by Simon Hall
Dan let a couple of seconds slip past. Calm and measured was the only way, and another difficult question had to be asked. ‘You know the police believe the explosion was probably a revenge attack. What do you think of that?’
The couple’s grip grew tighter. Elizabeth looked to Ron. He studied the floor, took time to find the words.
‘I can understand someone wanting revenge for what the Edwards did. But that’s the problem with revenge. It’s never clear and simple. Someone else always gets hurt – and it always seems to be someone innocent.’
***
They walked in silence back to the hospital’s main entrance. Nigel received another hug from Claire, and Dan the penance of another cheek peck. But this time he got a meaningful look, too.
Before Dan could head for the car, Claire reached out and asked him to wait. He steeled himself, expecting another fusillade, but was spared.
‘I’ve got a message from Adam,’ she said. ‘He needs to know for certain whether that interview is going to be broadcast tonight?’
‘Very much so. It’ll be the lead story. Very high profile.’
‘In which case, he says the operation is ready to go.’ Claire paused, looked him over. ‘So come on then – what are you up to?’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dan found himself a nook at the back of the MIR, and was doing his best to shrink into it. Never had he felt at ease here, the very heartbeat of an investigation, despite Adam’s assurances. But this evening the issue was more one of embarrassment.
Television has taken on a strange role in modern Britain. For a country with a decline in faith, Dan often saw it as a replacement God. In the celebrity stakes he counted himself not even aspiring Z list, just a humble reporter on a small, regional television station.
But even then, sometimes those he met would stare and point. One man had approached in the street, mouth agape, and stammered, ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ – as if Dan were the ghost of Elvis.
A woman had once stopped him in the supermarket, peered into his trolley and gasped, ‘So that’s what you eat!’
Of such embarrassments he was reminded now. A television had been set up in the corner of the MIR and Adam, Katrina and Claire were gathered around.
‘Are you not coming to join us?’ Adam asked over his shoulder.
‘No thanks. You enjoy it.’
The Wessex Tonight theme music boomed out and the titles began to play. As with many of the strange species known as news editors, the headlines were an obsessions for Lizzie. She described them as the programme’s shop window, setting out the most alluring fare to tempt the masses inside.
Tonight, after a couple of shots of the fire blazing in the Edwards’ ruined house, came a brief part of the interview with Elizabeth Ailing. In a faltering voice, she asked the world why it should be her family who suffered.
Adam tapped the table in appreciation. Dan remained steadfastly in his corner. Craig, the presenter, read the introduction to the story and it rolled. Dan tried to watch the passing world, down below, in the city centre, but the Ailings’ words kept intruding.
‘That was very powerful,’ Katrina observed when the sequence had finished.
Claire said, ‘Yes, it was moving,’ and added pointedly, ‘I thought between us, Dan and I handled them well together.’ But all the ever-practical Adam concluded was, ‘So let’s see what happens.’
He picked up a radio. ‘Base to the Eyes, report in please.’
And one by one, the surveillance teams which had been assigned to watch Templar, Newman, Ivy and Parkinson confirmed they were focused upon their subjects.
***
‘Right,’ Adam said, brusquely, ‘While we wait to see the suspects’ reactions to our little prompt, let’s start thinking. First, Katrina – your theory about that last mystery of the kidnapping.’
From her bag, she produced an envelope and unfolded a letter. There were two typewritten sheets. The paper was faded and gave off a musty smell. It was dated fifteen years ago.
Dear Mr Newman,
Hello! I know you’re busy and I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m writing to apply for one of your bursaries. There was something I had to tell you personally, something I couldn’t put on the form. I know you have many requests for help, but I believe mine is different.
Like you, I grew up on the Eddystone Estate, with the ambition to make my way out, just as you did. I have researched your life and find it inspirational. I admire the business you have created and all your charitable work. I would love to have the opportunity to follow in your footsteps.
I suspect you hear similar words all the time. So let me confide something which may surprise you.
I am seriously ill, and through no fault of my own. I was born with a blood disease, which the doctors thought they could cure. But they made it worse by infecting me with hepatitis. When I ask how long I have to live, they don’t answer.
But, like you, I have resolved to overcome my problems and do the best I can with my life. I hope to go to university and study for a career. My family is not well off and a bursary would make that possible.
I tell very few people about my illness. It’s difficult for me, as I know you’ll appreciate. I don’t want to appear to be seeking sympathy. I have only mentioned it here so you can understand my needs, and my hopes. I thank you for your time and look forward to hearing from you.
