by Simon Hall
Katrina mouthed something that Dan couldn’t catch. It looked like bitch.
Adam took a step towards Martha. Brian was at her side, ready for any attack. And from the look of Adam, it could come. He was a man who prided himself on being in control, cool and professional, but not here, not this time. He was balanced on the edge of an assault which would destroy his career, but may still be a temptation too far to resist.
The media pack edged closer, eager to witness each word. The detective stared into Martha face. His neck was flushed and his fists were bunched into tight knots. The sum of all his furies was contained in these few seconds.
Quietly, the words only just under rein, he said, ‘We’ll be watching you. Make no mistake; we’ll be behind you, everywhere you go… for what little time you’ve got left.’
***
The doors closed on the detective’s back. With the narrow precision of a sniper’s shot, the single sentence had penetrated Martha’s defences. Her smile faded and the dancing brightness of her eyes dimmed.
Brian leant gently over and whispered into her ear. She nodded and turned to the ranks of the media. The mask was back.
‘What a bad loser. And who likes one of those? So then, press people – what do you want to know?’
‘How do you feel?’ came a voice from the back of the pack.
Dan tried not to wince at one of the worst clichés in the journalist’s handbook. But Martha neither noticed, nor cared.
‘I feel fantastic! I feel like this is the best medicine I’ve ever known. And I’ve had plenty pumped into me over the years.’
‘And what will you do now?’
‘Brian and I are going to get drunk – or the best I can do given my condition. We’ll eat well and toast our freedom. And we’ll do it all on credit, because tomorrow I’m going to sue the police for six months’ worth of wrongful imprisonment.’
Dan’s mobile warbled with a text message. It was from Adam and could have had a voice, one which screamed from the screen.
Fucking get her will u
Beside Dan, the lens of El’s camera loomed forward to capture each detail of the grin on Martha’s face. It was the picture which every paper would print, and contrast with Annette’s misery. Winners and losers, the media way.
‘You’re hardly exonerated, are you?’ Dan called. ‘The jury said they thought you did it, but that it couldn’t be proved.’
It may have been intended to wound, but the question only entertained Martha more.
‘Isn’t that the sweetest of victories – if, of course – if it was the case? A criminal plots a plan so perfect the police know exactly who did it, but can’t prove it. It’s not a bad form of—’
‘Revenge? The revenge you denied you wanted in the witness box?’
Martha hesitated. More quietly now, she said, ‘Maybe… education. Exposing the rottenness in this country. Perhaps it’s like knowing how someone had committed a dreadful crime, but being unable to act against them.’
Her voice changed again, filled with a different emotion now. ‘Maybe it’s like infecting an innocent child with an incurable disease and no one ever being brought to justice for it. Despite their suffering, and thousands of others, too. And despite it being there, horribly apparent, utterly obvious for all the world to see, people dying in front of them, no one is to blame. No one is ever found guilty. In our fine, upstanding, so very civilised society, something like that would never happen. It’d surely be unthinkable… wouldn’t it?’
Perhaps it was the potency of the emotion, or the knowledge of the clock counting away Martha’s life. But the speech left the media pack silent. Even safe in the comfort of their numbers, no one could find a question to challenge this woman.
When a sole voice spoke out, the source was a surprise. From behind the camera, Nigel called, ‘So how does it help to create more victims? What about Annette?’
Martha’s smile faltered. This time her answer wasn’t measured, but snapped.
‘Annette will be fine. She’s young, her Daddy’s rich and she’s got her health. She’ll get over what happened to her – unlike me.’
***
The pack remained set in formation, that semi-circle lurking at the bottom of the grimy, chewing gum blossom steps. The cameramen and photographers may have laid down their weapons for a few seconds rest, but all were still intent on the doors, waiting.
The time had edged on to five. Across the city, above the urban backdrop of the traffic, bells began to ring out the hour. The streets filled with people hurrying their way home.
