  Another gate, also firmly locked. And another.

  Overhead, a seagull screamed, making him flinch.

  Another gate, blue this time, a white number nine painted neatly on it. He tested the handle.

  The gate swung slowly open.

  Dan gulped, then carefully poked his head into the garden. A children’s slide. A rockery. A tiny lawn. No crazed knifeman.

  Quietly, he closed the gate again. Feet thudded along the end of the alley. Dan spun around. It was a couple of cops, jogging past.

  It was an effort to stop himself running after them.

  Ahead was the pile of rubbish and bins. He took a pace forwards, then another, then hesitated. On the ground was a lump of wood. Dan picked it up and brandished it in front of him.

  The drizzle chose that moment to develop into a light rain.

  Dan poked at the rubbish with his makeshift club. Some soggy and faded carpet. A pile of hardcore. An old television. A few bottles.

  Now a movement. Behind the bins. A blur of colour. Shifting fast. Dan raised the club, readied himself to strike.

  Tried to aim at the knife he knew would be flashing towards his heart.

  The sharp steel which would pierce skin and muscle and bone in an instant.

  A cat scuttled out, ran off down the alley.

  Dan slumped back against the walland tried to force himself to breathe evenly.

  ‘Hey!’

  The shout shocked him. The club was in the air again, ready.

  It was Adam, peering around the corner of the alley, accompanied by a couple of cops in full riot gear. All three were grinning broadly.

  ‘You didn’t really think I’d let you go hunting a knifeman on your own, did you?’ Adam said. ‘This area’s been searched. I just wanted to see if you were up to it. Come on, we reckon we know where he is now.’

  Dan heard himself growl.

  It was an alley very similar to the one they’d just checked. A couple of cars, some piles of rubbish, a line of garages, a few gates. At each end were lines of police officers.

  The rain was coming in harder now, cold and forceful in their faces, beating on the street and the vans. Dan pulled his jacket closer around his chest. At the far end of the alley he could see Nigel, filming from behind the police cordon.

  ‘Anything to do with you, that, by any chance?’ Adam asked. ‘Or just a happy coincidence?’

  ‘You can’t expect to mount a sizeable operation like this in the middle of a city without someone noticing,’ Dan replied, as neutrally as he could. ‘Besides, catch the attacker and it’s great publicity for the police. A safer city, a good job well done.’

  Adam looked thoughtful, but didn’t reply. The cops were moving up the alley, one line from each end, converging slowly. They were taking it easy, checking the gates, poking at the rubbish.

  A distant clock struck noon. If they caught the man soon, they could still get the story on the lunchtime news.

  ‘Of course, if you do arrest the guy, we’ll need an interview,’ Dan added. ‘From a senior officer, preferably a smart and an articulate one. Someone to be the face of success, who can tell us how important it is that this man has been caught.’

  Adam just nodded, but Dan noticed he adjusted his tie and kept checking his reflection in the window of a police van.

  One of the cops opened a gateand stood back while four more piled untidily into the garden. Seconds ticked by. The odd echoing creak or grating sound emerged as they shifted objects in their search. Eyes watched, people waited.

  Ready for the moment of capture. The end of the hunt.

  The team returned, calling, ‘Clear.’

  A crowd of onlookers had gathered at each end of the cordon. There were even a couple of children there, perhaps brought by their parents to relieve the tedium of the long Christmas holidays. It was remarkable what passed for entertainment for some.

  One line of police officers had reached a white van, parked halfway along the alley. A cop tested the back doors, pulled one open.

  A scream echoed through the air. There was a burst of movement, a flailing arm, and a flying figure appeared. Dan saw a quick glint of honed metal in the air before the man disappeared under a crowd of black-clad officers. There was a brief struggle and he was led to a police van and pushed into the back.

  The onlookers burst into applause.

  Adam nodded. ‘Good result,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get back to Charles Cross to dry out, then we can get on with the Bray case.’

  One of Lizzie’s favoured sayings is that there’s no rest for the wicked. In fairness, itmay be entirely appropriate when dealing with journalists, but Dan noticed she used it most often in relation to him, although he tried not to wonder exactly what that indicated.

  For now, it meant there was no chance of a return to Charles Cross. Nigel took him straight back to the newsroom, so they could get the story of the arrest of the man suspected of carrying out the series of attacks on prostitutes on the lunchtime bulletin. By the time Dan started editing it was almost one o’clock, but it was a straightforward report and simple to cut.

