The Shadows of Justice

by Simon Hall

  Chapter Fourteen

  It began like a phoney war.

  The procession of vans, cars and motorbikes moved slowly along the narrow road. There were no racing engines, no squealing tyres, no sirens. Only the silent intensity of pure concentration.

  Every officer was watching. For a surreptitious or panicked movement. The guilty twitch of a curtain or hasty shutting of a door.

  They would move into the centre of the village as furtively as possible. And from there they would storm outwards, a radius of motion, through houses, cottages, caravans, shops, sheds and barns.

  A tattered old wooden sign welcomed them to East Prawle. A homely and embracing sight for generations of locals and holidaymakers, but surely never to have witnessed visitors like this.

  The Devon hedges tapered to the ground, as if curtains falling on their arrival. Around was the expanse of open countryside and the great dome of the sapphire sky. Fields filled with the hues of crops.

  Ahead a promontory jutted a dark finger into the sea. Prawle Point, southernmost tip of Devon; an impertinent jab of land into the waters’ realm. The line of the cliffs embraced the bay, the sun at its zenith, its only challenge a couple of brushstrokes of cloud. In the far distance the tiny dots of a disciplined line of shipping ploughed a path along the English Channel.

  The road opened out once more. Houses were beginning to rise from the earth. A man guided a young child on a bike, newspapers, bread and milk piled in its basket.

  The air was full of the sound of gulls. One picked at the discarded packaging beneath a litter bin. A jackdaw watched from atop a Georgian post box.

  It was quintessential England, exemplary Devon, an archetypal village. But hidden somewhere, amidst the rustic veneer, was a secret.

  Silence had filled the car, Katrina, Dan, Adam and Claire too focused on their surroundings to speak.

  But now Adam muttered, “Are you sure about this? You and your bloody weird inspirations. Cirl buntings indeed.”

  Dan didn’t bother to reply. It was an echo that hadn’t the decency to fade. They must have been through the conversation half a dozen times. After the moment of revelation in the news library, Adam sent a couple of detectives to check on the key claim of the report, the tiny scope of the birds’ sole remaining habitat.

  Dan tried not to grow irritated at the challenge to his journalistic honour, and then smug as the call came back. It was entirely true. The story of the cirl buntings was renowned within the birdwatchers’ world.

  If it was cirl buntings the police needed to find, they could confine the search to East Prawle and its immediate surroundings. And given that faint noise of a lawnmower in the background of the ransom call, it had to be the village itself.

  Ahead were a couple of shops and a pub with a large earthen car park beside them. One by one the vans, cars and bikes pulled up. And across the grass and tarmac and paths and tracks spread the flood of the operation to save Annette Newman.

  ***

  That the briefing had been quick was a mark of its urgency, with Adam managing to confine his oration to only a few seconds. He stood on the step of a Land Rover, the breeze toying with the dark strands of his hair, with the officers all gathered around.

  There were a hundred or so, as many as could be mustered in a short time. The convoy had grown as it travelled. Cars lingered in lay-bys to join, others screamed up behind. The police helicopter had also been scrambled. It was waiting in a field, ready to join the hunt.

  At the heart of the gathering was the knot of armed officers. Even they were showing hints of the anticipation of what was to come. One man dabbed at a trickle of sweat as it twisted its way down his forehead. Another clenched and unclenched a fist.

  As befits a village hiding in the cambers of the Devon countryside, and at the extreme of its long miles of beauty, there was but one road into and out of East Prawle. A couple of officers were pulling barriers from the back of a van and blocking it. Another laid out bollards and Road Closed signs. Two more stood sentry duty.

  The trap was laid.

  At the back of the group Nigel filmed, camera steady on his shoulder. He too had joined the convoy, pulling out just as it left Kingsbridge.

  “What’s the plan?” he whispered to Dan.

  “I don’t have a plan. We’ve no idea what’s going to happen. Just follow and film everything we can.”

  Adam was gazing into the ring of the crowd, a leader’s look to each of his officers. The sun had angled behind him, casting a darkness across the detective’s rugged features. Shadows filled his eyes.

