by Simon Hall
Adam folded his arms. He somehow managed to produce a look which was both knowing and disapproving. “I suppose I’ll have to go, then.”
From the phone’s speaker came the sound of chairs being shifted and background conversation. The door to the MIR clicked closed.
Dan checked over his shoulder and walked nonchalantly across the room.
“How messy,” he said to himself at the hillock of papers. “These could do with tidying. But I’d better make sure there’s nothing important before I move them.”
He checked through the pile. There were lists of the suspects’ alibis and details of which officers had been assigned to the various inquiries. Nothing interesting. But at the bottom he found a pocket notebook.
It was full of the details of various cases, dating back a year. But towards the end, Dan found one page which was all doodles.
In a variety of styles and sizes, time and again, were written the letters PP.
The door opened and Adam returned, carrying two coffees. He made a point of shuffling in backwards.
“Good timing,” Dan said, from his seat on the windowsill. “The press conference is about to start.”
***
A resonant voice broke from the phone’s speaker. It asked for quiet in a way that made it clear the words were an instruction, not a request.
“Thomas Mortice,” Adam observed. “The head of one of the local solicitors. They’re good – and expensive. Newman must be serious.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mortice was saying. “You’ll be more than a little taken aback to learn my client, eminent local entrepreneur and tireless worker for a range of charities, is under arrest. Let me assure you, we believe this to be the most ridiculous folly on the part of the police. It is, perhaps, a bizarre reflex action which comes about because they are unable to bring to justice those who really did kill Martha and Brian Edwards. We will naturally be challenging the allegation robustly. However, given that Mr Newman is technically a suspect, I have advised him only to read a statement.”
The speaker rustled and clicked. In the background, they could hear the whirring of camera motors. Dan could see each lens turning to find Newman. He would be sitting in a wheelchair, probably against a backdrop of flower beds, a sheet of paper in his hands, the smartly-suited figure of Mortice protectively by his side.
Newman began in a voice which was quiet, but rang with indignation. It didn’t sound as though he was playing to the crowd.
“I have always had the greatest respect for the law,” he read. “I have always believed the British police have a very tough job, but that they do it marvelously well. When Annette was kidnapped I had every faith they would bring her home to me – and they did. I was indescribably grateful for their efforts.”
Newman paused. Dan imagined him turning a page or working down to the next paragraph. Whoever wrote the script had done it well. First, build up your victim. Love them good.
And then, in a second of turning, bring them crashing down.
“But now,” Newman continued. “Now…”
Dan could see Mortice stretching out a reassuring arm, telling him it was right to go on, that what he had to say must be aired. The cameras were tracking in their shots for the close up of Newman’s anguished face.
These would be the words that counted. The sentences which were repeated, time and again, on the radio, the television and the internet, reprinted in papers and magazines.
“I’ve never committed a crime in my life,” Newman went on. “But the police somehow convinced themselves that I have. Despite the lack of any evidence whatsoever, they have accused me of killing the Edwards. Me, a grieving father. Me, without a stain on my character. I have been accused of murder.”
Again, his voice caught. The faint sound of trees whispering under a growing breeze slipped from the speaker. Adam was staring at it, unblinking, a hand pulling at his chin.
“I hardly need say that I am entirely innocent,” Newman continued. “I do, however, need to tell you that I find this accusation gross, disgusting and offensive. I have attempted to help the police in every way I can and this is how they react. It has shaken my faith in our police service terribly, which is why I asked you all here today. I felt I needed to speak out.”
His voice was growing louder, the words more impassioned. Adam was shaking his head, but still staring at the phone’s tiny, grilled speaker.
“I believe the police have accused me of this crime because they are too inept to find those actually responsible. I regret having to say this, but I feel I must. I believe the officers I have encountered are incompetent and should be removed from the case. I would also like to see disciplinary action taken, such has been their lamentable inability to do their jobs properly.”
Newman paused, for a breath, a drink of water. When he resumed the statement his voice was calmer, but the words no less powerful.
“As an example of their incompetence, I have personally witnessed this. The police appear to be relying not on experts in explosions, fires, experienced investigators, or any such thing but instead on the input of a local television reporter.”
***
The rain began to fall, beating upon the line of windows in the MIR. Dan and Adam stared out at the city. People were sheltering under briefcases and magazines, or with jackets pulled up over their heads. The rain poured into the ruined church as it had since those wartime years of destruction. Traffic began to tail back from the roundabout. Cars, buses and lorries switched on lights and wipers.
On this September day, it felt as though summer was finally leaving the stage. Autumn was taking on the performance, with winter waiting, gloating cold in the wings.
“That’s us fucked, then,” Adam announced, bitterly.
He paced over to one of the computers and found a news website. Newman’s diatribe was already the lead story.
Dan’s mobile had rung three times, but there was no way he was going to answer it. The only caller could be Death.
The first messages were from Nigel and El. Both recounted what Newman had said, and both sounded worried in ways far out of character.
“I somehow doubt I’ll be ok,” Dan grunted, in response to the familiar modern-day question his friends had asked. “And as for where you’ll find me – probably busking tunes at the nearest subway in an attempt to earn my next meal.”
