by Simon Hall
All now rendered at best quaint, and more likely obsolete.
Well, one question was easy to answer. He would have to reply now. The entire afternoon was already accounted for, even if it had only just begun. He would spend a few hours with Adam interviewing suspects, then it’d be back to the newsroom to update his report on the arrest of the man who had attacked the prostitutes.
Simple and straightforward, that was how it must be. Dan typed, “No, of course not put off, looking forward to it. Still working on where, will text later with ideas, but say about 8? x”
He briefly debated whether to add the litter of exclamation marks that so many women seemed to favour when writing texts or emails, but decided against it. Kerry might find it evidence of a burgeoning rapport, but perhaps just sarcastic. It wasn’t worth the risk.
He’d have to work out soon where they could go. All the bars in the city would be busy with Christmas drinkers, the restaurants likewise. A first date demanded somewhere quieter, where they could grab a little corner table and have a relaxed chat, not shout at each other amidst a boisterous throng and pumping disco beats.
Dan smiled at himself. He could sound like a very old-fashioned man, sometimes. Perhaps he should hire a cloak to lay down for Kerry when she faced a puddle.
The clock in the car said it was two, the time Adam had told him to be back. He’d better get up to the MIR, he could work on the venue later.
Dan was about to make a run for the police station’s back doors when he saw it. While he’d been engrossed with texting, someone had sneaked up and added a faux blue light to the top of the car. It was made of paper and cardboard, bound together with sticky tape, and had “The TV Detective” written around the base in thick black marker pen.
Dan shook his head and jogged for the doors, ignoring the lines of grinning faces in the windows.
* * *
The MIR was boasting a new addition, and one which was immediately worrying. At the far end was a large television, with built in recorder. The picture was frozen on the end credits of Wessex Tonight ’s lunchtime news.
Adam was standing by the screen, a remote control in his hand, Suzanne sitting at a desk, typing at a computer.
Neither of them spoke.
‘Well, I’m back,’ Dan said, trying not to sound nervous.
‘Yes, we’d noticed,’ Suzanne replied. ‘Being detectives and all that. We spotted your presence almost straight away.’
Another silence.
‘Is everything OK?’ Dan asked.
Adam folded his arms.
‘I mean … have you been watching my report?’ Dan added.
Suzanne looked away, continued typing. Adam picked up a file of papers.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, we did watch it.’
He flicked through some of the sheets. A strip light hummed in the ceiling.
‘And?’ Dan prompted. ‘Was it – err, was it OK?’
No reply.
‘I mean, well – I thought it was a pretty good piece. I thought I did a decent job of it.’
More silence.
‘Well, it made a good splash, didn’t it? The lead story and all that.’
Suzanne and Adam exchanged a look.
‘What?’ Dan asked. ‘What’s going on? What’s the matter?’
Adam sat down on a deskand swung a leg. ‘I don’t know whether I should tell you this.’
He ran a hand over his stubble, pronounced and already dark once more.
‘What?’ Dan urged. ‘Tell me what? What’s going on? Are you kicking me off the inquiry? What’s happening?’
The door opened, a uniformed sergeant walked in and put down a pile of papers in a tray. Suzanne thanked him, and the man left again.
Adam waited for the door to close.
‘Well, what is it?’ Dan repeated. ‘Look, if you’re throwing me off the case, I’d rather you just told me instead of playing these games.’
Adam got upand turned off the television. ‘A few minutes ago, I got a call from the Deputy Chief Constable. He’d been watching your lunchtime news. He likes to keep up with the media, as you know.’
‘Ah,’ said Dan.
‘Ah indeed.’
‘Well – what did he say? What?!’
Adam picked up his coat, slipped it over his shouldersand reached for a couple of files.
‘He said … he said it was a good idea of mine to get the cameras along on the operation to catch the attacker, and to go on the TV to talk about the arrest. He said it was great for public reassurance, and looked very positive for the force. He commended me on my fine work.’
