The Shadows of Justice

by Simon Hall

  They crossed a roundabout, navigated a sharp corner and pulled up outside Homely Terrace.

  ***

  The Edwards’ house had come close to being erased from existence. It was as if it had been a toy, flicked away by a mighty, reckoning finger.

  The roof was entirely gone, destroyed in the eruption of the explosion. Plates and shards of broken slate littered the road, some lying across the bonnets of parked cars. Dan bent down and picked one up, a dagger of a piece. It was still warm. Even here, at the end of the road, there were plenty of scattered fragments; a testament to the force of the blast.

  Cattedown grew up around the docks; its southern, waterfront side heavy with the metallic sounds and oily smells of industry. Above it rise the stout towers of the gasworks, and further out is filled with lines of streets. The houses are compact and largely terraced, apart from a handful of favoured roads. The gardens tend to be small and separated by narrow alleyways, usually filled with the flying feet of children at play.

  The Edwards’ place was on the end of the terrace. A For Sale sign had been knocked over in the garden of the house next door. Otherwise it was remarkably untouched, apart from a couple of shattered windows. A diagonal line of jagged bricks, the remains of what was once its neighbour, swept down from the eaves to where the living room window had been.

  The bricks traced half of an empty rectangle, a couple of warped prongs of the window frames drooping at wilting angles. What was once a supporting wall now stood only knee high, blackened with fire and ash. Leaning across it was the charred wooden stump of a standard lamp, topped by spindly wire, its shade consumed in the flames. Inside, the hint of an easy chair and sofa were piled together against a wall along with a table, layers of wallpaper peeling above.

  A couple of shoots of orange and red flame flickered inside the house. Arcs of water from the jet hoses swung to their new target. Grey and black smoke and white steam mingled and rose together from the ruin. The air reeked with the acrid tang of burnt plastic.

  Dan sniffed hard and thought he could sense another, more subtle, odour. He coughed hard, swallowed and tried again. This time he could scent it more clearly.

  He tapped Claire’s shoulder. She too sniffed the air and nodded.

  The street was filled with fire engines, police cars and vans. Arc lights had been set up, illuminating the terrace and the ragged wound in its flank. A constable loomed into view, ushering arms aloft, his intent instantly neutered by the shield of Claire’s warrant card.

  At the end of the road Nigel pulled up, grabbed the camera and tripod and began filming. Even after the turmoil and emotion of yesterday, and the early call out, he looked fresh and worked fast. He had the spirit of a man less than half his semi-century of years.

  Dan edged along to where Adam was staring at the remains of the house. “A revenge killing?” he asked.

  “It could have been an accident.”

  More convincing explanations had issued from the mouths of politicians drowning in the quicksand of yet another scandal.

  “All right, that looks most likely,” the detective conceded. “But it’ll be a while before we’re sure. It’s one hell of a mess. It’s a gas explosion.”

  Claire nodded. “We thought so. It’s still in the air.”

  “The Edwards?” Dan asked.

  “Didn’t stand a chance. The bodies are in there. But… it’s not pretty.”

  An unspoken question rose from the ruins of the house and wound its way around them.

  “I suppose we’ve still got to find out who did it,” Dan said, at last.

  “Yes, we have,” Adam replied, firmly. “No matter who suffers it, or who commits it and why. A crime’s a crime.”

  “Is it?” was Dan’s quiet rejoinder.

  ***

  The standard news editor’s question to any reporter covering a fire is – Did you get to film any flames?

  It’s a measure of how fast you are on the scene, and so how impressive the pictures are. The problem is the fire brigades are always a foe as they tend to selfishly extinguish the conflagration as soon as possible.

  Nigel took only minutes to get to Homely Terrace and was happily filming not just with flames, but also the evacuation of the rest of the houses in the street. Which left Dan the simple task of pouncing upon those who could best be charmed or browbeaten into providing an interview.

  He captured three. The first was an older lady, who spoke of the night “being like the Blitz”, a statement which will be familiar to journalists throughout the kingdom. A younger woman talked of the explosion shaking the foundations of her house. Her partner agreed and eloquently described a fireball reaching up into the sky and debris clattering to the ground.

  Powerful though the descriptions were, it was something else that marked the interviews in Dan’s mind. All three of his contributors were awake when the explosion happened, despite the time being around four o’clock in the morning. The reason was a car alarm which had gone off only a few minutes before.

  Light was shading the sky. The time had edged on to twenty to six. The first of the breakfast bulletins took to the air at half past. Lizzie was renowned for shaming the lark, and one of her first instincts was to check the world of Wessex news. Getting a report together was the next priority.

  Nigel was mouthing some words, but Dan wasn’t hearing. He was staring at the space in the terrace where the Edwards’ house had once stood.

  “Are you ok?” the cameraman called, a gentle hand shaking his thought-miner of a reporter’s shoulder. “I said – you’d better get going to the studios.”

  “Sorry, I was… somewhere else.”

  “You’re not trying to be a detective again, are you?”

  They were interrupted by an ambulance driving fast up the street. Nigel span the camera to follow it.

  “Bit late that, isn’t it?” he asked.

