by Simon Hall
Rutherford sniffed at the shirt and flinched. ‘Yes, see what you mean, it could do with a wash,’ Dan noted. ‘OK, how about this one?’
It was plainer, black with thin vertical orange and green stripes. As he examined it, Dan wondered what kind of a mood he had been in when he made the purchase, or more significantly, perhaps, the state of the lighting conditions in the store.
Rutherford blinked, lay downand rested his head on his paws.
‘Ah, you’re hard to please, but then you may have a point. Come on, we’re running out of time. This one?’
Now Dan proffered a white shirt, with blue paisley swirls. Rutherford yawned, got up and trotted back towards the lounge.
‘Thanks for all your help,’ Dan called after him. He put the shirt back on the rackand chose his default option, a midnight blue model. It was always a home banker, fitted him snugly and went well with his colouring.
Five to eight. Just time for another quick run through of the day. Dan sat on the great blue sofa, listened for Kerry’s taxi, and let his mind run.
After the lunchtime news all the media had picked up on the story of the arrest, although none had the pictures. When Dan and Adam got back to Charles Cross after seeing Gordon Clarke, although it wasn’t his case, Adam had been good enough to check on how the questioning of the attacker was going.
A few more issues to tie up had been the answer, but they were almost at the stage where he would be charged. The man had admitted the attacks, and was amidst a long and ranting justification. The detective leading the inquiry, a middle-aged and affable inspector, had promised Adam he would call when the suspect was formally charged, so Dan could break the news. It was a fair deal, Adam said, given the positive publicity he’d generated for the police.
It was just before five o’clock, darkness now firmly ensconced on the city. They walked back up to the MIR to find it deserted.
In the large and silent hollowness of the space, as if it was an irresistible magnet, Dan’s eyes were once again drawn to the framed piece of paper on the wall.
992 619U
He wondered what it could mean, whether murder, or perhaps murders, could really be hidden in those six numbers and that letter. Again though, he came up with no ideas. When he had a rare moment, safe from covering stories and learning about criminal investigations, Dan told himself he would sit down and have a proper think about it.
A note from Suzanne said she’d gone out to check on a couple of issues and would go home afterwards, but would see Adam first thing tomorrow morning. She also left a comprehensive summary of how inquiries were going.
‘That’s very Suzanne,’ he said. ‘Hard-working, thorough, and methodical. She’s a fine officer, and it’s about time she moved on from being a sergeant. Right, while we wait for news of the charges, let’s have a recap and a think. Tell me what you make of what we’ve heard this afternoon?’
This time Dan didn’t hesitate to venture his opinion. ‘Clearly a trio of people who hated Bray. So Hicks, Stead and Clarke all had obvious motives. I guess they could have found the means, given that shotguns are relatively easy to get hold of. I suppose then it comes down to opportunity, and whether they might have had the guts to do it.’
‘And?’
Dan thought his way back through the interviews. ‘I’d say yes to Hicks and Clarke, no to Stead. He struck me as too much of a mouse.’
‘Mice can cause a lot of damage too, you know.’
‘Yes, but if you’re asking for a hunch, that’s it.’
Adam nodded. ‘Hunches, feelings, they’re an important part of police work, as you’ve realised. But whatever you might have seen on the TV, facts are the cornerstone of the job. Tomorrow, I’ll get the teams checking all their alibis. We’ll talk to Clarke’s secretary, this woman in the shop that Hicks and Stead say they saw, and I’ll have a mobile cell analysis done too.’
‘A what?’
‘Locating where their mobile phones were. It can give you a minute by minute picture of a person’s movements, and is often accurate to within a few feet. It’s a powerful tool. We might as well check where Penelope Ramsden was too, while we’re at it.’
‘You still fancy her as a suspect?’
Adam considered the question. ‘I don’t think she’s as strong a suspect as those others, but she can’t be ruled out.’
‘And Arthur Bray?’
‘We’ll do him too.’
