The Shadows of Justice

by Simon Hall

  Templar lives in Turnchapel, on the eastern fringes of Plymouth. Journey time to the Edwards home would be about ten minutes by car, perhaps a little less.

  Ivy

  Aside from the emails to Templar (documented), his computer reveals a series of internet searches, timed from 2.33am – 3.38am. They divide into two categories: the hunt for a new car and also a foreign holiday in one of the resorts in southern Spain.

  At 3.45am the internet searches change to pornography. Several sites are viewed. A Personal Identification Number is entered and a members-only site visited. It specialises in young girls (although all are over the age of 18). A film is watched.

  Ivy lives in Greenbank, an estimated 15 minute walk from Homely Terrace, or perhaps five minutes in a car.

  Note – All the suspects’ home and mobile phone calls and email accounts have been checked. There is no record of any communications between any of them after Annette died and before the explosion at the Edwards’ house.

  ***

  Adam picked up the radio and requested the final reports on the suspects. Demanded might have been a better word. He looked tired and sounded irritable. The pressure of the case was squeezing a temper which was never his strongest asset.

  In a snatched moment earlier, Dan had asked the classic question – if his friend was “doing ok?”

  “No, I’m bloody not,” came the snappy reply. “I’ve got three corpses so far, one of them an innocent young woman who I couldn’t manage to find any justice for.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for Annette’s death,” Dan attempted to soothe, only to be cut off by Adam’s venting.

  “That’s what I keep telling myself, but I don’t believe it. I can still see her face after she hit the concrete. Plus, I’ve got the High Honchos all over me, demanding a result.”

  A crackly voice on the radio informed them that Jonathan Ivy had paced back and forth and appeared disturbed as Wessex Tonight was broadcast. He watched the interview with the Ailings with a hand over his mouth. When it had concluded, he flopped down in a chair, lay back and closed his eyes. The watchers reported they thought they could see tears on Ivy’s face, but couldn’t be sure.

  Since the broadcast he had made a halfhearted effort to prepare some food, but succeeded only in making a sandwich, most of which he left. Ivy was currently staring forlornly at the television and had been doing so for the best part of an hour.

  Ian Parkinson watched the report through the gaps in his fingers, as might a child confronted by a frightening film. When it had concluded, he walked slowly into the kitchen and made himself a cup of herbal tea. Parkinson was talking to himself. The windows were open and the Eyes were close enough to overhear. They believed he kept repeating, “This is all my fault.”

  He tried to call his wife, but received no reply. Parkinson was now reading a book entitled The Unseen Life of the Larch. On a couple of occasions he had switched the television back on and watched a recording of the interview with the Ailings, shaking his head the whole time.

  ***

  Katrina pleaded the need for a comfort break, which Adam begrudgingly granted. When riding on the express train of a major investigation this focused detective disliked making stops.

  To prepare them for the discussion which lay ahead, Dan slipped to the canteen and bought a round of coffees. They were as grim as ever, but at least harboured hints of a vague coffee smell.

  Zac helped carry them back, quiet and diffident as was his manner with everything aside from technology. Upon returning, he asked Adam if he was required any longer. Since the computing part of the discussion was over, Zac duly departed.

  “First off, then,” Adam said. “What do we make of our suspects’ alibis and their reaction to that interview with the Ailings?”

  “They were all watching,” Dan said. “So we’re probably right. It looks like they’ve concluded my closeness to the inquiry means my reports are a good indicator of how we’re getting on.”

  “But as they were all watching, that doesn’t help us narrow down a suspect,” Claire observed, deflatingly. “Parkinson has to be a decent bet. He’s got no alibi. And watching that interview repeatedly and his talk about it all being his fault is suggestive.”

  “Or that could just be him thinking his ‘Not Proven’ verdict began all this,” Adam replied.

  “And,” Dan added, “he just struck me as too much of a mouse to be a killer.”

  “Mice can do plenty of damage, you know,” Claire countered.