There was another silence.
‘Did he now?’ Dan said, trying to keep the relief from his voice.
‘He did. Right, come on. We’ve got some suspects to see.’
He headed for the door. Dan followed.
‘I told you I might actually be useful,’ he said quietly.
This time, he thought, just maybe the resulting silence wasn’t perhaps filled with quite so very much disbelief.
They headed for Plymouth Hoe, the great natural harbour and iconic heart of the city.
Dan was driving again, Adam studying his notes.
‘Jon Stead and Andrew Hicks are who we’re going to see,’ he said. ‘In this case, I say suspects because Hicks is one of those named by Penelope Ramsden as threatening Bray. He came into the office quite a few times apparently, shouting abuse. They had to call the police on a couple of occasions. He detested Bray with a passion.’
The name was familiar, and Dan chased it through the passages of his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I saw him on a report in our News Library. He was chucked out of his home by Bray. We interviewed him at court. He was the one who coined the infamous epithet “Bray the Bastard”.’
‘Well, his pal Stead was also chucked out of his house by Bray,’ Adam replied. ‘So he too has a reason to hate the man. It should be an interesting chat.’
The men were spending the afternoon fishing from a jetty by the Waterside pub. Dan parked the car and they walked over to find the two figures, who were so wrapped up in waterproofs that they resembled postal packages.
The wind and rain were spraying patterns across the waters of the sound, obscuring the green and orange floats which bobbed forlornly in the sea. To Dan, lover of cosy pubs and crackling firesides, it didn’t feel remotely like a pleasant way of spending an afternoon. He had though come to appreciate the zeal which accompanied many a hobby, be it fishing, trainspotting, or whichever passion seized the great spectrum of human imagination.
Years ago, as a cub reporter, he had been sent to cover a story about a family whose weekends were dedicated to collecting the identification numbers of electricity pylons. Initially, he had thought it a spoof, but with some research found it was a genuine hobby. The marching across boggy fields, sometimes at considerable personal risk, to discover a unique identification plate, was indeed considered a worthwhile way of spending your leisure time by some. Many pages on the internet were dedicated to it, one even titled, without a hint of irony, “Pylon of the Month.”
Hicks and Stead reeled in their lines and they all shook hands. Adam suggested they sheltered by the side of the pub while they talked, for which mercy Dan was grateful. He could sense the rain seeping in to his new and previously pleasantly dry shirt.
Hicks was a big man, some six feet or so tall and well built, Stead thin and wiry. He hardly said a word in the whole conversation, preferring instead to gaze out to sea, as if ruing the passing fish he might be missing as they talked.
Adam explained why they were here, and Hicks began to smile.
‘Is something amusing you, sir?’ the detective asked.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Which is?’
‘Bray getting himself murdered.’
‘You find that funny, do you?’
‘Very much so. The man was a bastard. He deserved it.’
‘He deserved to be blasted through the chest
with a shotgun?’
‘I’d say so. The only problem I’d have with what happened was that it was a bit quick. I’d have preferred it if he’d suffered more.’
Adam’s voice was marked with a warning. ‘Are you sure this is the sort of thing you should be saying to a police officer?’
Hicks shrugged. ‘Why not? You haven’t pulled my name out of a hat, have you? You know damn well what he did to me. After he chucked us out of the house, me and Linda split up. A year later, my mum died, and I wasn’t there when she went. I would have been if I was still in my house. Anytime I’m passing his office I like to pop in and have a go at him. He was a bastard and he deserves what he got.’
‘So – you killed him?’
Hicks laughed loudly. ‘No, mate. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I didn’t kill him. But when you find out who did, let me know and I’ll shake his hand.’
‘Then where were you on Monday evening at about six o’clock?’
‘I dunno for sure. I think we were out fishing, weren’t we Jon?’
The man beside him nodded, but didn’t speak.