  “I won’t say much, because there’s not much to say,” Adam rallied, the authority of his voice carrying easily across the car park. “We get one chance at this. When we pull up, storm the area. Be restless and relentless. Use your eyes and your instincts. Spot the sign that leads us to the kidnappers. That gate closing, the feet running or the person who can’t look you in the eye. Get out there – and save Annette!”

  ***

  In each direction officers ran, filled with the energy of their purpose, like sparks flung from a Catherine wheel.

  One made for the shop, the kind of all-encompassing affair of many a village monopoly. A blackboard advertised the sale of newspapers, cigarettes, milk, lottery tickets, greeting cards, beer and wine, vegetables, light bulbs, logs and kindling. Even a variety of creams for every purpose; ice, sun, insect and Devon clotted.

  Through the reflections of the glass, the officer pushed his way past the queue of three, quite a rush in the terms of the Devon countryside. He began talking to the woman behind the counter.

  An Alsatian trotted past, his handler striding hard to keep up. The dog could have been Rutherford’s cousin. A spaniel sniffed along the path beside the pub, stopping occasionally to check a scent, its busy head a smudge of golden motion.

  Outside the pub, a detective spoke to a squat man wearing a grubby T-shirt and shorts. His arms were folded, resting on the support of his ample girth and his voice loud.

  No, nothing. Nothing unusual at all.

  The village filled with the barrage of the police helicopter. It rose from beneath the cliff line and hovered overhead, rotors threshing the air.

  At the axis of the momentum Nigel filmed, whipping the camera around time and again, panning back and forth, trying to capture the human blizzard that was the hunt.

  “It’s chaos,” he gasped. “Where do we go?”

  Dan didn’t reply, just kept his look set on Adam. The leader had become the observer, the analyst, the interpreter. Amongst all the officers going about their frenetic work, he alone stood still, a cool pillar of composure. All the experience of his generation of policing was in that look; scrutinising, feeling for the trail they sought.

  A young cop was half way up a ladder, calling questions to a man digging out a gutter. He was waving a picture of Annette. A woman was checking the cars parked around the back of the pub. A stream of officers knocked on doors, hard and demanding, firing questions at the householders who emerged.

  “Adam?” Dan prompted. “Adam?”

  No answer. Slowly, the detective was turning around, his narrowed eyes taking in each detail of the storm he had unleashed. He was with every one of the officers, sensing what they sensed, seeing what they saw.

  “We’d better follow the cops and get more action,” Nigel said.

  “Yeah, but which ones? How the hell do we know where Annette is?”

  “If she’s here at all.”

  “She’s here.”

  Dan was surprised at the certainty in his voice. He had no time to wonder if it was true faith or an attempt to convince himself.

  “When they find her, that’s the shot,” he continued. “The picture that’ll be splashed around the world. If we’re here and we don’t get it, it’ll be humiliating. We’ll be the nearly men. So near and yet so far.”

  “Very lyrical, very you,” replied the practical cameraman, anchor to the earth. “So – what do we do?�
�

  “Adam?” Dan prompted again.

  And now the detective spoke. “We wait.”

  Claire and Katrina headed off to join the search. They went separate ways, Claire heading down the hill, towards the coast and a group of bungalows. Katrina made for the pub and cottages behind.

  As they ran, both women looked back. Dan quickly busied himself wiping a grain of dust from his eye.

  The helicopter banked and headed west, to the edge of the village and the open countryside, rising higher into the sky.

  A cop was leading a woman towards an old-fashioned garage, white stone and black wooden gates. She unlocked them and he disappeared into the darkness.

  Nigel took a step forward, the camera trained. “This is it. I can feel it.”

  They could hear the sound of metal moving, grinding and groaning. A line of officers jogged past, heading for the northern end of the village. All were sweating hard in the day’s heat.

  Another noise from the garage. This time a dull thud. Nigel edged closer.

  A car chugged past, heading out of Prawle, an older woman driving. A detective stepped into the road, stopped her, checked the boot and waved her on. In this net, with these stakes, no one was beyond suspicion.

