The Shadows of Justice

by Simon Hall

  As estates go, the joke had it the Eddystone was as sunk as the Titanic.

  Unusually, Roger had been born to a couple that actually lived together. But normal service was quickly resumed as the relationship lasted for only the first six months of his childhood. His mother, though, had been determined the young boy should have a decent chance at life and lobbied to get him into a school a safe separation from the estate.

  She faced a familiar problem. The all-knowing state was having none of it. With the sympathy, understanding and helpfulness of the massed hierarchy of a faceless bureaucracy, her pleas were rebutted. Roger was allocated a place at Eddystone Comprehensive, an educational establishment the wags described as comprehensive only in one field – its awfulness.

  But the young Roger was favoured with a little luck. With the influence of his mother, and the emerging character of a man she described as her little scrapper, he managed to steer clear of gangs and the call of crime, aside from one dressing down for fighting. And that, legend told, was with an older and larger boy, who had been trying to steal money from one of Roger’s friends.

  But perhaps the greatest fortune was a teacher at the Eddystone, a man who recognised a kindred spirit in the youngster and who guided him onwards. Roger performed well in his exams. He went on to take A-levels and suddenly was in possession of something his life had known little of to that point: options, possibilities and maybe even the promised land of prospects.

  For what made up a touching CV, this part was marked with the most underlinings in Dan’s notes. There had been no history of achievement in his own family either, and it was only the intervention of a couple of teachers that had guided the young Dan to university and his world of today. It was one he could never have imagined all those years ago.

  Roger had decided against studying for a degree, pronouncing himself insufficiently academic, but instead left school to go into business. In the sixth form, he’d been given work experience at a couple of local companies. His time there was fondly remembered, largely because of his politeness and willingness to listen and learn, but also one singular feature. He always carried a notepad and would jot down the slightest experience, tip or sliver of advice.

  The contacts he made and the impression he left brought Roger the job of a trainee at a carpeting company. It was new and growing, and the future looked optimistic. But Roger stayed for only a year. In interviews afterwards, he said that it was a sufficient length of time to learn all he could from the firm, and more importantly to save up the money required for his next move: the tradition of taking on a market stall.

  He worked punishing hours, but fared well. The following year Roger Newman opened his first store on the edge of the city. The year after, it took over the pet shop next door and doubled in size. Twelve months later, a second store opened. And after three more years there were 12 branches of Roger’s Rugs across Devon and Cornwall, and plans afoot to begin an expansion outside of the region.

  ***

  Roger had never been shy of the media, and the briefing contained a series of interviews he’d given. In one, an admirably cheeky reporter had asked, “Given your success in business, and your wealth, is there anything missing in your life?”

  The answer had taken a few seconds to come, the article said. When it did, the words were thoughtful and heartfelt. The desire to have a family was perhaps the sole ambition remaining.

  At the time Roger Newman was 28 years old. The company had expanded across much of England and the tally of stores was now 94. The symbolic century would soon be passed.

  Then, as if to mark the man’s 30th birthday, came a surprise announcement. Roger was engaged. Rachel Hawker was three years his junior and a solicitor. They had been introduced at a dinner party by some friends who had taken upon themselves the quiet art of matchmaking.

  The wedding was a lavish affair, at a stately home in Cornwall overlooking the River Tamar. Pictures filled the papers. Faces glowed with happiness. The following year a girl was born, Annette Louise Newman.

  All was set fair and Roger’s high profile waned. He was devoting his time to the twin demands of business and a young family; plenty enough to occupy any man.

  Until the next story came to dominate the news. Rachel had left the family home to live with a barrister, as if one lawyer in a household was not enough. There were reports of attempts at reconciliation, but none budded. In the sad, modern-day way, to the courts they went to contest custody of Annette.

  To the surprise of many, Roger won. He could afford the finest of lawyers, but the briefing notes said it was his personal plea which had been decisive. In tears, obviously genuine and all the more powerful for that, he argued he had the means, but most importantly the love and determination to bring up Annette.

  Why, he ended his address, should a woman who had left, taking much of his heart, also take his only child?

  ***

  Once more, the life of Roger Newman quietened. Annette was growing up and, as he had promised, fatherhood was taking much of the man’s time.

  But the pain of the separation was still evident. As often happens with people who suffer a loss, Roger looked to put new meaning into his world. He set up a charity to help children born to the kind of background he knew on the Eddystone Estate. Significant sums of money were invested in better teaching, buildings and equipment, and a series of scholarships founded.

  Time and again, Roger spoke out as a passionate advocate of the comprehensive system of education.

  “Look at what happened to me,” he said in one speech to a teaching union conference. “I was made by good teachers. They’re an inspiration. We need more investment for more good teachers so we can transform the lives of thousands of children.”

  As an unlikely alma mater, Eddystone Comprehensive benefited greatly from Roger’s generosity. It was refurbished and started to shed its reputation as a dumping ground for problem children. A new wing, dedicated to the study of business, was named after him.

  It was rumoured Roger Newman was being considered worthy of an award for his charitable work. Perhaps an MBE, or maybe even an OBE, as the echelons of such an oddity of anachronism go.

