The Shadows of Justice

by Simon Hall

  “There’s no pressure, as ever,” Claire replied, her voice tinted with sadness. “But if you do have an hour, it’d be great to see you. We are going to have to talk sometime.”

  She smiled and Dan managed to find a passable imitation in return. The tannoy announced the resumption of the case and they paced back towards the court. Katrina stood by the doors, finishing the remains of her coffee, with an expression as aloof as the highest mountain top. She didn’t once look at Dan.

  ***

  For a woman who was diminished enough at the start of the trial, Annette had shrunk further with each day.

  The clothes she wore enveloped rather than fitted, as though they were bought for a different person. There was no colour to them, no personality, no spirit or sparkle. She wore no make-up or jewellery, no detail, no adornments. It was as if she wanted to fade from sight, be as nondescript and indistinct as were ever possible. Own no individuality, suffer nothing distinguishing about herself.

  And now she stood once again, in the tomb of the witness box, waiting for the final assault.

  “The last matter I must raise is the ransom demand,” Wishart began, when the court had settled. “Can you tell us how that happened?”

  The break had brought none of the life back to Annette’s face. She was sickly pallid. Her voice, quiet throughout, was now close to imperceptible.

  “I heard a door. And feet behind me. Then these hands grabbed the sides of my head and held me so I couldn’t move.”

  Annette stopped abruptly and reached for her ear lobe in that reflex, comforting twitch. The microphone thudded dully with the movement.

  “Ms Newman?” Wisheart prompted.

  “I thought I was going to be killed! I thought they were going to take a knife and slice my throat open. Ok?!”

  “And then you saw the note?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “This hand pointed to it. There was a phone. I heard a voice answering. Something tapped me on the back of the head and a finger pointed to the note again. So I started reading.”

  “And then?”

  “The phone disappeared and my blindfold and gag were put back on.”

  “And you saw no one?”

  “No.”

  “Did you not try to look around?”

  “My head was being held so I couldn’t. And—”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t dare to! Ok? I was too scared. I thought—”

  “Thought what?”

  “That I’d be killed. From that note, I knew – knew they were serious. What they said they’d do to me. I thought I was going to die.”

  Wishart smoothed his robe. “It is the case, is it not, that throughout your ordeal you caught no sight of the person, or persons, who had taken you?”

  Annette was struggling to form the words. “I…”

  “You didn’t see anyone, did you?”

  “No.”

  “So these two people in the dock. You can’t possibly say they were in any way implicated in this crime, can you?”

  “I… I think—”

  “I’m not asking for an opinion, Ms Newman. I’m asking for a fact.”

  “Careful, Mr Wishart,” intervened the judge.

  The barrister paused. “Let me rephrase the question. I’m putting it to you that you can in no way connect these two people in the dock with your abduction? Can you?”

  Annette’s lips were trembling. The sunshine which had surrounded her faded as a cloud drifted over the courthouse.

  “It’s a simple fact, is it not?” the barrister continued. “You, the subject of this crime, you can in no way link these two people to it? Can you?”

  And now Annette leaned back in the witness box and slowly lowered herself onto the seat. Torment upon ordeal, bombardment upon barrage had taken their toll. All fight was extinguished, any remaining spirit broken. When she answered, her voice sounded exhausted.

  “No. I can’t.”

  Several of the jurors had been taking careful notes. Now, in unison, they rested their pens.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday was a point of the week which threw up a dilemma for Dan. Usually he’d see it as a gateway to the weekend and pop out for an evening beer. A drink or two to relax, ready for the welcome embrace of Friday.

  This particular Thursday, like Janus, he faced two ways. One instinct was vociferous: to head straight out and get drunk. Only such a numbing experience could ease the emotion of the day in court.

  The more cerebral side counselled caution. Another busy day loomed tomorrow, with more of the case to report. The end was nearing, the tension growing. A hangover would be a highly unwelcome companion.

  To help him decide, Dan ran a familiar track. Rutherford was placed upon his lead and together they crossed Eggbuckland Road and walked into Hartley Park.

  The light was beginning to seep from the sky. The trees rustled with the sound of roosting birds. Dan performed a couple of perfunctory stretches and began running, Rutherford keeping an easy pace alongside. They had the park to themselves and delighted in it.

  There was, however, one irritant, an annoying thought which kept popping uninvited into Dan’s mind like an unscratched itch. It was a memory of an unanswered question, one which had needled him for six months. That elusive PP in the ransom demand.

  In the police interviews, the Edwards had looked blank and refused to answer questions about it. Despite all the inquiries, all the detectives who had worked on it, the meaning of the two letters had never been discovered.

  Dan had come to wonder if it ever would be, if even perhaps it signified anything. It could just have been a game, a taunt, the reddest of herrings. But that had never struck him as the Edwards’ style.

  He distracted himself with different thoughts. The report of the day’s proceedings was the lead story on Wessex Tonight, and rightly so. Dan felt he had done Annette justice in showing how she’d suffered, no matter what doubts the defence may raise.