The third message was from Lizzie. In a voice as calm as an assassin, she instructed Dan to call immediately.
“What do we do?” He asked.
“Resign now and save them the bother of sacking us, I’d say.”
“Adam!”
“Have you got any better ideas?”
Dan returned to his study of the scurrying city. Far out to sea, a sparkle of lighting flinted the sky. “There must be something we can do.”
“Like what?”
“Like – what if Claire’s hunch is right? If we can crack the case, Newman’s attack will be neutralised straight away. It’ll be put down as the rantings of an unbalanced man and forgotten. All the media will concentrate on is the killer being caught. You can take it to the Deputy Chief to show him the case is sorted, I can take it to Lizzie as an exclusive.”
Adam found his phone and rang Claire. After a muted conversation, he clicked off the call and turned to Dan. “It’s not looking good. None of the hotel staff remember Katrina going in or out the night the Edwards were killed. And they’re pretty sure they would have.”
Dan tried not to sound desperate. “She’s a resourceful woman. She could have slipped by them.”
“Which is exactly what Claire said. She’s going through the hotel CCTV. It’ll take a couple of hours.”
Their eyes crept to the clock on the wall. The time was a quarter to three.
“And,” Adam concluded, “I’d say a couple of hours are about all we’ve got.”
***
They resumed the vigil at the window. The storm was moving closer, riding on the growing might of
the westerly wind. With each white dagger, they were buffeted by an accompanying thunderclap, rocking the sky.
“Are we just going to stand here?” Dan asked. “Just hope that Claire can save us?”
“What else do you suggest? We don’t have any other leads.”
“How about going back through the case? A quick brainstorm, to see if there’s anything we’ve missed.”
Adam’s voice was far from enthusiastic. “If you like.”
They started with the suspects’ alibis, then moved on to the men’s characters and relationships with each other. Dan wrote brief notes on a sheet of paper on one of the boards. They went through Parkinson, Templar, Ivy and finally Newman looking harder and harder for that hidden diamond of a giveaway hint.
“I might have changed my mind about Newman,” Dan said. “That attack on us – it shows he does go in for revenge, despite what he might say. What if it was a desperate last bluff? He knows the game’s up. It could be an attempt to force us to pull back from him.”
“That’s possible,” Adam replied. “But we still come back to the same old problem. We’ve got no real evidence against him. In fact, it’s worse than that. His neighbour gives Newman half an alibi – or three quarters – depending on how certain she’s feeling.”
Dan tapped the board with his marker pen. “Do you know what bothers me about his alibi, or whatever percentage of it?”
“What?”
“It’s how bloody convenient it is. It feels odd. He says he’s up all night, ranting and raving. But only at the very moment our killer’s waiting to let off the car alarm does Newman start making a real noise which should wake the neighbours.”
“That’s interesting, granted – maybe even suggestive,” Adam said slowly. “But if it was deliberate, it throws up two problems. Firstly, it didn’t really work. The alibi the neighbour gave him wasn’t great.”
“That might just have been bad luck. It doesn’t alter the fact it could have been his plan.”
“The second problem is bigger. If it was him in the house, deliberately giving himself an alibi, then it couldn’t have been Newman who did the killing.”
Dan thought for a while, before pronouncing the rueful verdict, “Bugger. I thought I was onto something.”
More lightning flickered across the sky. The rain was coming in hard, pounding on the windows of the MIR. Droplets shattered as they hurled into the glass.
“Unless,” Dan said, “We go back to the conspiracy idea. What if Newman was deliberately giving himself an alibi because he was part of the plan to kill the Edwards, but someone else was involved, too?”
Now Adam did sound interested. “Then who? And how?”
Dan grabbed the sheets of paper documenting the suspects’ alibis. He started sketching arrows between the four men, jotting down thoughts, potential connections, the movement of the pen becoming faster with his excitement. Adam peered down at the growing mass of writing.
“What is it?” he urged.
Dan inked in a couple of numbers and stood back from the sheet. White light and a thunderclap filled the room. The time was just after three o’clock.
Two names were ringed, encircled again and again, two columns of timings alongside.
“That’s it,” Dan gasped.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Once more, they were drawn back to the plaza.
The car park stood in its far corner, the stark concrete lines softened by the relentless rain. The white discs of headlights bumped and trundled around its floors as they made a slow escape. Inevitably both Dan and Adam looked to that high, southernmost edge from where first Annette and then Roger Newman had jumped.
Beside the car park towered the Civic Centre, columns of windows shining through the gloom. A gang of forlorn workers huddled under its ramshackle old portico to share their nicotine slavery. People emerged from the sliding doors, hesitated at the sight of the elements’ welcome and then began miserable runs through the rain.
Atop the courts the Lady of Justice stood, solitary in the face of the storm. Lighting played around the scales and sword. Watery pellets hurled mercilessly into her body, running along her outstretched arms and cascading onto the courthouse.
Another thunderclap shook the sky. Like an unwelcome guest unwilling to take their leave, the storm had settled above the city.
