by Simon Hall
“So you might think,” Adam replied. “But after a few crimes which we thought could be down to the Edwards, a detective went to talk to her old tutors. Their view was unanimous. She was by far the brightest and most talented student in her year, and one of the best they’d ever seen.”
“She flunked the exams?”
“She certainly did. But as to why – we think it was deliberate. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself with a shining academic record.”
They passed a farmyard, a couple of men working on a tractor, a sheep dog skipping around their feet. At this speed, East Prawle lay twenty minutes to the south-east. There, on the outskirts of the village, the convoy would draw up and the strategy for the assault be formulated.
Adam returned to his notes. The Edwards’ first suspected crime involved housing benefit fraud, but with a twist.
They had invented scores of people and bank accounts into which the money could be paid. The fraud lasted for just a few months and was closed down before the council became aware of it. Only following an audit later in the year was the alarm raised. Tens of thousands of pounds were stolen.
“Pretty mundane stuff,” Dan commented. “Housing benefit fraud is hardly new or particularly clever.”
“That’s true,” Adam replied. “But – the Edwards chose a council which had just been involved in a child abuse scandal. Its social workers failed to prevent the deaths of a couple of kids.”
“You think the council was deliberately targeted?” Katrina asked.
“We’re sure it was. Because of the money the Edwards stole, we reckon they only kept half. Our investigations didn’t get very far, but there was one thing we did establish. The Edwards made a big donation to some children’s charities. The amount was about half the total estimated to have been stolen.”
The next case was an attack on some large insurance companies.
A couple of towns in the Midlands had suffered flooding after torrential rain. Hundreds of residents were forced to leave their homes. The repair bill would run into many millions of pounds.
As people began to make claims, there came a development which will surprise nobody who has ever tried to scale the edifice of an insurer to retrieve some of the money they had spent years paying in. The firms started to spin, wheedle and squirm.
Spokesmen claimed there were exemptions. Some acts of god – or at least a peculiar type of deity who looked kindly upon insurance companies – were not covered. Excesses on a scale sufficient to pay a premiership footballer applied. Climate change was a specific area which could not be covered. Homeowners should have had the foresight to fit flood defences. The list went on and on, and then on some more.
The Edwards took advantage of the companies’ preoccupation with repelling the selfish hordes who had the audacity to expect assistance. Quietly, they began to build up a series of motoring claims. They were relatively small and so were hardly checked. But the quantities involved made for significant sums.
Once more, the result was the Edwards keeping half the money, the rest going to a fund set up to help the flood victims.
***
The convoy was approaching the village of Churchstow. Signs pleaded for careful driving. Katrina slowed the car and switched off the sirens. Even those from outside the two fair counties instinctively understand it is a rule of Devon and Cornwall life, that the sacred peace of a small community must not be disturbed.
In the field beside a school a group of children halted their kick about to watch the cars, vans and motorbikes. This was a place that very rarely saw a police officer, let alone a convoy.
Sunshine flared inside the car. Dan rolled down a window, Adam doing the same.
***
Now came a sense the crimes were growing bolder. The Edwards moved on to target banks.
It was a time when the titans of finance had been trying to persuade customers to make greater use of the internet. It was quicker and more convenient the banks proclaimed, omitting to mention it was also much cheaper to administer. As for concerns about security, they could be happily dismissed with the airy wave of a banker’s trustworthy hand. The systems were invulnerable.
Such a claim is a temptation too far for any hacker that has ever set finger on a keyboard. The Edwards were amongst them. This time, it was mortgage fraud. A series of online applications were made for relatively small amounts, which attracted less scrutiny. Again, many thousands of pounds were stolen.
When finally one of the grand repositories of the land noticed, Greater Wessex Police were called in. But so sure were the banks of their impregnability, it was difficult to convince them they had been conned. And when, at last, the arrogance faltered and they accepted the inevitable, the matter was hushed up. The men in bespoke pinstripe suits decreed that no further proceedings were required. It would be too damaging for the sacred share price.
There were a couple more notes on the case. The banks targeted had been identified as the worst for customer service, whilst still managing to pay staff the kind of bonuses which could fill a calculator’s screen. This time, it was estimated the Edwards took only 15 per cent of their haul, the rest going to a range of charities.
A note from one of the investigating officers read, 15 per cent, a standard agent’s fee. So, make of that what you will. On this one, I can’t find myself too bothered we’re not trying to bring charges.
***
Adam checked his watch. East Prawle is Devon’s most southerly village, just inland of the heady cliffs of Prawle Point and the vista of the English Channel. They were fifteen minutes away. The car bumped as it crossed a bridge over a muddy tidal inlet.
“There’s another note below that last one,” Adam said. “‘We will be pursuing the Edwards, make no mistake. Because once they get a taste for crime, we don’t know where it could lead.’”
The detective stared out of the window, before adding quietly,
“I was the senior officer reviewing the case. I wrote that. And it turned out to be bloody portentous.”