The signature was faded and near illegible. But no one reading was in any doubt who had written the letter.
‘The reply is attached,’ Katrina said quietly, holding out another sheet.
Dear Ms Edwards,
Thank you for your letter. I regret to inform you this year’s bursaries have been allocated, and, given the difficult state of the economy, there are, as yet, no plans to provide more for the coming years.
I’m sorry if this is a disappointment, but let me take the opportunity to wish you all the best for the future.
Yours truly,
pp
Roger Newman
***
Katrina had spent the morning with Roger Newman. They talked in his office, during which time a secretary had bustled in with a pile of papers to be signed. They were applications from students for one of the businessman’s bursary schemes.
‘I haven’t got time to deal with them at the moment,’ Newman said. ‘Just pp them for me, will you?’
‘I made an excuse about needing to check his records for the inquiry,’ Katrina recounted, as she laid down the letters. ‘He was distracted enough not to spot what I was thinking.’
Newman allocated an assistant to help. In a dank and cold storeroom, it had taken a couple of hours to find the letters.
‘Martha opened up to him,’ Claire said, softly. ‘All those years ago. In return she got a standard letter, which Newman hadn’t even taken the time to sign himself.’
Katrina angled a foot on one of her heels. The room had begun to feel stuffy. Adam pulled at his tie. Dan pushed open a window.
‘What could that have meant at the trial?’ he asked. ‘If we’d known, if the jury had been told… and then Annette, and all that’s happened since…’
A breeze rattled the room. It took a while, but it was Adam who finally broke the silence of thoughts. ‘It’s no good going back over all that. What’s done can’t be undone. We need to get working on who killed the Edwards.’
***
On a table were some bundles of documents. They contained a report on the suspects’ alibis. Judging by the methodical detail, the typewritten pages might as well have been replaced by Claire’s elegant handwriting.
Timings
The explosion happened at 3.59 am, based on the evidence of CCTV cameras. Although none cover Homely Terrace, a couple which monitor the city centre picked up the fireball in the background.
The car alarm was set off at 3.57 am. This is the independent evidence of several people in the street who were woken by it.
The lock on the Edward
s’ back door was a latch and unsophisticated. The house was relatively small. The estimate is for the killer to take no more than five minutes to get inside, set the gas running, crack the light bulb to expose the filament and leave again.
Less straightforward is the question – how long would it take to fill the house with the amount of gas needed to cause an explosion? Given the research available, and the fact that the cooker was the killer’s chosen source of gas, the calculation of the fire investigator is approximately 25 minutes.
All the suspects live in and around Plymouth, and no more than ten minutes journey from Homely Terrace. Which means the critical time for the suspects’ alibis is between 3.15 am and 4.10 am.
Next, to the movements of the suspects themselves:
Ian Parkinson
Claims he was in bed, but no one to verify this. Lives in the Lipson area, no more than ten minutes from the Edwards’ house by foot, or perhaps five by bicycle. Has no car and says he bikes everywhere. This is verified by colleagues and neighbours.
A tinny voice broke into the room. Claire got to the radio first.
‘Go ahead.’
‘How expensive is this operation, ma’am?’ the voice asked.
‘Damned dear enough,’ Adam snapped. ‘What are you talking about man?’
‘I’ve been on more exciting stake outs, sir.’
The man was watching Judge Templar. He had sat at a long, wooden table, eating supper, watching Wessex Tonight. He showed no reaction throughout and merely carried on with the meal. As soon as the report ended the judge poured a glass of wine, switched off the television and finished his food slowly and thoughtfully.
Now he was washing up in a large kitchen built for entertaining, a cave of a space. The task took only seconds, with just one plate, one knife, one fork and one glass. He returned to the dining room, settled in a chair, selected some music and took out a notepad and pen. Occasionally his face would bunch into a scowl, but sometimes Templar would let out a chuckle and even begin laughing.
‘I think I got a glimpse of the title of what he was writing,’ the man whispered, through the radio.
‘Go on,’ Claire replied.
‘These binoculars are pretty good, but if you really want to kit us out for surveillance…’
‘Just tell us,’ Adam ordered, tetchily.
‘Sorry sir. I reckon it’s some kind of memoir. He’s called it A Peculiar Justice.’
***
They returned to working through Claire’s briefing on the movements of the suspects.