‘What, in the rain we had on Monday?’ Adam asked.
‘It don’t make no difference to the fish,’ Hicks replied. ‘They get wet whatever the weather. I might have been out fishing, but I might have been home too.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘Jon can.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘I think we picked up a couple of bits of shopping on the way home. You can ask the old lady in the shop by the river. Otherwise no.’
Adam turned to Jon Stead. ‘And you, you’d back this up?’
‘Yes,’ he replied in a quiet voice.
‘Did you hate Edward Bray too?’
Stead nodded. ‘Course he did,’ Hicks added. ‘He threw Jon out of his home as well. In fact, that’s how we met. At the court. When Bray was doing his mass evictions thing. The man was a category one, gold plated, top notch bastard.’
This time, Adam didn’t thank the men, just told them he would need to speak to them again and turned to go. But before they could walk away, Stead put a hand on Dan’s shoulder and said, ‘You’re that man off the TV, aren’t you?’
Dan suppressed a groan at the dreaded words. They would invariably be followed by an ear bending about the ridiculousness of the plot of some soap opera, the lamentable state of an actor’s dress sense, or the lack of decent programmes on the box nowadays, none of which he had any influence over whatsoever.
‘Yes,’ he said resignedly. ‘I am the man on the telly.’
‘You used to do environment stuff, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Dan said once more, thinking how far off his previous life now seemed.
Stead reached out and shook his hand again, this time with enthusiasm. ‘I liked your reports. You always stuck up for us fishermen. When Greater Wessex Water polluted the Sound here with sewage they never told us, just let us carry on fishing in it. But you found out and gave them a good going over. You should go back to covering environment. You were really good at it.’
Dan found he was afflicted by a rare phenomenon. He didn’t know what to say.
Next on the menu of suspects came Gordon Clarke, a businessman like Bray, but now with one distinct commercial advantage over his former rival. He was still alive.
Adam read the briefing as Dan drove them to Ermington, a village some ten miles to the east of Plymouth in the pure Devon countryside of the South Hams. Clarke had rented a shop from Bray, had a couple of difficulties with paying the rent, and was quickly evicted. He’d taken the matter to court, but had lost. Clarke was notable as he too had made threats against Bray at the time, and gone on to start up a website for people to leave their thoughts about the businessman.
It was, in principle at least, dedicated to the discussion of entirely legal ways in which Bray’s business ambitions could be thwarted. But it had quickly become a forum for ranting, and sometimes even dark fantasies about the kind of things certain people would like to do to Edward Bray. Many were highly creative, and even more were painful and messy.
The site had been shut down, and Gordon Clarke warned to desist by both the police and Bray’s solicitors.
Dan turned the car off the A38and followed a narrow road south towards Ermington. They were surrounded by the kind of scenery that, in the sunshine, would make a director of commercials for butter smile. In the current rain it just looked forlorn. Trees drooped under the weight of the falling water and the countryside was fogged with a dank mistiness.
Clarke’s latest office was in a small business park, on the outskirts of the village. It was a computer supply company, the latest in a long line of ventures. From his CV, his way of working was clear. He would set up an operation, keep it going for a year or two, then close it down again when profits were looking thin and immediately start up a new company.
There were allegations and hints – none proved – that suppliers and customers had been left out of pocket by the sudden moves.
‘A resourceful man then,’ Adam mused, ‘with plenty of drive, possibly no great respect for the law, and another who very much hated Edward Bray. In short, a decent suspect.’
The grandly titled business park turned out to be a small set of factory units. ‘But then,’ as Clarke explained, as he ushered them into his office, ‘when you’re selling online, it doesn’t matter what your base is like. It’s the website, the product and the service you offer that are important.’
He was a tall man, well built, his dark hair subtly highlighted in a way that reminded Dan of lower league footballers. It seemed an advertisement for untrustworthiness. He was wearing a suit which was modern and did its best to appear expensive, but couldn’t quite master the illusion. The material was a little too shiny, the stitching a hint too obvious.