  The easiest, and most common way of telling a TV story is chronologically, and sometimes, as with a developing drama, it’s the only way. So Dan began the report with Nigel’s pictures of the cops milling about, then forming lines at either end of the alley. He wrote about the police launching a major operation after the man had attempted to attack another prostitute and the area of their search converging on one street in Millbay.

  Next came the key part of the story, the one the viewers would remember. It was pure news, the moment of change. It had to be handled thoughtfully.

  One of the most powerful techniques in television, Dan thought, is also one which requires courage. Put simply, it’s the art of knowing when to shut up. In real life, many struggle to get the hang of it, and plenty never do. So for a profession as garrulous as the media it is particularly difficult. But, for a reporter, it is a very worthwhile art to master.

  As Jenny laid down the shots of the police officers moving towards the van, Dan simply wrote, ‘Finally, there remained only one possible hiding place for the attacker,’ and then let the pictures tell the story. The blur of action of the man leaping from the back of the van, the shouts and the officers grappling with him told the tale far more strikingly than any words ever could.

  To round off the report, it was time for a clip of interview with the police. Adam had made a particularly poor show of reluctance, before agreeing that yes, he was the most senior officer at the scene, and yes, the public probably should hear from him about the importance of the arrest.

  He had checked his appearance one final time in the mirror of a police van, soothed his wet hair into a presentable pattern, and had given a strong, clear and effective soundbite, just as Dan expected.

  ‘This was a difficult and dangerous operation,’ he said, ‘in which police officers put their own lives at risk to catch a man who has proved a grave menace to the public. I’m proud of my officers for their work and delighted we have made the city a much safer place by what we did here today.’

  Dan signed off the report by saying the man was currently being questioned and was expected to be charged later.

  He made a point of sitting beside Lizzie in the newsroom as the bulletin was broadcast. The report was the lead story, and tagged as an exclusive.

  When it had finished, she didn’t comment, so Dan started humming the Dambusters theme to himself, the tune growing progressively louder and increasingly self satisfied.

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said at last. ‘Decent exclusive, acceptable report. I’m glad your attachment to the cops is working out. It was a good idea of mine to get you in with them.’

  ‘Of yours? Yours?!’

  ‘Yes, mine. Now, what are you doing sitting around here? Hadn’t you better be getting
back to it?’

  Dan picked up his satcheland headed downstairs. He stopped off in the changing rooms, drying himself as best he could, then found Nigel, who was kind enough to have offered him a lift back to Charles Cross.

  This afternoon, Adam had said, they were going to interview some suspects.

  ‘You mean witnesses?’ Dan asked.

  ‘No,’ the detective replied meaningfully. ‘This time, I mean suspects.’

  Chapter Eight

  IT WASN’T YET TWO o’clock, but already the shades of grey in the sky were darkening in preparation for the coming night. The month had crept ever onwards, and they were almost upon the shortest day. All the cars they passed on the way back to Charles Cross had their headlights on, raindrops dancing in the sweeping beams, the hurrying people dressed in long coats and thick hats and carrying umbrellas to resist the pervasive downpour as best they could. Puddles of standing water lurked along the roadsides, rivulets and streams gushing to the greedy drains.

  Nigel dropped Dan off at the back of Charles Crossand he dashed through the rain to his car. He always kept some spare clothes in there, in case of being sent away overnight, along with a wash kit and shaver, and he was fed up with feeling damp. As he manoeuvred inelegantly in the tight space of the driver’s seat and wrestled on the dry shirt, his mobile warbled with a text alert.

  It was from Kerry. “Hello there! Hope your day’s OK, and the rain hasn’t put you off meeting tonight!! Any ideas where and when yet? x”

  Ah, the agony of the etiquette of replying to a text from a potential suitor. Too quick and you looked overly keen, too slow and you were uninterested. Too brief and you were terse, maybe even rude, too extensive and you were insincere, perhaps even mocking. There was none of the authentic human communication in a text, no smiles, winks and warmth in the tone of a voice, no expressions and inflexions.

  Dan had resigned himself to being one of that large number of people who would never get the hang of successful flirtatious texting. A couple of years ago he managed to end one relationship before it started by trying to make a joke, the lady in question taking instant offence and sending a very direct reply. Sometimes the old ways of meeting people and establishing interest could seem so easy and attractive, he thought. Get introduced by some friends. Have a boring old chat.