  From the garage the cop emerged, brushing dust from his shoulders. He was shaking his head.

  “So much for your hunches,” Dan muttered.

  His mobile rang. “Yes, there is an operation going on in East Prawle,” Dan replied. “I know because I’m in the middle of it. Yes, Lizzie, we are filming it. Thanks for the tip, I would never have thought of that.”

  Beside him, Adam shifted position and peered into the brightness of the sky. To the north and east, no more than a quarter of a mile away, a thin trail of dark smoke was rising above a line of trees.

  ***

  Adam was away, running, moving fast. Dan didn’t hesitate. He followed.

  They crossed the road, dodged a couple on bicycles and found a gap between a line of houses. A dry mud track, just wide enough for a car, led over the brow of a small hill. It was lined with trees.

  From above, Dan thought he heard the song of a cirl bunting. He tried to pick out a shape in the foliage, but there was no sign of any birdlife.

  Nigel was panting hard from the slope. Dan reached out and took the camera.

  To either side were the back gardens of houses. A child careered down a slide. A woman watched while talking into a mobile phone.

  They were nearing the crest of the hill. The smoke was thickening, a fattened smear on the blueness of the sky.

  “What’re we doing?” Dan gasped to Adam.

  “A hunch.”

  “But – should we be leaving the main search? Most of the houses are back there.”

  Adam just kept running. Dan stumbled on a clump of thick grass, the dense weight of the camera nearly dragging him over.

  “Surely it’s just a farmer, burning rubbish?”

  “A fire’s the best way to destroy evidence. As someone who’d studied forensics would know.”

  They rounded a corner. Now the green lane was filled with smoke. Its acrid tang prickled the tongue and stung the nose. Through a barrier of bushes loomed the hazy outline of a cottage.

  The thatch of its roof was aflame, orange spears rising into the air, circling the stone of the chimney. The fire was spreading fast, roaring out its hunger. More flames danced from an upstairs window.

  Nigel took the camera, hoisted it to his shoulder and began filming. Overhead the helicopter swooped, sending flames leaping and smoke swirling. Adam waved frantically and the great beast banked away.

  “Help’s coming,” Dan yelled.

  “We can’t wait. She could be dying in there.”

  Next to the cottage was a garage. Adam lurched towards the double doors and pulled them open. Black smoke bellowed out, enveloping him. The detective began choking and coughing as he squatted down to escape the fumes.

  Inside, swathed in smoke and with flames leaping around it, was a white van. Paint was starting to blister and peel from its bonnet and the windscreen was blackening. As they watched, it cracked with a whipping snap. The stench of burning rubber and petrol was like an attack. Dan felt his body shake with a burst of wracking coughs.

  Adam span and headed for the door. All of the thatch was alight now, greedily sucking in the air. The heat assailed them, beating at every inch of exposed flesh, singeing eyes, throats and lungs.

  The door was ajar. Adam kicked out. It smashed into the wall, a pane of glass breaking with the impact. They tumbled inside.

  The cottage was fast filling with murderous smoke. The momentum of the fire was growing relentlessly. Embers of burning straw floated past.

  Ahead was a staircase, a threadbare carpet with pictures lining the walls. The way was blocked by a bank of flames. It was impassable.

  “Shit,” Adam moaned. “If she’s up there…”

  He pivoted left, along a stone-flagged corridor. A barometer crashed to the floor, tiny spheres of mercury speeding from it.

  They were in a small lounge. A sofa, an easy chair, a television and a rug covering the floor. A leaning standard lamp. But no sign of Annette.

  From above came a low creaking, followed by a thud, then another. Flaming straw fell past the window.

  “The bloody place is coming down!” Dan shouted. “Adam, we’re going to die in here!”

  He clutched for his friend, but too late. In the far corner of the room was a small door. Adam leapt for it, pulled it open. Shelves, a vacuum cleaner, some pillows and blankets. He span and headed back for the corridor. The merciless heat was everywhere and growing always more intense.