  “So, it wasn’t a bad day,” he told Rutherford, as they completed a lap. “It was just the little issue with Katrina which tarnished it. I don’t think I’ll be getting anywhere with her now, after that hug from Claire. Not that I probably should, anyway. It really is about time to have that talk with Claire, don’t you think?”

  At the mention of the sacred name, Rutherford jumped up and wheeled his paws in the air.

  “That’s a deal then dog,” Dan panted. “We’ll sort it out by Christmas, ok? Assuming she’s still interested in us. And who could blame her if she wasn’t? What sane woman would want to take on you and me?”

  They managed to hit the target of ten laps before heading home. As they left the park, Dan said, “So, what am I doing? Having a beer or not?”

  Usually, when they went for a run, Dan took his mobile along. Long experience had taught him a call was most likely when it was least wanted. But on this occasion he’d left the phone in the hallway.

  Its little message light was flashing a welcome. Dan sighed and picked it up, readying himself for a summons to a breaking story.

  But it was a text message, and from a number the phone didn’t recognise.

  Fancy a drink tonight? K

  ***

  The bus dropped Dan off at Royal Parade, in the midst of the city. He could have travelled on a couple more stops, but the time was only twenty to nine. He had already breached the etiquette of cool texting and didn’t want to compound the crime by arriving early.

  The message from Katrina was ten minutes old by the time Dan saw it. He managed to make himself wait the five minutes of a rushed and agitated shower before suggesting Leo’s Bar, on Sutton Harbour, for nine.

  It was twenty-five long minutes before the answer came back.

  Fine.

  Dan was on the bus a few seconds later. As he sat, rumbling along Mutley Plain, home to the unholy trinity of students, cheap bars and kebab houses, he realised the favourite shirt he wore was the one Cla
ire bought last Christmas.

  The night ran by. Local legend had it that Plymouth possessed more pubs per head of population than anywhere else in England, possibly a hangover from the days when the Royal Navy dominated the city.

  The streets were milling with people, a parade of colour wending its way to the bars, clubs and restaurants. Cabs trundled along Royal Parade, stopping to unload their laughing, tumbling cargoes. Music pumped from open doors, lights flashing in time. Bouncers eyed those passing with all the suspicion of the experience of a thousand drunken fights.

  The Parade marks a sharp divide, almost a tarmac river in the city centre. To the north the glass fronts of the rows of stores denote the start of the shopping district. Opposite lies the open promenade to the Hoe and the view to the red and white hoops of Smeaton’s Tower, the old lighthouse which once guarded the treacherous rocks of the Eddystone reef.

  At the eastern end stands one of Plymouth’s most iconic landmarks. As much of the city was razed in the bombing of the Second World War, the stately stone of St Andrew’s Church was not spared. Only the walls and tower were left standing, six hundred years of Plymouth history largely destroyed in a single night.

  Amidst the rubble and debris of a once proud city, laid low in a few hours of barbarity, a headmistress nailed a wooden sign above the remains of the door. Upon it was carved simply Resurgam.

  I will rise again.

  To this day, the entrance is known as the Resurgam Door, a granite plaque now replacing its wooden ancestor.

  Dan crossed the road and, as was sometimes his habit in this city which had become his home, stood thinking.

  The urban bustle passed by, as always it does. But in this small space the ghosts of the past gathered, whispering the lessons they tried forever to pass on to the unlistening ears of every modern generation.

  ***

  A zig-zag walk through the narrow backstreets brought Dan to Sutton Harbour and the cobbles by the Three Crowns pub. A line of fishing boats had moored along the wharf, dark shadows of men moving over one deck. The smell of fish filled the still air.

  A couple sat on a wooden bench overlooking the water, eating from bags of chips. A pair of swans glided towards them, necks arched in an elegant begging.

  Dan walked on, past a café and the drifting notes of a saxophone, then on to a couple of pubs and a discordant karaoke. The doorman wore a thickset grimace. “I’d rather be scrapping with drunken louts,” he grunted.

  Ahead loomed the Citadel, the great block of the Napoleonic fort, built to protect Plymouth from the invading hordes gathering across the channel. And just beside it, as if sheltering, was Leo’s Bar, the windows dim with suggestive lights.

  Beneath a yellow streetlamp, in the mirror of a parked lorry, Dan checked his hair, shirt and, with an afterthought, his teeth. The amount of food which could sometimes be found stored there was remarkable. He started walking again, then stopped, started again, and hesitated once more.

  “Come on, Groves,” he told himself. “You’re just going to meet a friend for a drink. That’s all.”

  The time was five past nine. Perfect to be a little cool, but not rude or uninterested.

  The bouncer began a scan program, from the peak of the highest follicle to the edge of the longest toenail. The man’s face set in concentration as he went through the calculations regarding shoes, jeans, shirt, severity of haircut and predominance of tattoos. The eventual answer proved acceptable and the door was pushed open.

  ***

  Sometimes in life, you can feel a spotlight illuminating your doubts for all the world to see. So it was for Dan as he lingered in the doorway.

  He checked along the polished wood of the bar. A pair of businessmen. A group of three women. A waiter. A barman, buffing knives. No Katrina.

