by Simon Hall
Dan paused, his mind flying through what had happened. It was a remarkable story. He wondered how much of it he would be able to report. The entire tale would probably only come out at the trial. But it would be well worth waiting for.
‘This is what they did,’ he said, finally. ‘They switched identities, to give them alibis. Clarke didn’t go to Bristol. Hicks did. The two men have similar builds and they used that. Hicks took Clarke’s coat and umbrella and went to the station. He was carrying Clarke’s phone, so the location trace would check out. They knew we’d look at that. In Bristol, he used Clarke’s card to get some cash – he’d been given the security number. And as for the texts to Clarke’s secretary, I’m guessing Hicks and Clarke had both got themselves another untraceable pay as you go mobile. When Hicks needs to know what to put in a message, he texts Clarke to find out – he wouldn’t want to risk speaking on the train. The answer comes back and he sends it off, using Clarke’s own phone. To the secretary it would have seemed just like Clarke answering.’
Adam nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘And the other details?’
‘Clarke’s car was parked up by the river. I’m guessing he’d got some false plates to confuse the number plate recognition system. As you said, that’s easy to do, and it fits with the pattern of events. This was a well-planned crime. The gun is in the boot, hence the fibres we found. Clarke spends the day fishing with Stead, or at least pretending to. When it’s time to go, they pop into the shop and deliberately drop that bottle of milk, then make a fuss about helping to clean up so the woman will remember them. They know the CCTV’s not working. I suspect they’d already researched that, maybe asking her some throwaway question about it weeks ago, so she won’t remember when we investigate. She’s short sighted, and they’re in disguise, anyway. It’s raining and they’ve got big coats on with their hoods up. She gives the two men their alibis, as they know we’ll think it’s Hicks and Stead and from there they can’t get to the lay-by in time to carry out the killing as they don’t have a car. But in fact it’s not Hicks, it’s Clarke. Into his car he gets, off to the lay-by he goes, and …’
Dan’s voice tailed off.
‘A shot through the heart for anger, revenge and passion, and a kick in the face for good measure,’ Suzanne said quietly
There was a silence as the ghost of Edward Bray drifted through the room.
‘The missed appointment,’ Adam said, at last. ‘Tell us about that, the one from the week before, when they first planned to kill Bray. As we always thought, it did turn out to be the key to the case.’
Dan sipped at his coffee. ‘Indeed it was. And here’s the golden reason the appointment was cancelled. We overcomplicated that, looking for some personal reason in our suspects’ lives why they might be forced to put off a meeting. In fact it was far simpler. It was all down to the bane of the British – the weather. The week before, the forecast was for a fine day, and that’s exactly how it turned out. I remember it well, it was remarkably mild for December. I took Rutherford for a walk on the beach that evening, it was so warm. And, of course, for the disguises of Hicks wearing Clarke’s raincoat and sheltering under his umbrella, and Clarke wearing the big fisherman’s coveralls, the weather had to be nasty. So when they saw the fine forecast they postponed the killing. Even murderers can be let down by the weather, it seems.’
The attempt at humour raised no smiles. It wasn’t that kind of a morning.
‘You know,’ Dan went on, ‘it was thanks to Rutherford I realised what had gone on. My little moment in the park when I mistook that woman for a neighbour. That was when I suddenly saw the one very obvious advantage that bad weather gives you in terms of dressing for it. It’s a handy excuse for a good disguise.’
‘And all that you’ve said about the men fits in with what we know about our conspirators,’ Suzanne observed. ‘Clarke takes the leading role with the murder. Hicks does the next most tricky bit by going to Bristol. Stead more or less tags along, carried by the other two.’
‘He does do his bit though,’ Adam said. ‘It was he who took Hicks’ mobile phone and dropped it off at his house, under a bin in the back yard as it happens, before going home himself. That was an important detail, to make sure their two mobile traces would lead back to their houses. And he made the call, the muffled one, to tell us about the body. To make sure we knew exactly what time the killing happened, so their alibis all worked out.’
In his earlier interview, Stead had pleaded that he shouldn’t be charged with conspiracy to murder. He said Clarke and Hicks were adamant the idea was to injure Bray, not kill him, just to teach him a lesson. He would never have gone along with a murder plan he said, was shocked when he heard Bray was dead. But by then he was too bound up in the plot to do anything about it.
Adam looked dubious. He asked whether Stead had any evidence to support that and was pointed to the call he made to report Bray’s body in the lay-by. He had clearly said “body”, as opposed to dead body.
Adam nodded, clicked his tongue, but said a matter like that would have to be for a jury to decide.
Hicks had been in tears when they left him, pleading to be allowed to see his wife and son. That, Dan reflected, would be a reunion he would never want to witness.
‘So, that’s it then,’ he said slowly. ‘Case closed.’
Adam walked over to the felt boards, ran a hand along the line of faces looking out there. He stopped at Eleanor Paget, clear eyes and inscrutable expression, and tapped the picture.
‘Not quite,’ he replied. ‘I think there might be one more loose end to tie up. Or if not tie, then at least give it a little tug to let it know we’re well aware of it.’