Dan stood beside Nigel, fluffy microphone under one armpit, notepad in hand, trying to scratch out a script. If he had a draft ready, Loud could start editing as soon as he was back at the satellite van. Every second saved counted with the beast of a deadline breathing fire into your face.
He tried composing an opening line, crossed it out, attempted another and scored through that too. Dan noticed he kept doodling PP in the margin.
‘How’s the writing going?’ Nigel asked.
‘It’s not going anywhere. It’s like trying to build a house with only two thirds of the bricks. We need to hear from the Newmans.’
Nigel rested the camera carefully on a step and stretched his arms. ‘It’s going to be darn tight to get on air if they don’t come out soon.’
‘You know, I hadn’t thought of that,’ Dan replied heavily.
The cameraman smiled an apology. ‘Sorry.’
‘Anyway, what was that about, throwing a question at Martha? I’ve never known you do anything like that before.’
‘You didn’t mind, did you? I know it’s not my territory, but—’
‘It was the best question of the lot. You were the only one amongst us who landed any sort of blow.’
And now this kind and gentle man was blushing, despite all the years on the road and his vast library of experience. ‘It just came over me. I suppose sometimes suffering in silence isn’t an option.’
Dan glanced over at the van. Loud was sitting in the front seat, his feet up on the dashboard reading a tabloid. He tapped pointedly at his watch and grimaced.
A couple of kids on skateboards trundled past. Nigel picked up the camera and balanced it back on his shoulder. ‘I’m glad I only do the filming. I don’t fancy your job, particularly not on a story like this. I just point the camera, check the picture looks ok and hit the big red button.’
Dan patted his friend’s back. ‘Nice try, but it’s not quite that simple. If you can make me look half decent, there’s a fine art in there somewhere.’
El polished the lens of his camera and let out a loud belch. ‘Another fruit fancy, Great Aunt Ethel?’ he giggled. ‘Sorry, me stomach does that when we’re hunting. It gets all excited.’
Dan was about to reply when the doors of the court swung open. Roger Newman walked uncertainly down the steps, a tight arm around Annette’s shoulders. Her eyes were circled with a red soreness. Behind them, protectively close, stood the usher.
‘I… I have a brief statement,’ Newman began. ‘I – we… want to say that this was our last hope of justice. Of being able to believe we could start again. And now…’
His voice faltered. He looked down at his daughter and pulled her closer.
Annette was crumpled and shrunken. Defeat and despair filled every cell of her existence. The young woman had become old in the two days of the kidnapping, the months of waiting for the trial, the weeks of the hearing itself and the final killing thrust of the verdict.
The erosion of decades had done their work in only half a year. Her body was trembling hard and her face ashen. She was struggling to breathe, a hand fluttering to her heaving chest. It was as if she wanted to retreat into herself and hide from the world forever.
The cameras were all zooming in to capture the single shot that told the story in an instant; the summary of a young woman’s torment.
A moan escaped her mouth, an inhuman, unearthly sound, and Annette tense
d with the shock of a decision. She sprang down the steps, half stumbled but righted herself, and began sprinting hard, dodging around the fringes of the pack, moving fast, her long legs flying across the grey paving stones of the sunlit plaza.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Through the sticky heat of the late afternoon they ran.
The plaza was a mirrored box, relentlessly reflecting the sun’s power. From the silvered windows of the courthouse, the Civic Centre and the concrete paving, the withering rays attacked them.
Roger Newman stood stunned, overwhelmed by yet another ordeal in days which had become filled with so many. He shouted for his fleeing daughter, then began running after her, calling her name, time and again.
‘Annette! Please! Annette!’
Even through the breathlessness, the incomprehension in his voice was pitiful. The scales had tipped a little further against a man’s sanity. Ivy was alongside Newman, running too, that dense usher’s robe a black cloud in his wake.
Dan grabbed Nigel’s shoulder and pulled him to join the pursuit. Other journalists were following.