Behind the courts, concealed in the gloom, lay Catherine Street, so narrow it felt filled by the rain as it rebounded from wall, tarmac and tile. And that one doorway where, a little more than six months ago, a white van had been parked, waiting. Where Annette Newman had bent down to offer her charity and where all this had begun.
And now was coming to an end.
***
Adam had tumbled down the stairs of Charles Cross and into the office behind the front desk. A harassed sergeant was trying to ensure a passable masquerade of cleanliness, modernity and efficiency, ready for the regal visit of the deputy chief constable. Protest as the man may about needing every available officer, Adam insisted on a driver to take them to the plaza.
A ten minute walk had become a ten minute drive, so snarled up was the city by the weather, but at least they were arriving dry.
Dan’s phone kept ringing and resolutely he ignored it. Messages were being left from a range of fellow hacks all wanting a comment about Newman’s claims. There was even one from Phil, the poor trainee sounding wretched as he rambled through the apologetic request.
“I’m sorry, but I know you’ll understand I’ve got no choice. It’s obvious it was you Newman was talking about. Everyone’s saying so. I have to ask, even though you’re a colleague, and, well… my mentor.”
Dan found his chest feeling curiously tight. It must be the pressure of the storm. He deleted the message before he had to hear any more.
The time had moved on to twenty past three. They were on Royal Parade, at the back of a line of cars and buses. Adam briefly debated whether to run for the plaza, but quickly decided against it. They would save little time, if any, and be soaked in seconds.
“Come on, come on,” he kept urging the poor young constable who was their driver, as if he might have a magical ability to slip through a solid block of traffic.
Dan tried to distract himself by staring at the two buildings, standing stoically together in the rain. Perhaps Parkinson was in a break between meetings. He would see the police car pull up and wonder what new torment it might bring for his undistinguished life.
Templar would be in court, presiding over another case, counting away the last few days of his long career. He would be prickling at the verbosity of a procrastinating barrister, a trademark hand tapping impatiently on the bench. Or perhaps the judge would be in his chambers, delighting in another swing of the Newton’s Cradle.
As for Ivy, he would be standing at the back of another courtroom, another trial, perhaps alongside the hapless people who were fate’s choice for this week’s victims. Offering a sympathetic smile and a guiding arm, and ready with those tissues for the tears he had seen so many times.
The car edged on and gained a few more precious yards. They were almost at the plaza.
***
“Any word from Claire?” Dan asked.
“I imagine you might have noticed if my phone had rung and I’d been talking on it,” was Adam’s horsewhip of a retort.
Dan didn’t bother replying and the detective continued, a little less piercingly. “How sure are you about this?”
“Not sure at all. It’s just as I said. I’ve got a theory. It feels consistent. It fits. It’s just the same old problem – proving it.”
“Which has been the trouble at every twist and turn throughout the whole of this damned case,” Adam grunted. “Which leaves us with just the one chance. And what do you reckon our chances are?”
Dan didn’t answer. He turned to watch a party of young children kicking their way through the rain, jumping and stamping in the lines of puddles. A car horn sounded, another quickly joinin
g it. A cyclist picked a careful way past the line of traffic, rain running from every angle of her coat.
“So, then – our chances?” Adam said again.
“All I can say is that he’s the weak link. If there is a conspiracy, he’s our best chance of cracking it.”
***
The car was misting up. Adam rolled down a window and was attacked with a face full of swirling rain. He swore and wound it up again.
The rows of headlights picked out the diagonal lines of the downpour. Spray rose from the road as the raindrops pounded their attack. The storm had brought a premature darkness to the land, as if forcing the afternoon aside and ushering in an early night.
All around was the sound of the coming autumn. Tyres cut through the standing water. The rain beat, rattled and drummed on windscreens, pavements and umbrellas. Engines idled, exhaust fumes mixing with the encompassing mist.
And the smell, too. The relief of the land after days of baking dryness. As plants, hedges and trees opened their leaves to drink in the gift of the skies.
The drains struggled, overwhelmed by the unaccustomed load. Tonnes of oil-sheen water frothed and gurgled, chasing down to the greedy, waiting sewers. Leaves patterned the streets, beaten from the trees by the force of the storm.
The sky vented its anger, stretching colourless as a blackboard. To the west hung a little hope, a lighter shade of graphite amongst the dominance of the slated darkness. But it was far off and forlorn. For now the rain held sway, its moment finally here, delighting and rejoicing, unwilling to relent.
The line of cars moved once more and won another tiny gain of the road’s territory. They had reached the plaza.
Dan and Adam opened the doors and began to run through the rain.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The storm swirled around them. Its wrath made real the impact of every individual raindrop upon the inconsequential shields of skin and clothing. Each blow felt propelled by a catapult of the heavens, with a heavy momentum and an exacting aim.
Dan took a hit to his eye. He recoiled and squinted as he ran through the attack of water. Adam was doing the same, a hopeless hand raised to try to deflect the assault. It was as if the storm had taken offence at these two foolish humans breaking cover and directed all its mighty firepower upon them. They were only yards across the plaza and already stained, streaked and disheveled.