  They burst into a kitchen. Adam pulled open a row of cupboards. He groped blindly inside, arms flailing. Cans, pots and pans tumbled out, clattering a discordant rhythm on the stone of the floor.

  Dan leant back against the sink and tried desperately to catch some breath. The air was full of singeing, cloying smoke. A bottle of wine dropped and shattered. Another groaning thud echoed from the roof.

  “Come on, come on!” Adam panted, lunging for the end of the kitchen, glass crunching under the hard soles of his shoes.

  Another black wooden door faced them. It was a store room, also stone floored, the shelves full of packets and tins and the air blissfully cool. And on the floor, on a tartan blanket, was the curled shape of a person, hair seeping onto the flagstones. It was motionless, no sign of life.

  “It’s Annette!” Adam yelled. “Help me! For fuck’s sake!”

  Dan tried to breathe, felt his stomach heave with the effort. He bent down, battling to fight the bile of the rising nausea. The air was clearer by the ground, free of the sticky, suffocating smoke. He gulped it in.

  “Her legs!” Adam ordered. “Come on man!” His voice rose to a scream. “Now!”

  Dan fumbled to get a grip, managed to grab a fold of jeans, then an ankle. He felt the warmth of Annette’s body through the material and had to concentrate to force himself not to let go. Clouds of dense smoke billowed around them, stinging his eyes. They were watering so hard that he could barely see.

  “Lift!” yelled Adam. “For Christ’s sake, lift!”

  It felt like an immense, immovable weight. He managed to half-lift, half-drag the flaccid legs towards the door, following Adam and shuffling towards the hazy light. Ahead was the sweetness of the clean air, the breeze like the most rejuvenating of balms.

  Dan urged his leaden muscles to take one step, then another, to wade through the hellish smoke and heat and stench of fire. He was vaguely aware of arms helping to pull him, Nigel’s contorted face looming. Someone was shouting, but the words made no sense.

  He nearly fell but steadied himself, forced another couple of steps from his faltering legs and they were out in the light. The blessed, beautiful sunshine. Dan collapsed onto the lawn, struggling to breathe in the sudden shock of freedom.

  Adam sunk to his knees beside Annette. He tapped gently at her
cheek, then harder. But there was no reaction.

  The spirit of the reaper chilled the air. The darkness of his outline lurked in the corner of each set of eyes, beckoning to the young woman trapped in the twilight between life and death.

  Another flare of fire arced from the cottage roof, smoking fronds filling the sky. Adam leant back, let out a low groan, grasped Annette’s shoulders and shook them, then again, harder now.

  There was still no reaction. He tried once more, then stopped and stared at the prone figure lying lifeless on the grass.

  Annette’s eyes twitched and opened.

  In all of his lifetime, Dan never forgot that sight. Choking for breath on his hands and knees amid a perfectly cultivated lawn on a beautiful Devon day, a voracious fire devouring the cottage and sirens screaming around him, yet all he could see were the eyes of a young woman.

  He took long weeks trying to understand what it was he found in them. Finally, many months later, when all was at last done with the story of Annette Newman, when he could summon the courage to revisit that day, Dan decided.

  Her eyes were filled with newborn demons.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Annette’s face froze, lingered and disappeared. The television screens faded to blackness, only the red jewels of the standby lights showing in the darkness.

  The flames that had filled the inside of the cottage, which had leapt from the monitors and around the old room, were gone. The roaring of the inferno that had sounded from the floorboards and walls was quietened. The blinds were drawn back and the lights in Courtroom Number Three turned on once more, a horde of the shadows of the past running before them.

  The pictures Nigel filmed that spring day, six months ago, had made for one of the most dramatic parts of an extraordinary trial. And now, at last, they had reached the denouement.

  The eleven in the jury box sat silent. Only the foreman remained standing. He took off his glasses and polished them with his thin, acrylic tie. Around him, all waited to see where the man would look.

  The old adage was everywhere. At the Edwards, or elsewhere. Guilty or not guilty.

  But still the man was resolutely staring downwards, rigorous in the pursuit of the slightest speck of grime on those oversized, outdated spectacles.