  But now came the sting, one that has caught many a parent before and doubtless will rise to do so again. Annette reached the end of her days in junior school. The moment arrived to decide where she would spend her years of secondary education.

  And Roger sent her to a private school: Imperial, just outside of Plymouth. It was an austere and imposing Victorian estate in the Devon countryside.

  Stories immediately littered the press. Business rivals and educational experts fired accusations of hypocrisy. The mooted award of an honour never came to pass.

  Roger attempted some justifications. It was essential, he said, that Annette would be able to board at Imperial when business increasingly required him to travel. But the words were lost leaves in the autumn wind. Even to Dan, reading the notes of the time, they sounded half-hearted.

  Roger toughed it out. He was a successful businessman, well-used to ploughing a furrow over uneven ground.

  But, as so often is the case, it was the attack from within which caused the real damage.

  ***

  The teenage changes can bring a spectrum of disorders. Some youngsters barely notice, others plunge off the road in a screaming fireball with much in the way of collateral damage.

  For Annette the transition age was 14, and the troubles were perhaps mild to middling. There had been a warning from Imperial after she was caught in a clinch with a boy in the copse behind the tennis courts. Another followed with the discovery of the heinous crime of the smuggling of a half bottle of vodka into a dormitory.

  But largely it was the standard adult way. Stern faces and disappointed disapproval in public, amusement in private.

  Then, however, Annette discovered the perilous land of politics, conscience and belief. She began to burn with resentment at her privileged surroundings. The injustice of so ve
ry much of the world had to be tackled.

  Cue, of course, the taking of more deep breaths and dipping into the reserves of tolerance from teachers and father. It was just a phase. It would pass.

  And then came the day Annette disappeared from school.

  She was missing for almost 24 hours. Fellow pupils, teachers and Roger himself had to endure the sight of police officers beating their way through the woods, divers scouring ponds and rivers. All in a search for that which can never be spoken.

  Dan had been away on holiday at the time, walking another section of the South West Coastal Path with Rutherford. They stayed at the historic Bush Inn at Morwenstow in north Cornwall, tackling the toughest part of the trek. Some of the climbs were so steep it would have been little surprise to find the cliff tops capped with snow. Dan was vaguely aware of the story, but it was only a brief episode, a flare of interest, nothing significant to cause it to linger longer in the mind.

  Annette returned to Imperial the next day. She just walked back in past two bemused police officers. She had booked into a cheap bed and breakfast, the kind where they take scant notice of the clientele and even less of the frenzy unfolding in the news. The time she had taken, she announced, was required ‘to escape these cloying surroundings’ and ‘find herself’.

  What she found instead was a brief suspension, a father both enraged and tearful, and an iron lecture from a superintendent. It was long and stinging, and on the theme that if such a stunt was repeated criminal charges would follow.

  The root of Annette’s grudge was only revealed the following month when Roger invited the media to witness their reconciliation. It was a bizarre event, but one which was held at Annette’s request.

  She had been teased about her father’s hypocrisy by a fellow pupil. She looked up his eulogies to state education, replete as they were across the internet, and began to simmer with anger. A lesson must be taught she said. And so, she believed, had it been.

  The pair were photographed, filmed and interviewed at home, cooking a symbolic meal together. A deal had been reached and mutual forgiveness bestowed. Annette would continue her studies at Imperial, whilst devoting her spare time to good causes. Roger’s fortune would be used to fund the work.

  One such project was the Soup and Sandwiches Mission for the homeless. Annette insisted it be carried out on Friday nights, to emphasise the inequalities of society. While some partied, others had minds only to seek food and shelter.

  And so her work went on. Until yesterday evening.

  ***

  The sound of the window being pulled shut summoned Dan back from the past. The clock had ticked around to seven.

  Adam, who was watching the police station entrance below, now strode for the door and stepped fast down the stairs.

  “He’s here,” was all the detective needed to say.

  Chapter Nine

  Roger Newman had the firm handshake that must be deemed a job requirement for the successful businessman, but it was laced with a hint of his current suffering. There was a clamminess to the grip which lingered on the palm.

  Adam fussed over him, talking about how he understood what a difficult time this was, but greatly appreciated Newman agreeing to the interview.

  “Anything,” he replied simply. “If it could help.”

  His voice was husky with tiredness. Adam guided him to the chair and Newman sat slowly, found a silver flask in his jacket pocket and took a long draw. The sweet scent of whisky tinted the air.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just – helping me get by.”

  Every profession has its uniform and Newman had fulfilled his obligations to the empire of business. He wore a black suit, blue shirt and dark tie. Dan caught Nigel’s comment of a frown.

  “I usually enjoy being interviewed,” Newman said. “Who doesn’t like talking about themselves, if they’re honest? But this… I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

  “We’ll make sure it comes out well, don’t worry,” Dan replied. “On the subject of which…”

  “Yes?”

  “Your suit.”

  Newman fingered a lapel which had been lovingly shaped by a doting Italian tailor. “What about it?”

  “It’s very smart.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Great for a business meeting.”

  “But?”