‘Before you ask, I didn’t kill him,’ Clarke said.
Adam gave the businessman a lofty look. It was certainly an interesting opening gambit.
‘I didn’t ask, sir,’ he replied. ‘But since you come to mention it, what were your feelings towards Edward Bray?’
Clarke smiled, but without any warmth. ‘Now come on, officer, you know my feelings. They’re precisely why you’re here. I’m not ashamed to tell you I hated the man. But I was hardly alone in that. If I’m a suspect, I must be one among scores.’
‘You are indeed,’ Adam replied emphatically.
‘Well, it wasn’t me. I haven’t seen Bray for months. I’ve been trying to leave him behind and move on in my life. I’ve been doing a little meditating, attempting to improve myself. Hatred can be so very destructive. It blinds a man, you know.’
They talked a little about Clarke’s dealings with Bray, and his current business, a new way of designing and building computers bespoke to a company’s needs, a subject of which Dan possessed little understanding, and even less interest.
It was growing dull, being a passenger in these interviews. Life would be far more interesting if he could be allowed to pitch in with the odd question, but Adam had warned him to adopt the Victorian child model. Dan could be seen, begrudgingly, but certainly not heard.
He found his mind wandering once more to that night, and where to take Kerry, then realised the answer had been presented to him just an hour beforehand. The Waterside Inn was boasting a new menu and it was far enough away from the city centre not to be too crowded. If the weather cleared, he could probably just about get away with it seeming a well-considered setting for a tentative foray in the vague direction of romance.
Adam was getting up from his seat, thanking Gordon Clarke for his time. ‘There is just one more thing sir,’ he added. ‘It would help to eliminate you from our inquiries if you could tell us your whereabouts on Monday evening at about six o’clock.’
Clarke opened a diary on his desk. ‘Bristol,’ he said. ‘Well, on the way back by then in fact, but if you need a more exact location, I’d guess somewhere on the main rail line between Exeter
and Plymouth.’
He smiled ingratiatingly, the look having exactly the opposite effect to that which was intended.
‘And can anyone confirm that, sir?’ Adam asked.
‘Plenty of other passengers. Ellie, my secretary. I’d been in Bristol all afternoon, having a look around. I’m thinking of opening an office there, and wanted to get an idea of the potential market and competition.’
Clarke showed them out. In the rear view mirror, as they drove away, Dan watched him. There was still mist in the air and spray from the car’s wheels too, but he was almost sure the businessman breathed out a heavy sigh of relief before turning and walking back into his office.
Chapter Nine
DEADLINES, SOMETIMES HIS LIFE could feel full of deadlines.
After an absorbing hour at Charles Cross, going through the case with Adam, Dan had only just managed to get back to the newsroom in time to cut a new version of the story about the arrest of the prostitute attacker. If truth was told – which it very much wasn’t, because it was not the kind of truth Lizzie should hear – Dan had almost forgotten his day job, so immersed had he become in the excitement of the Bray case.
And now another deadline loomed. Kerry was picking him up at eight, it was ten minutes to, and he still hadn’t decided what to wear.
It’sa common myth about a woman’s indecision in the wardrobe, Dan reflected. The uncommon truth, never admitted outside of the brotherhood of course, is that men are just as badly afflicted and often even more so.
It was as problematic as trying to work out the right form of text to send her. Too smart an outfit and he might seem desperate or staid, too sloppy and he could come across as louche, or uninterested.
Together, Dan and Rutherford stood in the spare bedroom and eyed the rack of clothes.
‘What do you reckon, dog?’ Dan asked, holding up one shirt, light blue with red climbing roses. ‘Too flamboyant? Makes me look untrustworthy? Like I’m trying to be too young? Or some kind of gigolo?’ He tucked in his stomach. ‘Unflattering on my figure?’