All in the car was silent as they waited for an explanation. But Adam said only, “There are a couple more bits I want to read you, while we’ve got the time. They should make clear what I’m talking about.”
The Department of Health was the next target. A controversy blew up about the amount of money being paid to top civil servants when NHS services were struggling with cutbacks. The predictable denials were issued. But the mandarins’ salaries would not be revealed, a clipped spokesman announced. They were strictly confidential.
The next week they were published on a website, much to the frothing glee of the media.
Another note commented – What investigative journalists couldn’t manage, I reckon the Edwards did in an afternoon’s hacking.
“We’re getting towards the end of this part,” Adam said. “But there’s one thing to note here – the shift to a focus on health issues.”
The media live for a row, and the next case concerned some large pharmaceutical companies. They were accused of being merciless and pitiless, for not allowing a range of expensive products to be sold at cost price in developing countries. Thousands of lives could be saved, campaigners protested.
A barrage of expensive spin was thrown up to counter the claim. Developing the drugs was hugely expensive. Money had to be made so profits could be reinvested in the next generation of medicines. But, in fairness, a concession was offered, however much it may have been a single grain of sand on a mighty beach.
The drugs could perhaps be sold at a small discount, the announcement ran. But of less prominence in the proclamation was how that might be achieved. It could only follow the report of a focus group, a working party, a committee, a sub-committee, a commission of inquiry and the executive board, and all after a series of fact-finding trips and a good lunch or two.
With the prospect of progress a galaxy away, the controversy dimmed. That was until the following month when a new website was launched. It listed so
me of the products in development. Many were highly lucrative. The companies’ futures looked prosperous.
But the site had a sting. It detailed confidential information on how the trials were progressing, picking out the problems which made the release of many of the products years away.
Share prices slumped. Billions were wiped off corporate values.
The authors of the website were never traced, despite the best efforts of the fuming companies. But the Eggheads were of the view the scandal fitted with the way the Edwards liked to work.
The final case Adam had to relate was a simple act of mockery. A tsunami caused widespread destruction in the Far East, with the loss of thousands of lives. Even more were left homeless. The British government was criticised for failing to offer sufficient help.
A week later, a mysterious glitch in the centralised supply system saw hundreds of government offices going without supplies of toilet roll.
***
The convoy entered a green tunnel, sweeping through the interwoven branches of the bowing trees. Blue lights smeared the new leaves.
“I’m starting to like the Edwards,” Dan grinned.
“Are you now?” Adam replied, and there was something in his voice. It was like the way the air changes before a storm, a perceptible shift in the pressure.
Dan found himself faltering. “Well, yeah, I mean—”
“Because they’re Robin Hood types, aren’t they?” the detective continued, with that unsettling, constrained anger. “They’re lovable rogues. Robbing from the rich to give to the poor in just the way you reporters think is great.”
“Well, given some of what they did, you can’t deny—”
“And what about kidnapping a 17-year-old girl? Terrifying her and tormenting her dad?”
“Ok, that’s out of place, but—”
“I bet you think she’ll be safe in their hands? These Edwards wouldn’t hurt a fly, eh? It’s all just a harmless little game?”
The menace in Adam’s voice was overwhelming. It left Dan speechless and looking to Katrina for help.
“That’s what you think, isn’t it?” the detective powered on. “But you’re wrong – very wrong – because it always ends up the same.”
And perhaps to save Dan from any more discomfort, or simply to hear the conclusion of a story which had been stoked with such a build-up, Katrina cut in, “Adam, maybe you should just tell us what you’re trying to say.”
***
A page turned. The division from what went before was stark, like a curtain coming down and a new act beginning.
The Edwards tried another attack on a bank. And they were nearly caught.
“I was still twitchy about what they might try next, so I had the Eggheads put surveillance on them,” Adam explained. “Martha must have realised she was being watched and pulled out. I might have got her on some paltry charges, but it would have been community service at best. And given what she’s gone through, maybe not even that.”
“What she’s gone through?” Dan queried.
“I’ll tell you more about that later. Anyway, there was something different about this case. It looked like the Edwards were chasing serious sums of money.”
Now came a lull, the first in the chronology of crimes the siblings were thought to have carried out. For four months, nothing was heard.
Until the night of 13 September and the break-in at the headquarters of the South West Peninsula (Subdivision) Regional Health Strategic Oversight Authority; a masterpiece of bureaucratic nomenclature if ever there was one.
As Adam went through the story, Dan understood the reason for his friend’s anger. He turned, held the detective’s look, and received a nod of forgiveness.
***
The convoy slowed for the town of Kingsbridge, all inlets and creeks. It was market day, and a busy one with the sunshine, colourful stalls filling a car park and lining the main street.
They followed the road through the throng, then back out into the countryside and on to the village of Frogmore. It was another in the well-fed register of Devon names that raised more questions than could ever perhaps be answered.