Annette was running towards the tower of the council building. She was still moving fast, filled with the strength of youth, but something else too; that strange spirit which had come upon her.
They rounded a couple of park benches where an older woman rested, her coat pulled tight despite the day’s warmth.
Nigel’s face was streaming with sweat. They’d discarded the tripod, but the camera was a dense, unforgiving weight. Dan reached out, took it and received a nod of thanks. The scarce breathing air was too precious to waste with words.
Annette passed the grey, sixties monolith of the Civic Centre. From the glass doorways people watched the careering procession. She was still running determinedly, hadn’t even glanced back, despite her father’s shouts.
They passed under a couple of thin and pasty trees, this concrete expanse no place to live a fulfilling life. The temporary seconds of the shade were a relief from the pervasive heat.
Their reddened and breathless reflections passed in one of the algae-green ponds. A couple of seagulls bobbed and ducked, their whiteness stark in the grimy waters.
They were nearing the Theatre Royal. Annette dodged round a line of traffic, crossed the road and tumbled through a door into the multi-storey car park. Her father stumbled and crashed into a young couple carrying shopping bags. He ignored the cries and careered through the door after her. Ivy hesitated, pulled off his gown, screwed it into a ball and followed.
Dan lurched to a halt.
‘What’re we doing?’ Nigel gasped, as best he could. ‘We’re running out of time. Shouldn’t we be getting the story on air?’
‘Maybe. But I’m getting one of those feelings about this.’
The rest of the pack were catching up; a couple more reporters and El at their head. All were panting hard.
Above, they could hear running feet. Through the concrete panels of the car park walls, a tall, thin silhouette was still sprinting.
A hundred yards behind were a couple more figures. They were on the sixth floor, one below the roof.
Dan handed the camera to Nigel. He stepped back to get a better shot and began tracking the line of runners. Annette was jogging up the final ramp which led to the open air. Her pace was easing. A car passed, then another. One hooted a horn.
Newman and the usher were fifty yards behind. Echoes of Roger’s shouts resonated from the walls of the car park.
‘Annette! Please, stop! Annette!’
A group of onlookers was gathering. A couple of young women, a man dressed in a suit, a trio of schoolchildren. A woman pushing a pram joined them, a young boy biting hard into an ice cream at her side.
The sun dipped behind the Civic Centre. The plunge into shadow could have been a dive into a cooling sea.
Annette emerged on the roof level. She was walking now, but still moving determinedly, even robotically. She looked thinner than ever and her hair stuck up in spikes against the clear background of the sky.
The two figures of her pursuers were closer, perhaps twenty yards behind. They’d also slowed to a walk. Roger was reaching out his arms.
‘Annette! Come on love, let’s stop all this, eh? We’ll get through it, like we always do – together.’
The young woman had reached the corner of the level. There were no cars here, all now reclaimed by their owners after a day’s work or shopping. A low fence ran around the concrete wall, the odd tuft of moss colouring its mundane, functional greyness.
Roger was stepping carefully towards his daughter. ‘Come on Annette. Let’s go home – please.’
The silhouette turned. A palm raised. Newman stopped.
‘Come on love, this is silly. Let’s go and get something to eat and have a bottle of wine. We can get through this.’
He was trying to catch his breath, the words coming in staccato gulps. Ivy made to walk forwards, but Newman stopped him.
The dark outline of the young woman stretched out to find a foothold and pulled herself up onto the wall. As one, the crowd of onlookers gasped.
‘Annette,’ Newman pleaded. ‘What’re you doing? That’s dangerous. Please, come down.’
She ignored him and turned her face forward. Towards the court building and the statue of justice looking back at her.
For those below, the understanding of the look was lost. It could have been contempt, loathing, sadness or simple incomprehension. But at the proud lady, and her sword and scales, Annette stared.
‘Shit,’ El whispered. Nigel too was groaning. Beside him a man called 999. The woman was pulling her son away. But he was resisting, trying to turn back.
