by Simon Hall
And then hearing the blast a couple of minutes later as the new-found murderer headed for home.
***
It was only the arrival of a waving, shouting Nigel that reminded Dan of his day job. The time was half past twelve and the lunchtime news on air in an hour. He received a hasty set of instructions from Adam about what could be broadcast and jogged over to the satellite van.
The report was easy to cut, as was often the way with the strongest of stories. Dan used the pictures they had filmed in the darkness of the early hours to talk about what happened. He included snatches of interviews with people in the street describing the power of the blast. There was also a clip of Adam, being as diplomatic as ever, saying a revenge attack was one of the police’s foremost lines of inquiry.
The time sped on to ten past one. Dan stepped down from the van, straight into Indy.
“Do you mind if I have a quick look?” she asked. “I find TV fascinating.”
“Really?” He replied, unsurprised to suddenly be sporting his best smile. “I usually find it baffling.”
Loud was busy laying down the last pictures, so Nigel gave her a quick tour. It was too complex for Dan, with its oscilloscopes, satellite frequency locator and the rest of the equipment. It might as well have been science fiction, but she nodded knowledgably.
The lecture was in its final stages when a fizzing, rushing pop from the top of the van interrupted. The antenna on the satellite dish was ablaze, a run of flames dancing an orange path.
“Fire in the hold!” Loud yelled. He grabbed an extinguisher, unleashed a cloud of white powder and the flames died.
“What was it?” Dan asked.
“Waveguide,” the engineer muttered. “It’s shorted out. Bloody cheap rubbish.”
“What does it do?”
“What do you think? It guides the waves, dum dum. The poor electromagnetic ones that have to carry your ugly mug up to the satellite.”
“Can you fix it? Are we going to be ok for the broadcast?”
“No chance.”
Dan vented a few creative profanities. They were the lead story, and an important one at that. Fail to appear and Lizzie would undergo spontaneous human combustion.
“How long to the studios from here?” Dan asked Nigel.
“Seven or eight minutes.”
“And the report’s cut?”
“Yeah,” grunted Loud. “It’s just not going anywhere.”
“There’s just time. Set up the camera.”
Without hesitation Nigel did, looking back on the rubble of the house. Dan took his position and tried to fix a few words in his head.
“Recording,” Nigel said.
“This lunchtime, the police have named the woman who was injured when she was caught in the explosion. She’s Amy Ailing, who’s 19 and from Plymouth. She’s in hospital. Her parents are at her bedside. Dan Groves, Wessex Tonight, Plymouth.”
Loud held out the memory card that contained the story. Nigel grabbed it, jumped into his car and headed off.
“He should get to the studios by 1.25,” Dan said to himself. “Take five minutes to add that piece to camera to the end and it’ll still make the lead story – hopefully.”
He leaned back against the van, took a deep breath and stared up at the calming expanse of blue sky.
“Bloody hell,” Indy commented. “Is it always like this?”
“No,” Dan replied, with feeling. “This is one of the more straightforward days.”
***
It was a lesson hard learnt. Investigations were not all as authors would have them; not endless action, excitement and a glamorous tearing around in pursuit of suspects. There could be periods that Dan had come to think of as treading water. And this afternoon, however irritating, was fated to be one.
“Just wait, will you?” Adam snapped in reply to Dan’s petulant question about what was going to happen next.
“I don’t like waiting.”
“Funnily enough I’d noticed that, what with being a detective and all. But on this occasion you’ll have to.”
They were still at Homely Terrace, but had retreated to an incident control van at the end of the street. It was the only way to escape the noise and dust. With all the radio and CCTV equipment, it was a dark and cramped space. Blessed as he was with impressive stature, Adam was forced to adopt a permanent stoop.
Claire had returned to Charles Cross to coordinate inquiries and Indy had left for her next assignment, a suspicious fire in a cottage on the beautiful Roseland peninsula in Cornwall. No one was hurt, but the fine old building had been destroyed. Young arsonists were suspected.
Here, the afternoon would be taken up with the dull routine of checks. The Eggheads were currently working on Templar’s computer, and would also examine Ivy’s, to see if the men’s internet activities could provide them with alibis.
Templar was already looking less of a suspect. He’d made a phone call to his bank around the time of the explosion, it being one of the 24 hour variety. The exact details were still being verified as the bank would take a couple of hours to retrieve the recording from its data storage system.
Katrina’s investigations revealed that Roger Newman was certainly at home for some of last night. Several witnesses had seen him in the local pub where he sat alone, drank a succession of strong beers, picked at a meal and spurned any offers of company. He was also seen returning to his house. A kindly neighbour had kept an eye on him, but that only accounted for his time until around half past eleven.
After that, Newman said he simply stayed in. He tried to sleep, but couldn’t. He sat up, watching a film, but couldn’t follow it.
He tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate. Eventually, he sought comfort in the whisky bottle and, by his account, became more and more drunk.
Newman had no recollection of time, but insisted he hadn’t left his house. As to an alibi, he claimed that at several points he became so distraught that he sobbed, shouted and screamed and even threw pots and pans at the walls.