They turned off the main road and onto a single tarmac track, fattened only by the occasional passing place. The earth banks of Devon hedges closed in, their green bulk speckled with the blues, purples and whites of springtime.
One by one, the accompanying sirens fell silent. They were moving slowly now, furtively, unwilling to risk alerting that which they had come to hunt.
“I can just finish the story,” Adam said. “It’s time to show you what the Edwards really are.”
***
He was a security guard in name, but it was a Hall of Mirrors description of the job. A caretaker in uniform would have been more honest.
Albert Fisher was, by unanimous account, a gentle man. He was 63 years old, greying in the hair, expanding in the waist and earning a little extra money to ease the transition into retirement. He and his wife Janet both had reasonable pensions and planned to downsize, selling the house in Plymouth and moving to the kinder climes of the Lizard peninsula in Cornwall. A twee white cottage had been identified. The garden was fruitful without being overly taxing and the conveyancing was underway.
The couple had always been the fabled outdoor types and planned to do their best to defy the ageing process by staying that way. The Lizard was a wonderful place to walk, with its unique heathland and spectacular coast. Even that great headland could be just a base for exploring the rest of Cornwall. A good life’s final adventure beckoned happily.
The motive for the break-in was unclear. A theory that the Edwards might have been looking for confidential documents was aired, or maybe trying to steal official stationery for some purpose unknown. Perhaps they wanted to access the computer systems.
Such were the thoughts, but none were ever proven as facts. All that could be concluded was money wasn’t the objective. There was only petty cash stored in the offices.
Albert had found a storeroom open and walked in to investigate. His reward was a cosh on the back of the head. The medical evidence was clear that he had been hit at least twice more as he lay unconscious.
That the Edwards were responsible was conjecture, a supposition based on evidence so flimsy there would never be a point in putting it before a court. They had no alibis for the night and an informant had whispered that they’d been talking of some kind of attack at an important building. Martha’s knowledge of forensics, the theory went, would have equipped her with the ability to break in without leaving the giveaway fingerprints, hairs or fibres.
Albert had survived, but he hadn’t lived. There was extensive brain damage. It left a man who had been proud, independent and eloquent unable to walk, communicate or care for himself.
In a reflex of emotion, Dan remembered the story. When it became clear the police investigation was making no progress, Janet had spoken out in an attempt to bring witnesses forward.
Dan could recall very few reports on Wessex Tonight that were not his own. Most were fillers, of little consequence, forgotten in seconds. But some stood out. And for him, they were always the victims’ stories, the tales of lives ruined in a second’s viciousness or violence, stupidity or negligence. On the darker nights, lying sleepless in bed, those that Dan had himself covered often returned to taunt his restless mind.
Janet put on a little make-up to help her brave the camera and had just about got through the interview. That she kept breaking down only made it more moving. She described the life the couple were planning to lead together. Spoiling grandchildren by day, walks on the beach by night, just like when they first married almost 40 years ago.
“And now…” she’d stammered, “all he’s got… after all those years… all those hopes… is a living death.”
Martha and Brian Edwards were interviewed at length. He would say nothing at all, retained an unbreachable silence.
A note on the file read, Suspect Martha drilled it into him.
Usual story. Say nothing and we’re safe. Psychologist believes he’s totally in her thrall. He was probably the one who did the actual beating, but on her orders. Evidence for this – as ever – none. Just another theory.
Martha said almost nothing. Only when she was told both siblings were being released had there been a brief exchange.
Martha Edwards – You bastards have been going on at me as if I’m a criminal. Where were you to investigate what happened to me?
Detective Sergeant Franks – That’s not what we’re talking about.
Martha – And that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? No one’s ever talked about it. No one’s ever cared.
Franks – For the last time, do you have anything to say about Albert Fisher?
Martha – I’m sorry for what happened to him. But…
Franks – But what?
Martha – Who’s sorry for what happened to me?
Franks – About Albert Fisher?
Martha – He worked for the government. You work for the government. You make your choices and you take your chances. Fuck you all.
Franks – He was a 63-year-old man. Beaten as he lay helpless on the floor.
Martha – And I was a 5-year-old girl!
Franks – Is there anything you want to say about the attack on Albert Fisher?
Martha – Just let me out of here.
***
Adam finished reading. They drove on in silence. The rumbling of the car was the only companion to their wandering thoughts.
Finally, Adam said quietly, “No Robin Hoods. No lovable rogues with hearts of gold. Just criminals.”
The road turned down a hill. Ahead was an expanse of sea. They were approaching East Prawle, angles of roofs reaching above a line of trees.
Katrina drew up in a pub car park. The rest of the convoy followed. Police officers began clambering out of the vans and cars.
“Just one thing,” Dan said, as Adam opened the door. “What changed? To turn them from mockery to effectively murder?”
Adam hesitated, then said, “Later. It’s not what you need to hear when we may be about to face them.”