  “Ok, but he just didn’t feel like a killer to me.”

  Adam picked up a marker pen and clipped a sheet of paper to one of the felt boards. He wrote: Parkinson – still suspect, although too timid?

  “Right, onto Newman.”

  “He’s less of a suspect, if his alibi holds out,” Katrina observed. “It puts him at home when he’d need to be at the Edwards’ place.”

  “But it’s not a full alibi,” Claire pointed out. “75 per cent at most. That’s plenty of room for doubt and he’s got to be the one with the strongest motive.”

  “Agreed,” Adam replied, and began writing again.

  Newman – semi-alibi, but most vengeful of bunch?

  He scribbled the words fast, most unlike his usual neat style. This was no time for tidiness.

  “Next then – Templar.”

  “He looks pretty much out,” Dan replied. “His alibi is the strongest of the lot.”

  “We’re assuming he can’t have faked that email stuff and the chat with his bank? He knows about computers.”

  “I don’t see how he could,” Claire objected. “I listened to the recording of the bank call. It’s Templar, there’s not a doubt. He chatters away with the assistant about some new golf club he’s bought. It sounds like one of those manic moods of his. And the timing is precise.”

  “Unless,” Katrina said gently, “He’s involved in a conspiracy with one of the other suspects. Putting them up to the killings, or helping in some way.”

  The MIR fell quiet as they considered the idea. Another theory, another suspicion had been added to the countless thousands born and raised here. The tatty old room was a nursery of criminal imagination.

  “It’s possible,” Adam said. “But it doesn’t look like there were any phone calls between our suspects after Annette killed herself and before the explosion. Plus, experience tells us to go for the simplest explanation first. And that’s one person acting alone.”

  This time, he wrote: Templar – probably out, but not definitely.

  “And finally, Ivy?”

  “He certainly seemed agitated after the broadcast,” Dan noted.

  “But he’s got another strong alibi,” Claire said. “Although it’s not watertight. Again, he could be part of a conspiracy with one of the others.”

  “And if I let my perception off the leash, Ivy doesn’t feel like the kind of person who might do something alone,” Dan mused. “I think he’d need to be led.”

  “Which brings us back to my point. About starting off simply with just the one killer, before we go complicating things with a conspiracy,” Adam said. “So, let’s say for him…”

  Ivy – less likely, but by no means impossible.

  “And where does all that leave us?” the detective concluded, edgily. “No bloody further forward, I’d say.”

  The time had moved on towards nine o’clock. Dan yawned, as did Katrina, although she had the decency to cover her mouth with an elegant hand. But Adam was in no mood to allow any leeway for such a triviality as fatigue.

  “We’ve come back to the same old problem,” he said. “We’ve got theories, but few facts. And that’s how it’s going to go on. Unless we start forcing the issue.”

  “Meaning?” Dan asked.

  “Our two best suspects are currently Newman and Parkinson. And of the two, Newman has to be the most likely. So let’s stir him up a little.”

  “In what way?”

  “Bring him in and see how he r
eacts to questioning.”

  Claire frowned, an expression rarely seen in the serenity of her face. “Sir, are you sure that’s wise? He’s a grieving father.”

  “And our prime suspect.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There’s no room for sentiment in a murder inquiry, Claire. You know that.”

  “Ok, but maybe we should investigate a bit more before we bring Newman in.”

  The gaunt express train was building momentum and set upon a destination. “The pressure’s on for a result. Plus, if he is the killer, who knows what he might do next? We can’t wait around.”

  Adam looked to Dan. He nodded gently knowing the decision had been made. But Katrina stepped forwards until she was alongside Claire.

  “Yes?” Adam said.

  “I agree with Claire. Newman just doesn’t feel the type.”

  “On what basis?”

  “I’ve got to know him the best of all of us.”

  “Maybe you’ve got to know him too well.”

  A hiss escaped from Katrina’s mouth and those eyes darkened. “I’m offering you my professional judgement,” she said, coldly.