‘Is she going to jump, Mummy?’ the boy asked.
In the distance a siren wailed. At the top of the car park, perhaps seventy feet above them, Annette spread her arms wide.
And now Newman’s voice was filled with panic. ‘Annette! You’re frightening me. Love, please come down. We can do whatever you want. We can go abroad and start again. Or we can go home and talk. Just come down… please.’
A seagull screeched in the sky. Newman took a careful pace forward, then another.
The figure of his daughter began to rock back and forth.
‘Annette! Don’t do this. You’re scaring me. What about college? What about the company? You’ve got so much more to do with it.’
Another siren joined the first. Newman stepped forward again, Ivy beside him. The usher was crying silently, tears streaming down his face.
‘Please Annette!’ Newman begged. ‘Don’t do this.’
The silhouette turned. A hand raised, as if waving. An easy breeze ruffled the spikes of Annette’s hair. It could have been nature’s fond goodbye to one of her beautiful creations.
The young woman’s feet shuffled on the narrowness of the ledge. A couple of loose chippings fell and clattered down to the pavement.
The crowd drew in a collective breath. They had become one in dread. People began to reach out for the comfort of friends.
Annette looked down, studied the expanse of the concrete below. The pattern of the paving stones, the dark waters of the ponds, the trees, the lines of benches.
And gazing over them all, the guardian statue of justice.
To the cloudless sky, Annette lifted her head. She took in one final taste of the sweet air and caress of the warming sun. And then she fell, pitching forwards in a graceful dive, plunging in a curving, elegant arc, flying in freedom through the perfect autumn day until her body smashed into the pavement.
Dan managed one look. Just a brief, half-second, no more than a snapshot, but enough to capture that vision for always.
The shattered body. The fingers of fresh blood stretching from the lifeless head. The cracked porcelain of those fine cheekbones. The one open eye, more contented in death than it was in life.
He fell to his knees and was violently sick.
Chapter Twenty-Five
They sought she
lter in the unlikely refuge of the satellite van. Away from the ambulances and the hopeless efforts of the paramedics. Away from the police officers, stretching out the plastic tape of a cordon and trying not to look at that which they were protecting. Away from the gossips, gathering to share their horror.
And away from Roger Newman, who was crying into the arms of the usher. A blanket round his shoulders, despite the heat of the day. A mug of tea thrust into his shaking hand, from which he had taken not a sip. A policewoman trying to guide him to one of the vans parked beside the multi-storey.
As sleepwalkers, Nigel and Dan trudged back to the court. Not a word, not a gesture, just weighted legs moving in automatic time.
A pair of friends, united over years by the bonds of humour, professionalism and a savouring of life, now with nothing to share except that of which they dare not speak.
So much they had been through together. But never anything like this. A black cloak had been cast over them, excluding all light from the world, even on this sunshine day.
It was half past five. An hour until Wessex Tonight took to the air. But never had a deadline felt so inconsequential. It was as important as a wash prior to the guillotine or watering the garden minutes before Armageddon.
Nigel pulled the van door closed. It was a time for shutting out the fear of reality.
But on every wall, the windscreen, the seats, even on the clocks, there was the broken, lifeless face of a 17-year-old woman. A personal ghost, to be with them always.
‘What do we do?’ Loud asked, quietly.
‘Who cares?’ Nigel replied.
He stepped across to the front of the van and sat on the passenger seat, head bowed between his knees. Loud folded his arms and sucked at his teeth. Dan reached for a bottle of water and swigged hard. It cleared some of the tang of sickness, but he could still taste bile. He poured a cascade over his head. Some splashed onto Loud and the edit desk, but the engineer didn’t react.
There was only stillness and silence. And it was enough. The safety of the half light of the cramped space. A place that was not out there; an unwanted existence where young women were so traumatised by the evils inflicted upon them that they could embrace death from the top of a car park.