‘Have we got anyone else to see?’
Adam checked through the notes Suzanne had left. ‘The teams are working on all the usual areas, everyone Bray knew, had dealings with, who might have wanted him harmed, etc. It’s quite a field of candidates, but no firm leads so far.’
‘So, what do we do next?’
‘What do you think we need to do? What strikes you as missing in all this so far?’
‘Are you testing me, by any chance?’
Dan thought it couldn’t have been more obvious if Adam had sat him at a desk in a hall, waited for the clock to strike, then told him to turn over his paper and begin. But all the detective would say in reply was, ‘Just consider it that I’m checking to see if you’re paying attention.’
Dan walked over to the windowand pulled himself up on the sill. The city was alive with the lights of the night, cars filled with people making their way home, shop windows, restaurants, bars and clubs trying to lure in customers. The ruined church stood watch over it all, shining in the wash of its attendant floodlights.
‘Edward Bray,’ he said, finally. ‘I’d still like to know more about him. I’m not sure we’ve got a proper sense of the man. What was behind the estrangement with his dad, for example? Why did he have such a zeal for the hospice?’
‘OK, but is any of that relevant to the case?’
‘We don’t know is the simple answer. It could be. So we’d better find out, hadn’t we?’
Adam gave him a look that Dan couldn’t read. ‘Indeed we had. Tomorrow morning we’ll go and see Eleanor Paget, the Chief Exec of the hospice. Of all the people we have to talk to, she probably knew Bray best. They worked together a lot, and apparently it wasn’t an easy relationship. Right, before we finish for the day, let’s do one more thing – this time part fact and part feeling. A timeline for the killing, and how it was done.’
He walked over to the felt boards, found a piece of paper and began writing.
???? One week before killing – cancelled appointment – original murder plan??
Actual killing – Monday.
5.40. Bray leaves city centre business reception for meeting at lay-by.
5.55 (approx) Arrives at lay-by.
5.59 999 call reporting body.
6.08 First police on the scene.
‘So,’ Adam said, ‘we don’t have anything in the way of forensic evidence from the lay-by. There are no tyre tracks, no footprints. The rain washed them all away. And the Scenes of Crime team didn’t find any fibres or hairs our killer might have kindly discarded either, to make our lives easier. He was too careful for that. So we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way, think through it all without that evidence. Right, first the murder itself. When was Bray killed?’
‘Clearly in those four minutes between him arriving at the lay-by and the 999 call.’
‘Correct. Right then, those are the facts as we know them. But that’s the easy bit. Now give me the fantasy. How was it done?’
Dan closed his eyes. He could see Bray arriving at the lay-by, pulling up in that big jeep of his. It was dark and the rain was pouring down. He would have squinted through the gloom, made out another car, probably the only one there, parked somewhere close to it.
So, what next? Bray was always on time and wasn’t a patient man, they knew that. He was renowned for continually using the old business cliché, “Time is money”. He wouldn’t have sat waiting, would only perhaps have paused to pull on a coat, then got out of his jeep and walked towards the car.
It’s noisy, with cars rushing past o
n the dual carriageway, their wheels slicing through the wet making it even louder. And it’s very dark. It’s mid winter, the rain’s coming in hard, and there are no lights in the lay-by.
His eyes won’t have adjusted to the blackness. He’ll be stepping carefully towards the car, ready to meet Mr Smith, preparing to talk commerce, do business.
He won’t be suspicious. Why should he be? Meetings like this are commonplace. And he can sense the aroma of money to be made.
But it’s all a trap. The myth of Mr Smith has lured him to the lay-by. He too knows Bray is always on time, usually a few minutes early in fact. He’s been waiting there. He’s even earlier, and he’s ready. He sees the jeep pulling in. It’s instantly recognisable as Bray’s. He sees the familiar figure behind the wheel. He knows he’s got his man.
And there are just seconds left to run of Edward Bray’s life.
Our attacker is crouched down by the side of the car. The shotgun is in his hands.