  “This isn’t about business. It’s about being a father.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A more relaxed approach might look better. We want the kidnappers to see you and Annette as ordinary people.”

  “This is my best suit,” Newman protested. “What you would prefer? Ripped jeans and a baseball cap?” He looked across at Adam, who in turn looked to Katrina. Dan couldn’t help thinking it was like a game of pass the parcel – or buck.

  “Any advantage we can get, we should take,” she said gently. “Sometimes the smallest of details can settle these cases.”

  Newman got up from the chair and removed his jacket. He was about to sit back down, but Dan let out a pointed cough.

  “What is it now?”

  The benevolent manipulator tapped at the neck of his shirt and said, “Modern life, modern looks.”

  “I have a reputation to preserve.”

  “And a daughter to save.”

  Newman frowned, but began unlacing his tie. Nigel checked the viewfinder. He made an indecipherable noise, reached into his bag and handed Dan a compact. Newman eyed it warily and took another long drink from the flask.

  Behind the camera, Adam checked his watch. The clock had slipped on to ten past seven. Half past was the set time to feed the interview to all the waiting media.

  In the textbooks, the preamble to an interview is described as the time to relax the subject. Build a bond, ready to get the best from them. But the man in the chair was tense and tired, condensed with emotion. He was jaded and tetchy in every word and movement, frayed by the pressure.

  Any further requests regarding Newman’s appearance were unlikely to improve relations. And there was no time for more maneuvering. Dan thought quickly and took a risk. He opened the compact and began sweeping powder across his forehead.

  “What the hell are you doing now?” Newman grunted.

  “It’s in case we need to film any of my questions after the interview.” Dan tried a semi-smile, just to see if the ice might be prepared to thaw. “My hairline’s not quite what it was and shining skin looks strange on camera.”

  Newman sat back on his chair. “Think yourself lucky.” He tapped his pate, as smooth as a frozen pond. “My hair started going when I was 16. Imagine that. All the other kids are experimenting with mohicans and Nature’s clearing the top of my head as if she wants to build a bloody motorway.”

  Katrina let out a chuckle and Dan smiled too. “But it had an upside, didn’t it?”

  “You’ve done your research.” Newman sounded easier now. “You’re right; it’s where Roger’s Rugs came from. I thought it’d stick in people’s minds. And it worked.”

  Dan finished his dabbing and held out the compact. “You’re welcome to a bit of powder.”

  “I’ve never worn make-up in my life.”

  “Nor had I until I went into TV, I can promise you. But it does make a real difference… and this is a big interview.”

  Newman hesitated, raised a finger to his skull, then took the compact and began dusting on the powder. From behind the camera, Nigel nodded approvingly.

  ***

  There was one more important rule in this interview. Dan wrote it across the top of his notepad, to guard against an easy slip which could ruin the conversation in a second.

  Annette is, PRESENT tense. Never Annette was…

  “Let’s start with a simple question,” he began. “Tell me about Annette. What’s she like?”

  “Every parent would say this, but she’s a wonderful daughter. You know how Rachel, her mother, left us? A couple of years ago, she got back in touch and said she’d like to see
more of Annette. We discussed it and I said it was up to her. So she invited Rachel round for dinner to talk.”

  Newman let out a long sigh. “I didn’t let Annette know, but I was so nervous. I’d hardly seen the woman for years and that court battle was horrible. We had supper and it was all ok, even fairly pleasant. But at the end Annette said – and I’ll never forget this – ‘Thanks for getting back in touch. It’s good to know you’re there and I’m happy to give you a call occasionally. But I’d ask you not to bother Dad and me otherwise. He’ll find it too upsetting and we’re very happy as we are’.”

  Dan let the power of the words resonate while he composed the next question. “And since then – how has she grown up? It’s an important time in her life.”

  “She’s doing well at school, really well. I don’t know where she got the brains from – not me, certainly. She wants to go to university. Annette keeps talking about doing medicine, but she says she likes the idea of teaching as well.”

  Even through his suffering, the pride was sufficient to prompt a tired smile. “She reckons that’d be in the family tradition. With me and my little ‘educational crusade’, as she puts it.”

  In the reflection in the window, Dan could see Katrina nodding. The questions were hitting the target, the replies ticking the boxes.

  And it mattered, how it felt it mattered. This was no standard interview. It was being haunted by a ghost of the living.

  “On the subject of crusades, Annette’s got one of her own, hasn’t she?”

  “Her charity work? You know how it all came about? Our little spat because I sent her to a private school. We talked about it… ‘Everyone’s a secret hypocrite,’ I said. ‘Not me,’ she replied. ‘Wait until you’re a bit older,’ I told her, ‘and then you might think differently.’ Anyway, that was how we left it. But being Annette, she said I had to pay a price. She decided the best way to punish a businessman was to hit him in the wallet, so we did a deal. The Soup Run was her idea. And she’s got other plans, as well.”

  “Such as?”

  Newman almost managed a laugh. “Annette has decided Roger’s Rugs has to become carbon neutral. How we’re going to make that happen with all the vans and warehouses I have no idea, but she’s insistent. I’ll probably end up having to plant at least a couple of forests.”