by Simon Hall
‘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 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 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; that 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 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. Adam was forced to adopt a permanent stoop, but kept hitting his head anyway.
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 taken advantage of its 24 hour service and made a phone call to his bank around the time of the explosion. 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 for 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 anything. 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 your devious imagination.’
A phone call from the Deputy Chief Constable hadn’t improved Adam’s mood. There was the usual helpful pointing out that the case was a very high profile one. The eyes of the world were, apparently, on Greater Wessex Police, waiting for the killer to be revealed.
This particular message 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.
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 igniting waveguide would take a day to repair, sparing Dan a live broadcast.
The tiredness was gaining. 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 satisfied, for now at least. A couple of disappearing hours in the sunshine comfort of the flat would be a fine respite from the cares of the world. The beautiful songbird of a little sleep was singing a beguiling melody.
Dan was about to say goodbye 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 quietened 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
Even though he was much younger, Dan remembered well the day he was presented with one of the first mobile phones. The size of a shoe box, with a long antennae for an aerial, it was initially a source of amusement.
The thing, as he christened it, worked in only about ten per cent of places, usually on top of a hill. And when it did actually manage to make a call, the battery would last for anything up to three or four minutes at best.
As the thing, and all its peers, became more reliable, it hadn’t taken long to realise mobiles must be fitted with another annoying function. They would invariably ring when a call was least wanted.
And so it was now. Before Katrina could say anything else, Adam’s phone went off. He listened briefly, then apologised to her. ‘Sorry, we’ll have to talk later. I need to go.’
As unruffled as ever, even if her moment had been eclipsed, Katrina just nodded. Adam turned to Dan. ‘The Ailings – they’ll
do it. Can you get up to the hospital?’
‘Right now?’ Dan asked, forlornly, mentally waving goodbye to any hope of a break.
‘Right now. And can you get it on tonight’s news?’
Dan checked his watch. It was only mid-afternoon.
‘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.’
***
It was on the way, so Dan stopped at the flat first. For an interview like this, a fresh shirt and sombre tie were required.
He 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 round the garden, which he probably preferred. The sight of the his beloved dog careering about, 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 brought them a way of working in the most sensitive cases. Dan would chat to the Ailings 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 rueing what a dreadful time the Ailings were going through and then slipped into 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. On the horizon, Dartmoor glowered, the natural boundary for the ever-growing city. The parking at Tamarside Hospital could be an 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 people, 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 brief and lacking in warmth as an English summer.
Claire led them along a series of corridors, the off-white tiles reflecting 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 a lovely 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 many times, but the cold squeeze on the heart never lessened.
Good people, singled out by a second of malevolent 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 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 together and they 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 some comfort and help their cause.
And through all of this was the unspoken understanding. On the floor below the sterile waiting room, lying on a bed in the Intensive Care Unit, her body 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.
Nigel adjusted the camera while Dan chatted; about the weather, what a fine hospital Tamarside was, the dedication and talent 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. ‘I’d like to feel I know her a little better.’
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.’
The couple exchanged a look and Ron held out his wallet. Nigel adjusted a light and took a couple of minutes to capture the image.
‘We’re going to run this interview after my report,’ Dan said. ‘We’
ll have about two minutes, which may not sound long but is quite a while in TV terms. Are you ready to give it a try?’
They both nodded, but didn’t speak. Below the camera’s shot, the squeezing of the Ailing’s interlaced hands had become a grip.
‘I know it’s difficult,’ Dan said, ‘But could you tell me what you went through when you heard what happened to Amy?’
And then a pause, as ever in these interviews. Because it was so very hard to find mere words to describe such shock and suffering.
‘First, it’s like – just numbness, disbelief,’ Ron began. ‘You can’t understand, you can’t comprehend anything like this could happen. Then it’s fear – you’re overtaken with it. The police were marvellous. They rushed us up to the hospital. But for the whole of the trip – it was only short, but it felt like ages – we were dreading what we were going to find. We were expecting to get here, and be told that Amy was… well, you know.’
Dan nodded. He knew, the Ailings knew, the viewers would know. A doctor with a practised look, a kindly hand leading them to a private room and the dreaded, final words.
‘Moving on, and most importantly,’ Dan asked gently, ‘How is Amy now?’
‘She’s getting better, thankfully,’ Ron replied. ‘Bless her, she’s a fighter. She’s off the critical list and she’s stable. The doctors say they expect her to recover. It’ll take a while, but we don’t care. We’ll be there, however long it takes.’
Understanding and encouraging, Dan smiled. ‘Mrs Ailing, if I can ask you…’ He waited, to allow Nigel time to pan the shot onto her.
‘What kind of a woman is Amy?’
She swallowed hard. ‘Amy’s lovely. She’s a little quiet and shy, but she’s so kind and gentle. She was delighted to get the baker’s job. She was loving it. And then – well, what happened with the explosion… we couldn’t believe it. It just seems so… terribly wrong. We thought – why us? Why our family? What have we done to deserve this?’
And, as ever, there never was, and never could be any answer. Not in this little hospital room, not outside, not anywhere at any time. Here was the age-old saying that life’s not fair vivid in the anguish of one small family.