Dan dashed back to the studios to cut a story for the lunchtime news. A man had been charged with murdering Edward Bray, he reported, two more with conspiracy to murder. He named all three and gave a little information about them, that they had known Bray for several years and had business dealings and disagreements with him, but couldn’t go into more detail.
The laws of contempt in Britain are both strong and fierce, designed to prevent any possibility of prejudicing a trial, and with a lawyer like Julia Francis on the men’s side, caution was advisable. She would be looking for any excuse to have the charges against them dismissed, and Dan didn’t want to provide her with the amusing irony of helping to crack the case, then wrecking the trial.
Still, it was a fine splash and pushed Lizzie as close as she came to contentment and a hint of festive cheer.
‘Not bad,’ was the verdict from the rabid newshound. ‘I’ll consider that my Christmas present. I’ll have more of the same for tonight, and if there are no developments you may just be permitted to go sloping off to make an unwarrantedly early start on your barely deserved break.’
Lizzie had never quite got the hang of humour. It hardly suited her, but at least she had the decency to put on a semi-smile to make it clear she was teasing.
Although Hicks and Stead had been charged with the same crime, Adam made it clear that Stead was going be treated more leniently. The trial would be told he had cooperated with the police, had helped to bring the case to justice, and that detectives believed he had acted his part under pressure from the other two men.
He would still go to prison, but the sentence would be substantially shorter and arrangements would be made for him to serve the time in a jail as close as possible to home.
There was one more piece of news about the case. Penelope Ramsden had regained consciousness and was said by the doctors to be improving well. She was going to be OK. A detective had been to see her, only briefly and under medical supervision, but had the answer to a couple of questions Adam asked him to put to her.
Despite Bray’s death, the hospice would still be cared for financially, for the foreseeable future at least. Bray was a rich man, with substantial investments. He had altered his will in recent weeks to make sure St Jude’s would receive a large sum if something should happen to him.
&n
bsp; At this news, Adam nodded slowly.
The other detail of information was that it hadn’t taken long to conclude Ramsden’s crash was nothing more than an accident, caused in the main by her anguished state.
At least, Dan reflected, one person had loved Edward Bray on the day he died. It wasn’t much of an epitaph, but it was better than none.
He set off down the stairs to return to Charles Cross. This afternoon, Adam said they had one final visit to make before he would consider the case to be truly resolved.
Eleanor Paget welcomed them into her office and offered them tea or coffee. Adam declined, politely as ever, but also with an edge in his voice. He’d greeted Paget stiffly and formally, with no warmth or pleasure, most unusual for someone Dan had already come to think of as a gentleman detective.
His manner made it clear this was going to be a brief and businesslike visit, very different from those which had gone before.
Adam settled in his chair, opened his case and found a file. He began reading, but didn’t speak.
Paget studied him, but also said nothing. She tapped an elegant fingernail on the desk and waited.
And Dan was left in a familiar position, one which he had come to know well at the start of the inquiry, but had hoped he’d now worked his way out of. He was wondering what was going on. This strange, silent scene had the atmosphere of a volcano about to erupt from beneath calm and easy waters.
Dan eyed Adam, managed to take in a quick glimpse of the file. It was titled, “Eleanor Paget”, and beneath were rows of type, but the words were too small to make out.
A puzzle had joined a mystery.
On the drive to the hospice, the detective had hardly spoken. He sat, staring at the raindrops sliding down the windscreen.
Once, when they stopped at some traffic lights, Dan said, ‘Care to enlighten me?’
‘About what?’ came the gruff reply.
‘About what we’re doing? Why we’re going to the hospice? This loose end you’re going to tug?’
‘No. You’ll see. In a few minutes.’
Just ten days ago, Dan would have kept quiet and driven the car. Now though, whether it was his role in solving the case and the polishing of his ego and self confidence it had bestowed, the improvement in his relationship with Adam, or perhaps just the welcome sensation of Christmas creeping up, he felt sufficiently emboldened to challenge the detective.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘What?’
Dan sighed. Monosyllabic was clearly the theme of Adam’s conversation this afternoon. He tried again.
‘I don’t understand why you’re feeling grumpy. You can have some time off over Christmas now?’
‘Yep.’
‘You’re still spending it with Annie and Tom?’
‘Yep.’
‘And looking forward to it?’
‘Yep.’
‘And happy about it?’
‘Delighted.’
Three syllables. By comparison with what had gone before it was almost an oration. They were making progress, albeit painful.
‘You’ve made your arrests.’
‘Yep.’
‘One murder charge, two conspiracy.’
‘Yep.’
‘The High Honchos have been on the phone, congratulating you.’
‘Yep.’
‘It’s all over the media, very good for the force’s standing.’
‘Yep.’
‘The case is done.’
‘No.’
One little word can have a remarkable impact. It felt like a stone shattering the windscreen. Dan found himself recoiling.
‘But we’ve got our killers.’
‘Yep.’
‘So, what’s going on?’
‘Just wait, will you! You’ll see in a minute.’
Dan decided it was time to be quiet. He drove them to the hospice without another word.