The jeep parks, the door quickly opens, just as he knew it would. Bray doesn’t waste time. And now he can see the man walking towards him, slowly and carefully in the darkness.
The man he hates, loathes, detests and abhors. So muchso that he’s made his plan and is ready to murder.
The plan which is finally at its culmination.
All it takes is that last second of courage. To stand up. To aim the gun. To pull the trigger.
Bray’s close now, just a few feet away. He can make out the shape of a man. Maybe he says, ‘Hello? Mr Smith?’
And perhaps that’s the last thing he ever says. The double barrels swing. They’re pointing right at his heart. The final moment’s resolution. The overwhelming power of pure hatred. The finger squeezes the trigger. The plug of hot shot flies. It cuts its fatal path through the air. And Bray falls.
He’s dead as his body hits the wet tarmac.
Mr Smith calmly puts the shotgun back in the boot, calls the police and drives off, safe in the black encompassing anonymity of the night.
Dan opened his eyes to find Adam staring at him. The detective was tapping the edge of a desk in mock appreciation.
‘Oh,’ Dan said, quietly. ‘Was I doing all that out loud?’
‘You were. It was a bit flowery at times, but not a bad effort.’
Adam added a row to the timeline.
5.57 Bray shot.
‘So, that’s how it happened. But there are still some big questions we have to answer,’ he said. ‘Key questions, in fact.’
‘Why call the police right after the killing, and why the cancelled appointment the week before?’
‘Precisely. So tomorrow, when the teams go through our suspects’ alibis, those are the most important areas they’ll be looking at. Whether anyone relies on us knowing exactly what time Bray was killed to exonerate him, and what was going on in his life that Monday of the week before which might have forced him to change his plans.’
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the other detective, to tell them the man had been charged.
‘Hell!’ Dan gasped. ‘It’s half past five. We’re on air in an hour. I need to get back to recut my report.’
They agreed what he could say, Dan jogged down the stairs to his car and drove back to the studios. To save time, instead of starting from scratch they took the lunchtime news version and changed only the end.
‘Tonight, a man has been charged with attempted murder,’ he added. ‘Detectives haven’t formally named him and say their inquiries are continuing, but they believe he was motivated by a desire for revenge, after contracting an incurable sexually transmitted disease from a prostitute.’
It was another little exclusive titbit, Dan’s reward for providing such good publicity for the police. After the programme, Lizzie had said, ‘Not bad,’ as a verdict on his efforts, impressive praise for her.
Outside, Dan heard a taxi rumbling to a stop.
Yes, it had been a good day. And now he wondered what the coming night would bring.
Their first meeting came as if the director of a low budget romantic comedy had shouted “Cue”.
Dan swung open the door just as she was about to ring the bell. She stood, frozen, her finger poised over the button. He lurked, static in the doorway. In the second he saw her standing there, Dan realised he’d been so wrapped up in thoughts of the Bray case that he hadn’t in any way prepared for what to say or do.
‘Err, hello,’ was his magnificent opening line, followed by the almost as inspired, ‘it’s Kerry, I presume?’
At least she had the decency to refrain from sarcasm, however justified it might be.
‘Yes.’
She smiled and leaned forwards for Dan to kiss her cheek, just as he reached out to shake her hand. To try to compensate, he took her hand and kissed that instead, then saw what an idiot he must look and kissed her cheek too.
‘It’s OK, I won’t work my way anywhere else for now,’ said the World’s Funniest Man.
Her smile didn’t falter, and Dan hoped she was one of those wonderful and highly sought after women who took pity on men’s bumbling inadequacies, and perhaps even found them entertaining rather than just emetic. The laws of supply and demand meant they were always rare finds; naturally being in heavy demand and short supply.
‘It’s – err – nice to meet you,’ added the professional journalist, demonstrating his great mastery of words.
‘It’s good to meet you too.’