  El had materialised from the shadows of the dawn, as was his way. “I’d have reckoned so. From what I hear, the Edwards are toast.”

  Two paramedics jumped down from the cab and headed along the pavement, towards the remains of the house. Adam was nowhere to be seen, so Dan called him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve found a body.”

  “The Edwards?”

  “No, they’re still in the house. It’s someone else. Buried under rubble at the front.’

  “Who?”

  “No idea, yet.”

  “Alive or dead?”

  “Alive – just. Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Just one more thing,” Dan interrupted. “Because you’ll want to hear it. I reckon I know how the Edwards were killed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Amidst the surroundings of the ruined house they reconvened.

  It was Adam’s idea, and often his way, to consider a crime in the place where it had been committed. Dan put this down to an extension of his insistence that a photo of a victim be placed in the Major Incident Room. It was a continual reminder of why they were going about their work.

  A couple of fireman walked past, taking off their helmets and wiping smears of ashy sweat from their foreheads. Katrina climbed down from the police van and joined them. There was a quick chat about how the investigation would be run before she added, in a voice loud and clear, “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your text last night.”

  “Err, what?” Dan replied.

  “It was kind of you to send a message, thank you. But I was – a little lost in myself.”

  Dan managed to mutter something about it being no problem. He glanced over at Claire, but all he could see was her back.

  The house had been made safe, an operation which was eased by the paucity of the remains. The fire was out and the ruins rigorously damped down.

  Dan had quickly discovered the rivalry running between the three emergency services, most pointedly that which divides police and fire. Many cops quietly referred to firemen and women as The Window Cleaners. They o
ften thought that far more pumps were produced and water sprayed around, than was actually required.

  As a senior officer, with diplomacy to consider, Adam had never echoed the view. He commonly spoke highly about the bravery of those who would enter a burning building in search of survivors. But on a couple of occasions, Dan had witnessed the detective’s exasperation at the hopeless contamination of a crime scene by the thousands of gallons of water played upon it.

  Now was one such occasion. Scenes of Crime Officers were already at work, but the early opinion was that Adam should expect little assistance. A fire investigator was also picking through the debris and promised a briefing later. But here too, the difficultly of drawing any meaningful conclusions from these cases had been emphasised. The power of the explosion and the aftermath of the fire-fighting effort were a ruthless combination in the extermination of evidence.

  All that Adam had been presented with so far was confirmation that a gas leak was responsible for the explosion. It was a gem of information, as much a revelation as the opinion that sex can lead to pregnancy.

  The bodies of the Edwards had been removed from the ruin. Dan turned away to avoid the image imprinting upon his mind, but a smell is far harder to evade.

  A stillness fell upon the site, but it was not one universal in respect. A couple of fire officers watched, one shrugging his shoulders and the other flicking a dismissive hand at the body bags. Amongst the crowd of onlookers that still lingered at the end of the street, some made more explicit gestures. Adam stared, his arms folded across his chest. Katrina gently shook her head. Claire was expressionless.

  As Dan turned away, he’d tried to catch her eye but she pointedly avoided looking over. Out in the sea of times ahead, a storm was brewing.

  At least there was some comfort in the morning’s television work going well. With a little rushing around, Dan cut a report for the breakfast bulletins and then headed to the studios’ canteen. He bought himself and Nigel a well-deserved coffee and bacon sandwich, with a side order of beans for dunking. It was their traditional treat on an early start.

  Lizzie professed the outcome of their efforts not bad, but instantly demanded a return to the scene in order to prepare further reportage. Although he didn’t say so, this suited Dan well. With their endeavours of the night, the mainstay of the journalism was done. He could concentrate on working on the investigation.

  While they were sitting in the canteen, young Phil asked if he might pull up a chair and join them. With a faltering tone, he proceeded to pour out an impressive torrent of rue and insecurities.

  “I do my best, but Lizzie never seems to notice. I try hard, I come up with story ideas, I make sure my bulletins are good, but she never says anything.”

  Nigel began going through a series of reassurances, with all the kindness of a practiced father, but it was to Dan that Phil was looking in a vulnerable, almost beseeching, manner.

  “You’re doing well, don’t worry,” he said, feeling the strange stirring of an unexpected heart. “It’s just Lizzie’s way. A no comment from her is damned good. She’d soon say if she saw something she didn’t like.”

  “Really?”

  “You’ve seen some of the stories I’ve turned in?”

  “They’re legendary.”

  “Ah, well, I don’t know about that,” Dan had the decency to at least semi-deny. “But the point is, about the best I’ve ever heard from her is ‘not bad’. And even then she immediately goes on about wanting more. Take it from me, you’re well respected here and you’re doing fine.”

  It’s always an unsettling experience to see someone in such pomp of life laid low. Phil was perhaps in his mid-20s, tall and athletic. He boasted the sort of blonde hair and blue eyed chiseled looks that has women fanning themselves and men muttering into their beers.

  The resulting gush of thanks was perhaps a little excessive although still gratifying. But the next question was even more unexpected.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask this for ages…”

  “Yes?” Dan replied, trying not to sound wary. “If you need a loan, I’m a bit hard up at the moment,” he added, with a reasonable attempt at a smile.