Roger Newman:
Both neighbours interviewed. One a deep sleeper – heard nothing. Other believes she heard crashing and shouting from Newman’s home at about 3.45 am (he claims he was drunk, raging and throwing things about). She was, in her words, half asleep and listened for a little longer, but heard nothing else and was quickly sleeping again.
She’s about three-quarters sure it was Newman’s voice she heard. The timing of 3.45 is certain, as she has an LED alarm clock which is always accurate.
Newman lives on the Barbican, by Sutton Harbour, in the city centre. The walk to Homely Terrace would have been no more than ten minutes, the journey by car barely two or three.
Adam had placed his radio on the table while he read the papers. Now, it squawked again.
‘Sir, action,’ came a woman’s voice. ‘It’s Newman. He’s being weird.’
They bunched around the tiny speaker. First came a hurried report of Newman’s reaction to the Wessex Tonight story. He sat on a sofa and sipped hard at a hip flask. Newman said nothing, but flicked a V-sign at the screen when pictures of the Edwards’ ruined house were shown. During the interview with the Ailings he shook his head and appeared to groan.
‘And now?’ Adam prompted.
‘He’s staring out of the window, towards the sea. He’s pressing his palms up against the glass. Now he’s pushing his face against it, his cheek, really hard. It’s as if he’s trying to break through. He’s… shit!’
Adam grabbed the radio. ‘What? What is it?’
‘He just spun round and kicked a light off a table. Now he’s stamping on it. It’s one of those multi-coloured glass things. He’s smashing it into pieces. Now he’s slumped back on the sofa, glugging at the flask again. He’s just lying there, drinking.’
Adam told the officer to keep watching and make sure Newman didn’t do ‘anything silly.’
Dan said, ‘What does that mean? Guilt-ridden anguish for killing the Edwards?’
‘Or perhaps just a father’s suffering at the loss of his daughter?’ Claire added quietly, with a note of admonishment. Adam picked up another pile of papers. ‘We’ll talk about it in a minute. Let’s finish our suspects’ alibis first.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
The police station quietened, as it often did at this time of the evening.
From the corridor outside came the odd chirpy ‘goodnight’ and footsteps, always lighter heading home than when arriving for work. But the MIR was a bubble, insulated and cocooned. Here, this little group were intent on the radio which linked them to the surveillance operation going on in four quarters of the city and the bundles of documents outlining the suspects’ alibis.
Templar
Checks reveal a night time history of internet use and emailing, dating back to shortly after his wife died. Doctors say insomnia induced by grief is a common complaint.
On the night the Edwards were killed, Templar sent several emails in the early hours. The Eggheads have retrieved copies (enclosed). Of most interest are exchanges with Jonathan Ivy.
Templar, 1.24 am – This Death by Dangerous Driving case next week, I’m thinking of saying a few words of warning to other young motorists. If I talk about ‘A car being a deadly weapon in the wrong hands, little different from a gun or knife,’ do you think that would be excessive?
Ivy, 1.39 am – I think that’s absolutely fair. It’s a terrible case and will be widely reported. A warning would be appropriate.
Templar, 1.44 am – And have you made arrangements for the victim’s family to be kept segregated from the defendant’s? They have an unpleasant reputation.
Ivy, 1.58 am – There will be a police presence in court to make sure there are no disturbances.
Templar, 2.07 am – Thank you.
Both the men’s computers reveal they have commonly exchanged night time emails in previous months and always relating exclusively to court matters.
The pattern is of Templar using Ivy as a sounding board for comments. Following the above exchange, Templar makes various internet searches for foreign holidays and sends two more emails:
3.20 am (to professionalsinlove.com) – Thank you for the information, but I am not interested in meeting women from Durham and Liverpool. Please confine any further suggestions to South West England.
3.39 am (to the Ministry of Justice) – Regarding my recent communication on concerns about defendant transfer times from Exeter Prison to Plymouth Crown Court, may I enquire whether the matter has yet been brought to the attention of the Minister?
Finally – At 3.49 am, Templar calls his bank to instruct them to pay a credit card bill and transfer funds between accounts. Records reveal it is commonplace for him to make such calls in the early hours since the death of his wife. To access his accounts, Templar must give a password and personal information. The recording of the call has been checked. It is, with absolute certainty, Templar. The call was made from his home landline.
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 2.33 am – 3.38 am. 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 3.45 am 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 video 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 (other than Templar/Ivy, above), 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 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 half-hearted 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 gaps in his fingers, as a child might with 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.’