Detectives had been sent to talk to Newman’s neighbours, to ask if they had heard a disturbance. The findings would be known later this afternoon, as would the results of the Eggheads’ work. But for now, the only option was waiting.
“I do have an idea,” Dan said airily, and explained.
“And it’s nothing to do with making a good story?” Adam asked, wryly.
“It could help the inquiry,” Dan replied, as neutrally as possible.
“I’ll see how things go with some straightforward investigating before we resort to the shadowlands of your devious imagination.”
A phone call from the Deputy Chief Constable hadn’t helped in improving Adam’s fractious mood. There was the usual helpful pointing out that the case was a very high profile one. The eyes of the world were, apparently, set upon Greater Wessex Police, waiting for the perpetrator to be revealed.
This particular missive from on high, familiar as much of it was, contained a surprise. A film company had been in contact. They wanted to begin work on an epic, designed to capture the natural drama and pathos of the story of the Edwards and the Newmans. Some well-known actors had already been lined up to play the parts in what was being billed as “a tearful tragedy – a Shakespearean story of modern times.”
For senior officers, concerned with the standing of Greater Wessex Police, only one ending was acceptable. The heroic cops must arrest the villain and the forces of justice emerge triumphant. It would duly be appreciated if Adam could get a move on and clear up the case as soon as possible. All of which left the detective with a throbbing neck and a disgruntled scowl.
“We might have to try your idea, after all,” he told Dan, tetchily.
The time was coming up to two o’clock. An updating of the story for tonight was required, but that would only mean an amendment to the end of the report and was half an hour’s work. The satellite van and its mischievous waveguide would take a day to repair, sparing Dan a live broadc
ast.
The tiredness was gaining, casting the sloth of its net. Dan yawned hard and an idea began to whisper slyly in his mind.
The lunchtime report had made the lead story, albeit by the breadth of seconds. Lizzie was sated, for now at least. A couple of disappearing hours in the comfort of the flat would be a fine respite from the cares of the world. The beautiful songbird of a little sleep was singing its beguiling melody.
Dan was about to bid his goodbyes to Adam and Katrina when she sprung the surprise.
She had, Dan suspected, been waiting for the moment. Even when she’d finished recounting Roger Newman’s alibi, Katrina looked as though she had something more to say. It was in those extraordinary eyes. But to conclude her story then might have been too straightforward for such an enigmatic woman. Now, even the noise of the building site abated for her words.
“You remember that strange PP on Annette’s ransom note? I think I might have finally found out what it meant.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Sometimes, an enchanting idea can start to feel so real it could take on a physical form. As though it holds out its hands and draws you into a loving embrace.
And so it was with Dan’s plan to enjoy a sun-blessed siesta this afternoon. He’d driven back to Hartley Avenue and was reaching wearily for the sanctum of the door. He could hear Rutherford and that low whine of delight it was the dog’s habit to emit upon sensing the arrival of his master.
The tiredness was a heavy suit now and there would be little hope of a respite this evening. Adam was determined to work until significant progress was made in the case.
An hour and a half’s snoozing should just about restore enough energy to see Dan through. In his mind he was already stripping off his shirt, ready to lower himself into the warm bath of beautiful sleep.
Instead of which, with shameless inconsideration, Dan’s mobile rang. It was Adam, destroying the dream like a bully snatching away a bag of sweets. He was in urgent form, and the vision of a sleepy break was ruthlessly shredded.
“The Ailings – they’ll do it. Can you get up to the hospital?”
To some questions you know the answer even before you ask, and no matter how much you might dread the reply.
“Right now?” Dan asked, forlornly.
“Right now. And can you get it on tonight’s news?”
Dan checked his watch. It was only mid-afternoon. There was no space for excuses.
“Yep.”
“I’ll make the arrangements then. For – what we discussed.”
“Ok.”
“Before you go, there’s one other thing. The Ailings are a little nervy, so I said I’d send someone to look after them. Claire’s on her way. She’ll be waiting for you at the hospital.”
***
Dan Groves had once considered himself a brave man, but the way life ran in earlier years had exhausted his reserves of valour. And so, on this particular occasion, he had no hesitation in choosing the coward’s way.
Dan called Nigel and asked if the cameraman would pick him up. “It gives us a chance to work out how to do the interview,” he explained, trying to pretend the rationale was purely professional. “It’s going to be an emotional one.”
Nigel was as accommodating as ever, and promised to be at the flat in fifteen minutes. Dan used the time to give Rutherford a cuddle, which the dog quite likely appreciated, and a quick run around the garden, which he probably preferred. The sight of the stupid canine careering around, snapping at the odd phantom in the air, was almost as good a tonic as sleep.
“It makes perfect sense, Nigel and I going together,” Dan told Rutherford, as they walked back up the steps to the flat. “I want no suggestion that being with him will mean Claire doesn’t have a chance to get me alone.”
As Nigel drove the ten-minute trip to the northern edge of the city, they discussed the interview. Experience had equipped them with a way of working in the most sensitive cases. Dan would chat to the Ailings to try to build up a rapport. As invisibly as possible Nigel would set up the camera, microphone and lights.