  “And here’s mine,” Adam replied, with his own frosted steel. “Newman’s the most likely killer. And we’ve got nowhere else to go. So, tomorrow morning we arrest him on suspicion of double murder.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  There is an odd divergence of views amongst senior detectives at the point of an arrest. Some eschew it, almost as if the actual detaining of a suspect is somehow tawdry. Others relish the experience and insist upon being there.

  Adam was of the latter breed. One of his pet sayings has it that an arrest is a senior officer’s prerogative. Not only did he like to be present, he would carry it out himself. It was possible, in Dan’s view, that Adam took some vengeful, judicial pleasure in informing a suspect about what was happening and reciting the ritual words of the caution.

  The detective’s defence was that the instant of arrest could be a powerful indicator of guilt. Just the slightest of reactions, the flicker of an eye or the quiver of a mouth, might give them away.

  Katrina excused herself from the arrest. She had seen Newman suffer enough she said, in a cutting voice, and turned and left the room without a backward glance.

  And so it was that Adam led the way, followed by Claire and Dan. He always found an arrest highly unnerving, a potent harbinger of many years in prison, and so tended to lurk in the background.

  It was just past nine o’clock on another bright September day. Newman was back at work, saying he preferred to try to take his mind off all that had happened. He was in Roger’s Rugs city centre store, just off Royal Parade.

  It was by no means the biggest of the empire, but important as it always took stock of the latest deliveries and attracted a large amount of footfall. He would usually start the day there, as it was closest to home and gave him a chance to decide what new offerings should be displayed.

  The store boasted a long window, which was dominated by the latest whirlpool bath. A necessary luxury to ease the chills of the coming winter and all at an affordable price, the marketing claimed. A choice of matching showers, sinks and toilets surrounded it, accompanied by mats and rugs of the highest orders of fashion. The shop faced directly into the rising sun, a series of replica orbs blazing from the plates of polished glass.

  Newman was at the counter, talking to a woman who was checking through an inventory. When he saw them walk in, he froze. His eyes flicked to his side and the darkness of a store room. Adam spotted it, increased his pace and closed the distance between them rapidly.

  The businessman was trapped and he knew it. But he stood his ground, ready for the fight. There was a sense about Newman of someone who had little left to lose. And such people were always the most dangerous.

  “I didn’t do it,” he said.

  “Didn’t do what?” Adam replied.

  “Kill the Edwards.”

  “I never said you did.”

  “But that’s why you’re here – isn’t it?”

  Adam didn’t answer, instead said, “You’ll appreciate there are some questions we have to ask.”

  Newman shrugged. The gesture was somehow aggressive rather than uncaring. It was loaded with menace, a hurt that would never end.

  “Go ahead. It’s not as though I’ve got a family any more. It’ll be a change to have someone to talk to.”

  He was wearing another dark suit but no tie. He hadn’t shaved well, patches of bristles picked out in the glare of the sunlight. Newman was sweating too, a gathering moisture growing on the pale skin of his crown. He looked tired and drawn, and a faint smell of the sweetness of whisky tinted the air around him.

  Newman leaned back on the counter, produced a hip flask and took a long swig. “Don’t say a word,” he muttered, in response to Adam’s look.

  “I appreciate it’s been a difficult time,” the detective replied, but without sympathy.

  And now, with only the slightest of pressure, the eggshell of control cracked. The toxic bitterness was running free.

  “Do you?” He snarled. “You’ve had a daughter kill herself before your eyes, have you? You’ve seen the people who wrecked your life walk free and crow about it? And then you’ve had the police come to call you a murderer?”

  “Calm down, Mr Newman,” Adam said, heavily. “No one’s accusing—”

  “Bollocks, Breen. It’s written all over your damned faces. I didn’t kill the bastards. But I’ll tell you this – if you do find out who did it, let me know because I’d like to shake their hands. And if you think it’s me, you’re going to waste your time here and that means the real killer gets away with it, that’s just fine.”