‘So,’ Paget said finally, in a friendly voice, which didn’t quite work. ‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector? It’s Christmas Eve, but I don’t expect you’ve just come to pass on your best wishes for the season, have you?’
‘No,’ Adam said grimly. ‘That I haven’t.’
Another silence. He leafed though a couple more pages, then closed the file and put it back in his case.
Adam folded his arms, stared right into the woman’s eyes, and slowly let his mouth form the words, ‘I know.’
‘Know what?’
‘What you did.’
The words hit their target. She sat upright, and there was a hint of fear in her reply.
‘“What I did?” What is it I am supposed to have done?’
Adam bent forwards so he was leaning across the desk.
‘I debated long and hard with myself about how to handle this, but you don’t need to worry, Ms Paget. I’ll never be able to prove it. In all honesty, I’m not even sure you’ve committed a crime. I know you won’t say anything and I also know you won’t have left me any evidence. I did consider having the hospice and your office and computer searched. I even got a warrant for it, but I decided not to in the end. It wasn’t worth it. It’d just upset your guests, cause a huge fuss and I know I won’t find anything anyway. Gordon Clarke isn’t saying a thing either, and even if he did talk to us I doubt he’d realise how he was set up.’
And now she was clearly flustered. ‘I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about justice, Ms Paget. Or, at least, the nearest I can get to it. And I think this is it, this little chat we’re having. Or – that we’ve had.’
She didn’t reply, just stared at him, her face flushed. Adam got up from his chair, reached for the door.
‘I just wanted you to know,’ he said, before he left. ‘Just so you don’t think you got away with it completely, and to warn you that if anything like this happens again, and you’re in any way a part of it, I’ll be coming straight for you.’
If Paget did have anything to say, it was lost in the way Adam quickly pulled the door shut behind him. He strode back out to the car, leaving a baffled Dan mouthing questions and struggling to keep up.
Chapter Twenty-six
IT WAS CLOSING IN on midnight, the first such celebrated shadow between Christmas Eve and the day itself that Dan could recall spending on his own, but some things simply feel right. He had much to think about, and needed to go through it all and try to come to terms with it.
How life had changed in the last two weeks.
It wasn’t as though he had to be alone. He’d had a couple of offers about how to spend the night, it was just that he didn’t fancy either.
El was out in town with some other hacks, photographers and assorted members of the disreputable club of the media. Dan had received a loud and largely nonsensical phone call from the paparazzo, which, after some translation, had probably said he was awash with cash from selling his photographs of the Scoutmaster. He’d established a form of celebratory base camp in a bar, it was very busy, he was intoxicated, fully intended to become even more so, and would Dan, old buddy, good pal, top mate, etc., care to join him?
Dan, old buddy, etc. thanked him kindly for the considerate offer, but declined. He would see El tomorrow – not too early, naturally – to partake of the promised single malt and some yarning of tales from the year which had passed. As ever, there had been mishaps and misdeeds aplenty, all candidates for amusing recap.
He also made a mental note to take some headache tablets for his friend.
The evening with Kerry had gone well enough. Dan got a taxi to her house, no easy task given the busyness of the night, and had taken along his little Christmas gift. They sat in her living room and exchanged presents over a glass of wine.
She’d bought him a beautiful shirt from a very fine designer, sky blue in colour, impeccable in tailoring and extravagant in expense. It could be worn for work or play, fitted him perfectly and suited him more. She’d even got Rutherford som
e dog biscuits and a new ball to chase, chew and eventually lose, a familiar fate which befell all such offerings to the recalcitrant canine.
The nagging voice of guilt began to carp away in Dan’s mind.
‘The shirt, well … how did you know – like, sizes and styles, and taste and all that?’ he found himself stammering. ‘I’d never have a clue what clothes to buy for you. It took me long enough to find any sort of present.’
‘It’s a girl thing,’ she replied, and held out her hands for her own gift.
It was untidily wrapped with a couple of patches that didn’t match the mainstay of paper, running out as it had at a critical point, and so perhaps resembling a small harlequin. But Dan thought she was pleased with the new hair drier he had bought. She certainly laughed enough.
They walked down to her local for a couple more drinks and a chat. It was a decent place, still with some original wooden beams and stone flooring, even better a couple of good ales and mercifully only one fruit machine and no jukebox. Even the Christmas decorations didn’t look forlorn, not the usual pub type, their cheap glitter worn away by years of dutiful festive airings. The pub wasn’t too busy either and they found a corner to sit.
Dan noticed he had to concentrate hard to hold a conversation, and even then it flowed like a river in a drought. His mind was too full of the day and all that had happened.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, at one point.
‘In what way?’
‘You seem a bit – distracted.’
Dan put down his pint. ‘In truth, I am. It’s been a hell of a few days and it won’t leave my mind. I’m sorry, it’s nothing to do with you, it’s just sometimes I get a bit lost in myself.’
She smiled, squeezed his knee and talked about tomorrow, her family, and their traditions for Christmas Day. They would open their presents early, over a breakfast of smoked salmon and champagne, sit and chat, then have a feast of a lunch and afterwards go for a walk to try to ease the assault of the armies of calories. In the evening they would play cards for pennies.