  “Do you think – might you… mind mentoring me a bit? Not a lot, obviously, I know how busy you are. But just – the occasional bit of advice, maybe?”

  A look of such earnest devotion was hard to refuse. Dan shook Phil’s hand and magnanimously agreed.

  “Are you ok?” Nigel asked, as the canteen door closed behind a considerably happier young man. “You’re not in danger of becoming human, are you?”

  ***

  In the corner of the small back garden of what had been the Edwards’ home they stood, talking and watching the investigators go about their work. A couple of rose bushes climbed the wall, many of the delicate petals littering the paving, shed by the force of the explosion.

  Dan pulled himself up onto the wall. It was low, rising only a few feet, and took no great exertion.

  “Most people would be able to get over it without a problem,” he said.

  Adam pushed the gate. There was no lock and it opened silently and easily. “Or they could just have walked in,” he replied, sniffily. “Come on then, tell us your theory.”

  Dan eased himself down from the wall. Fragments of scattered slate cracked under his feet.

  “The Edwards are out on a bender to celebrate their acquittal. I know, I saw them.”

  “Plus,” Claire added, still without looking at Dan, “They announced it to the world via that little press conference on the steps.”

  “Our killer’s already angry about what happened in court,” Dan continued. “Justice hasn’t been done. That anger grows to a rage as the Edwards do their bragging. And when Annette kills herself, the rage becomes an overwhelming fury. A murderous one.”

  They waited while a couple of workmen carried a table out of the ruins of the house. The garden was already full of furniture, blackened and charred.

  “There has to be vengeance,” Dan resumed. “But how? Our killer isn’t a professional assassin. They don’t have access to a gun or explosives. So they’re faced with a problem – how to kill both the Edwards in one go? If they try a knife, or something like that, it’s never going to work. They won’t be able to kill two people without them fighting back and the attacker themselves probably being killed. So – what to do?”

  Adam rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a television drama. Perhaps you might just get on with it.”

  “Ok, our killer’s thinking – what do they know that can help them? To start with, they know where the Edwards live.”

  “Because it’s on all the court documents,” Katrina interjected. “On public display.”

  “So that becomes the focus of the plan. I reckon the killer might have carried out a reconnaissance along the street yesterday evening, while the Edwards were out. It would have been nothing obvious, just a drive, only stopping for a few seconds. They would have seen the house isn’t particularly secure – the locks are just latches. And they’d have seen the flue on the side of the house, so they know the Edwards have got a gas supply. That’s when the plan starts to come together.”

  A couple of dining chairs joined the sorry pile of furniture along with a rolled up mat, still dripping water. Wisps of ash continued to drift in the air, colouring the ground with the dirty greyness of running charcoal.

  “Our killer does a bit of research, probably at some internet café so there’ll be no record on their own computer. They find the information they need. I checked when I was in the studios earlier and it’s all there, online. Then, they wait.”

  “Enough of your storytelling,” Adam urged. “I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice but I’ve got a double murder to investigate.”

  “The killer waits until the early hours. They know the Edwards will be home and in bed, sleeping off their night on the town. They break in and find – well, this is where I’m starting to guess…”

 
“It all sounds like guesses to me,” Adam grumbled. “More of your daydreams.”

  “Or insights,” Dan corrected, pointedly. “Which is why you want me here, isn’t it?”

  “Just get on with it,” the detective replied, huffily.

  “The killer finds the cooker, or fire, or maybe both. And they turn them on. Then they slip back outside again and wait. I reckon maybe twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour.”

  “And then?” Katrina prompted. “How do they trigger the explosion without being caught in it?”

  “That’s the clever bit. The killer sets off a car alarm outside the Edwards’ house. They bump up and down on the bonnet and then escape. The alarm wakes up one of the siblings, they switch on a light to see what’s going on and…”

  “Bang,” Claire added quietly.

  Adam kicked at a portion of brick. “Call me Mr Picky, but your evidence for all this would be what?”

  Dan gestured around. “The explosion. The car alarm going off just beforehand. And there’s something else.”

  “Which is?” Katrina asked.

  “Four years ago there was a case in Plymouth Crown Court. I vaguely remembered and looked it up online earlier. An elderly man died in a gas explosion in his bungalow. The gas company was prosecuted for not fitting the boiler properly. As part of the evidence there was loads of detail about how long it takes to fill a house with gas, exactly how much there has to be for an explosion, all that kind of thing. In other words—”

  “An instruction manual for how to cause an explosion,” Claire concluded. “All there for whoever needed it.”

  “Yep. And guess what else?”

  “What?” she asked, rather abruptly.

  “The judge presiding over the case – it was Templar.”

  ***

  At the front of the house a couple of tipper trucks arrived, men jumping down to begin assessing the rubble. Adam’s mobile rang.

  “That was one of the lads at the hospital. The person we found is in a critical condition. From what we can tell she’s entirely innocent. She was walking to work and got caught in the blast. Her name’s Amy Ailing. She’s a trainee baker, only 19 years old.”