  Newman took another swig from the flask and set it down on the counter. The woman reached out a hand to his shoulder, but he pushed it away and stood glaring at Adam. He was swollen with his suffering, and there was so much of it, filling body and mind.

  “Come on then.”

  “I’m sorry?” Adam replied.

  “Arrest me. Come on – do it.”

  “Mr Newman—”

  “Come on, be a man. Do it. And I tell you what—”

  “Now, look—”

  But Newman wasn’t to be interrupted. There was something else he had to say, and he was going to say it. “I hope you have as much success getting me as you did the bloody Edwards.”

  The arrow of the goad hit the very heart of the target. Adam visibly stiffened at the impact on his professionalism and pride. And all restraint was shed. “Roger Newman, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Martha and Brian Edwards,” he intoned. “You do not—”

  He got no further. Newman’s voice was a shout, a screech and a scream, all in concerto.

  “Fuck you!”

  He swung a fist, propelled towards Adam’s head. But the detective had faced these moments too many times to be caught so easily. He stepped inside the blow, grabbed Newman’s arm and pushed him against the counter. Claire lunged forward and reached for Newman’s free arm.

  But they were fighting a storm. Newman was a man possessed with an inhuman strength. The pumping power of repressed rage was running through him. The unleashed anger was filling his muscles and veins with an infinite energy. Even with Adam clinging to one arm and Claire the other, he was still moving, shaking them off. With one great heave he broke free, sending them both stumbling backwards.

  Newman let out an anguished yell, vaulted over the counter and disappeared into the storeroom, slamming the door in his wake.

  ***

  Dan went to pick Claire up from a pile of carpet tiles, but she pushed him angrily away. Adam was hammering at the storeroom door. It was solid, unmoving, locked fast.

  “Where does it go?” he barked at the woman behind the counter.

  “Stuff you,” she said, defiantly.

  Adam turned, headed for the front of the shop. He lurched into the street, scanned left and right.
Around a corner, fifty metres ahead, Newman appeared. He was running hard.

  “Come on, after him!”

  The city was quiet, only a few early morning shoppers walking the pavements at a leisurely pace. They turned to stare at the strange procession chasing past. Newman jumped over a barrier and turned another corner, into Royal Parade.

  “Claire, get some back up here,” Adam panted.

  They were running fast, but not closing the gap. Newman was still well ahead, his long legs and fervour giving him the advantage. He passed a grocer’s, a restaurant, a baker’s, the people in the windows all watching.

  He swerved and clipped a man carrying a couple of bags. Apples and oranges rolled across the pavement. Newman didn’t break stride, just kept running. Dan danced his way through the strewn fruit. He was sweating in the heat.

  “Where the hell’s he going?” Adam gasped.

  A lorry had pulled up on the kerb, the driver carrying a pile of boxes into a newsagent’s. Newman dodged around him and careered across the road. A car jarred to a halt, its horn blaring. Adam didn’t hesitate and ran across the road too.

  They were on the plaza between the courts and Civic Centre, heading towards the Hoe. The sun made a silhouette of Newman’s fleeing figure. It was quieter here away from the traffic, the sound of their sprinting shoes echoing around the square.

  “Roger, stop!” Adam yelled. “Stop!”

  But Newman was insensible and kept running. He weaved through a couple of benches and past one of the ornamental ponds. Crows took to the air to escape the cascading insanity. He was heading towards the theatre.

  “Oh no,” Dan panted. “No, no, no. Not again.”

  “What?” Adam barked.

  Newman ducked under the low boughs of a tree and disappeared through the door into the multi-storey car park.

  “Shit,” Adam groaned. “Claire, get onto the fire brigade. And make it quick – damned quick. Dan, with me.”

  “But I don’t want to see another—”

  “Don’t argue. He liked you. We might need that.”

  They pushed through the swinging wooden door, into the stairwell. It was dark after the brightness of the open air and smelt dank. They could hear Newman running up the stairs, all footfall and panting.