  Next, it was the stools by the window. A young couple, steepled together. A man eating some unidentifiable snack.

  Now the chairs and tables at the back of the bar. Dan squinted through the darkness. One day, he’d have to conquer the snowy mountain of vanity and get some glasses. But he could just about make out at least two or three people at each table.

  Finally, the leather sofas. A couple picking at some olives and sharing a bottle of wine. A man reading a paper, sipping at a bottle of beer. No Katrina.

  Eyes were starting to stare at the newcomer, standing in the doorway. It could only be seconds before the dreaded whispers began.

  It’s that man on the telly. He’s been stood up. He’s got no friends.

  From behind came a gentle cough. “Would you like to join me, or would you prefer to just stay there?”

  Dan was about to reach out to shake her hand, but managed to stop himself as she stood for a kiss.

  Their mouths moved together, slow, slow, slow, until Katrina suddenly turned her face. And then they sat, as if a peck on the cheek was all that had ever been envisaged.

  The leather sofa was large enough for two, but only just. Dan angled himself into one corner, Katrina the other. Their knees brushed as she reached for the menu.

  “Do you like wine?”

  Dan tried to ignore the tempting range of bottled ales beckoning from the foot of the sheet. “Yes.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Both. But not in the same glass, please.”

  She raised an eyebrow, but ordered a bottle of red. It was the second most expensive on the list.

  “Interesting,” Dan mused, sitting back.

  “In what way?”

  “Most people choose the second cheapest wine. I’m wondering what picking the second most expensive means.”

  “It means it’s my favourite.”

  They talked a little about the bar. It had only opened a few months ago. Smart, but trying to be relaxed and just about succeeding was the consensus.

  The waiter arrived and poured Dan a measure of wine to taste. Katrina was going to take it, but he got there first. It was time to show off the legendary Groves’ wit. He held the glass to the light, made a play of sniffing hard, then sipping and rolling the liquid repeatedly around his mouth before pronouncing, “Yep, that’s definitely a red.”

  The waiter didn’t smile. But that mattered not at all, not in the slightest, not an ounce nor an atom, because Katrina did.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said, softly. “There’s hardly been time to talk about anything apart from work.”

  Dan described his college days as a disc jockey, then moving on to radio and television news. Katrina talked about her career with the Metropolitan Police and kidnapping cases she’d handled.

  “It’s 23 now. And each one is still like a flame burning in my mind. You never forget.”

  “Just like I never forget an interview with anyone who’s suffered a bereavement. Whether they’ve lost someone to a drunk driver or a murdering thug, it doesn’t leave me.”

  “It’s the intensity of the emotion. It carves the memory into your mind.”

  The bar was growing busier. The wine had evaporated with remarkable rapidity, as bottles do when you reach a certain age. Katrina ordered another.

  They discussed the trial, how it was going and Annette.

  “You’ve grown close to her,” Dan noted.

  “It’s difficult not to. She’s suffered terribly.”

  “It’s just that?”

  “Meaning?”

  “You don’t have any children, do you?”

  Katrina rolled the wine around her glass. “You’re a perceptive man.”

  “I just – notice things.”

  “It’s more than that. It’s partly why Adam always wants you around. He relies on you a great deal, you know. You see things that he can’t.”

  Dan felt his cheeks reddening. It must be the drink. He was scarcely used to wine, let alone such a heady vintage as that which was currently dancing across his tongue.

  “I don’t know about that,” he managed, at last. “But I can tell you this… it feels like a hell of a burden some days. It’s
like the whole of the world is waiting for me to sort out its problems.”

  Katrina excused herself and made for the rest rooms, as they had been styled. Dan stared out at the view, lights shimmering on the smooth waters, the outlines of people passing by. It was a surprise when a bell rang and the barman called last orders.

  “I’ll be heading back to London in a few days,” Katrina said, as she returned. “When the case is finally over.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  She leaned forwards. Now their legs were touching, and with a firm, persistent pressure.

  “Is it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Doesn’t it make your life easier?”

  “In what way?”

  “With Claire.”

  Dan didn’t reply, instead sipped at his wine.

  “She loves you very much, you know.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “She told you that?”

  “She said you’d had a few problems, but you were working it out. You were meant to be together. Those were her words.”

  “Err…”

  “I think she was warning me off.”

  Dan found himself getting up from the sofa. “I think it’s time I was getting home.”

  “Sit down a minute.”

  Back down he sat, without a thought to demur. The light was catching Katrina’s eyes, pooling in the contrasting colours. It was difficult not to stare into them.

  “Do you like my eyes?” She asked.

  “Err, well – yes, of course I do. I thought…”

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Please tell me. I’d like to hear.”

  “I was being silly. It must be the wine.”

  Slowly, her lips formed the words. “Tell me.”

  Dan hesitated, but said, “From the first moment we met, I thought they were like two different shades of autumn. The turning leaf next to the evergreen.”

  She sat back and finished the remains of the wine. A kiss of lipstick lingered on the rim of the glass.

  And amidst the quiet and half-light of the bar, the supernova exploded.

  “Would you like to spend the night at my hotel?” Katrina asked.