Dan tried to take a surreptitious look at his date. He’d already registered that she was tall, as he hadn’t had to stoop to kiss her. She was wearing jeans and a tight black top, which still bore a couple of creases from the packaging and hinted that it was bought newly for the occasion. But Kerry’s most striking feature was a scarce and mesmeric combination. She had blonde, shoulder length hair, with looked natural, but brown eyes.
His brain seemed to be registering that she was, in summary, very attractive.
This impression built as quickly in Dan’s mind as a sculptor forming a figure from a mighty block of stone. And just as subtly, apparently.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, her head tilted to one side.
‘Oh, yes, sorry. Just thinking.’
‘Well, shall we go? It’s cold out here.’
‘Yes, yes, sorry.’
She stepped back to the taxi, while Dan locked up the flat. By no means for the first time in his life, he chastised himself on his talents with women and used the seconds to try to regain some composure.
In the taxi, Dan realised he only had a few pounds in his wallet. Trying to borrow some from Kerry would hardly be ideal, so he asked the driver to stop at the cashpoints on Mutley Plain. An acknowledging grunt, the universal language of taxi drivers, indicated assent.
The cab pulled up in the bus stop, right next to the sign saying, “Strictly no Waiting, Taxis Included”. Dan hopped out, and walked straight into Adam.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said.
‘Hello.’
‘What are you doing here?’
Adam sounded tetchy. ‘Getting some cash, surprisingly.’
‘Sorry, stupid question.’
‘Yes, it was.’
This was a very different Adam from the smart and cool professional of the daytime. He’d taken off his tie, but was still wearing his suit, and the stubble around his face was thick and dark, the effect being to make him look like an unemployed banker. Despite the chill of the evening, and the ever present hint of rain, he wore no coat.
‘You off for something to eat?’ Dan asked lightly.
‘Yeah.’
‘On your own?’
‘Apparently.’
‘See you tomorrow then?’
‘I expect so.’
Adam was away, walking rapidly into the night. Dan watched him go. The detective’s shoulders were hunched, and he was stalking along with a slouch. Around him, groups of people smiled and laughed, but his expression was dour. He was clutching a newspaper, and disappea
red into a bar.
Behind Dan, the taxi’s horn hooted. He turned and walked back to the cab.
The date, if such it could be titled, was starting to improve. Dan had a pint of beer in his hand, the Waterside was busy, but without it being overwhelming, just sufficient to create a contented rumble of chatter, and they’d been given a good table, right at the back, overlooking the Sound.
Dan wasn’t surprised. He’d used one of his favourite tricks to make sure they were well looked after. When he’d phoned the restaurant to book the table, he asked for the manager to call him back later, ostensibly to discuss the wine list. When the call came he switched it to his answer machine.
“Hello, this is Dan Groves of Wessex Tonight . Sorry I can’t take your call at the moment, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
It was guaranteed to make tradesmen, or car mechanics, or any form of business wary of trying to con him, and instead provide the best service they could.
He’d also rediscovered the briefly missing art of conversation. Kerry asked about his hobbies and he’d talked of Rutherford, going out walking, and his search for the Ted Hughes Memorial.
‘I know it’s on Dartmoor somewhere,’ Dan said. ‘It’s just a question of finding it. And as there are 368 square miles to work through it’s proving quite a challenge.’
She laughed. ‘You must have managed to narrow it down a bit?’
‘Yes, that’s true. I got hold of a copy of Ted’s will. It asked that a memorial to him be placed on the moor, between the sources of the rivers Taw, Dart, East Okement and Teign. He loved the area. So I found the sources, and plotted the mid point between them, but it isn’t there.’
‘How come?’
‘I think because Ted gave his friends discretion about where to put the memorial, so they chose somewhere that would be most appropriate for him.’
‘And what does it look like?’
Dan sipped at his pint. ‘That’s part of the trouble. All I know it that it’s a granite stone, carved with his name. And, as you can imagine, there are more than a few bits of granite on the moor.’