As was his way, Nigel spent a few minutes in empathy, rueing what a dreadful time the Ailings were going through and then slipped into a silence to prepare himself.
The landmarks passed. The battlements of the old Crownhill fort, built to defend Plymouth from Napoleonic attack, the modern day business parks, the glass ship of the Western Morning News building. On the horizon ahead, Dartmoor glowered, the natural boundary for the ever-sprawling city.
The parking at Tamarside Hospital could be an added ordeal for a visitor. But on this day they were lucky, turning into the car park as a young couple with a baby were reversing out.
Even through the sunshine and mass of hurrying humanity, Dan could make out the figure of Claire, standing at the main entrance, arms folded and waiting.
***
Nigel was greeted with a fond kiss and a long hug. He and Claire had always got on, united as they were in being that curious breed of the optimist. Dan was permitted only a fleeting peck on the cheek. It was an experience as transient, ephemeral and lacking in warmth as an English summer.
Claire led them along a series of corridors. The off-white tiles reflected their rapid footfall. The smell of antiseptic lingered everywhere. Most faces they passed were set, a few in tears. There was little room for smiles in a hospital.
A couple of trolleys rattled by, each carrying a comatose figure, gangs of nurses marching alongside. A woman stood, staring out of a window, her hand in a young boy’s.
Claire stopped by a door and clicked it open. “I just need you to sign a disclaimer,” she told Dan.
He nodded resignedly and stepped into the room. And Claire was in his face, right in it, wincingly close.
“Have you been seeing Katrina?”
“What?”
“Have you been seeing her?”
There was no choice but to hold Claire’s look, with her eyes so close and so very bright, but it wasn’t easy.
“Hang on, what is this?”
“Answer the question.”
“I’ve been working with her, if that’s what you mean.”
She snorted, the sound bitter with disbelief. “Why did you text her yesterday?”
“Because – well, it’s just that I knew she was close to Annette. That’s all it was, and—”
“Was I second best?”
“What?”
“The back up? The reserve?”
“What?”
“Was I your fall back?”
“No!”
“You couldn’t get her, so you called me?”
“No! Claire, you’d never be—”
A finger was up at eye level, very large, very close and remarkably unwavering. Dan tried to back off, but the room was small, the wall unyielding and he was trapped by the onslaught of feeling.
“I’ve had enough messing about. I’m not waiting for you any more. You’re pathetic. You stick your head up your backside and won’t pull it out. You seem to think you’re the only one in the world with problems. You and your murky little pond of self-pity. You’d better snap out of it and get yourself sorted.”
For once, Dan found himself struggling for words. “Well, thanks for the lovely, relaxing build-up to an important interview—” he managed, but was instantly overridden.
“Don’t give me that crap. It’s time someone told you the truth and I’m damn well going to do it. Get yourself together. And now you can go and do this interview and do it bloody well.”
Dan tried desperately to find some rejoinder but he was mouthing helplessly at Claire’s back. The door was open and she was striding out.
“Disclaimer all sorted then, is it?” Nigel asked, with a hint of a smile.
***
Ronald and Elizabeth Ailing were sitting quietly together, holding hands. Dan had seen it so many times, but the cold squeeze on the heart never lessened.
Good people, singled out by a sole second of malev
olent fate. Picked for no better reason than that they had lived decent lives, tried to make their way and bring up a family. And yet still be made to suffer an incomprehensible wrong that they had never deserved. While on the other side of life’s street strolled a grinning procession of the wasters and the worthless, forever untouched by ill-fortune.
The couple rose in time and shook hands. Claire carried out the introductions and Dan went through the familiar words which never helped. He was sorry for their pain and distress. He would do his very best not to add to it. He hoped their courage in speaking out may be of some comfort and help their cause.
And through all of this was the unspoken understanding. On the floor below this sterile waiting room, lying on a bed in the Intensive Care Unit, her body bound and pierced by tubes, was Amy.
The Ailings were in their mid-forties, both softly spoken and earnest. Elizabeth’s face was drawn and tired, Ron’s ruddy with an anger which was beyond his wife. Often that was the way with couples, the women collapsing inside themselves with grief, the men looking to hit out at its cause.
Nigel adjusted the camera while Dan chatted; about the weather, what a fine hospital Tamarside was, the dedication and talents of the nurses and doctors, and gradually onto the more dangerous ground. How Amy was, and how they were coping.
“Do you have a picture?” he asked. “It would help me to get a sense of her.”
Ron opened his wallet to show off a photograph. “It was taken on her eighteenth birthday. It’s my favourite.”
Amy stood, a couple of colourful streamers draped over her shoulders, her arms laced around her parents, smiling at the camera. It was an open and genuine expression, something few could manage when asked to pose. She had long, dark hair and a pretty, warm face, with the hint of mischief in the corners of her mouth.
“She’s a beautiful girl.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, because nothing else needed to be said.
“She looks like you.”
“When I was younger, maybe.”
Dan matched the sadness of her smile. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but – could we film the photo? It would help the viewers get a sense of Amy.”