by Simon Hall
‘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 repeated what Newman had said, and both sounded worried in ways far out of character.
‘I somehow doubt I will be ok,’ Dan grunted, in response to the familiar question his friends had asked. ‘And as for where I am – probably busking tunes at the nearest subway in an attempt to earn my next meal pretty soon.’
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 drenched city. Far out to sea, a sparkle of lightning flinted across 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 overshadowed 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 quick conversation, he 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 is about all we’ve got.’
***
They resumed their vigil at the window. The storm was moving closer, riding on a 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 connections 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 jewel of a giveaway clue.
‘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 wakes the neighbours.’
‘That’s interesting, granted, maybe even suggestive,’ Adam said slowly. ‘But if it was deliberate, it throws up two problems. First, 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. Could it?’
Dan thought for a while, before pronouncing the rueful verdict, ‘Bugger. But yet… I don’t know. I still get the feeling I’m 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.
‘Try this, then,’ Dan said, ‘What if 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 filled with the suspects’ alibis. He started sketching arrows between the four men, jotting down thoughts, the movement of the pen growing faster with his excitement. Adam peered down at the 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 around its floors as drivers 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 rage of the elements, and then began miserable runs through the rain.
Above the courts the Lady of Justice stood, solitary in the face of the storm. Lightning 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 show 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 dry.
Dan’s phone kept ringing and he resolutely 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 if it was you, even though you’re a colleague, and, well… my mentor.’
Dan found his chest feel
ing 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 waffling of a 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 wretched 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 right. It fits. It’s just the same old problem – proving it.’
‘That’s been the trouble 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 joining 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 an early darkness to the land, as if forcing the afternoon aside and ushering in a premature night.
All around was the sound of the coming autumn. Tyres cut through standing water. The rain beat, rattled and drummed on windscreens, pavements and umbrellas. Engines idled, exhaust fumes mixing with the 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 rain.
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 slate amongst the 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 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. Each blow of a raindrop felt propelled by a catapult of the heavens, with a heavy momentum and 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 deflect the assault. It was as if the storm had taken offence at these two foolish humans breaking cover and directed all its firepower upon them. They were only yards across the plaza and already streaked and dishevelled.
Adam’s mobile began to trill. He fumbled it from his pocket and glanced down at the dim light of the display. The detective veered sideways, slamming into the side of the Pepperpot café and finding the relief of shelter under its awnings. The noise of the rain beating down was so loud he had to shout.
The name on the display registered Claire Reynolds. But what she had to tell was unclear. Adam uttered only a series of prompts, ‘Right? Go on… really?’
The café owner looked hopeful but Dan put on an apologetic expression and the man went back to his book. Adam had almost finished his conversation. He was saying he had to go, but that Claire should come to the courts and they would talk more later.
‘It wasn’t Katrina,’ Adam said, slipping the phone back into his jacket. ‘Not that I ever really thought it was. The CCTV at the hotel is conclusive. She had a meal in the restaurant. After that, she went up to her room. And that’s where she was when someone was breaking in to the Edwards’ house and setting off the car alarm. She’s on the fifth floor. There’s no way out of the hotel which isn’t covered by CCTV.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Just about.’
‘Just about?’
‘Claire said there was one oddity, but it’s hardly relevant.’
‘Try me anyway.’
‘It means nothing.’
‘I’d like to hear it. You know how I like odd details.’
‘You’d like to hear more about Katrina, you mean.’
‘Just the detail, please.’
Adam flicked some water from his face. ‘She asked for a very early morning alarm call, just before dawn. The receptionist remembers, because Katrina said the forecast was for another beautiful day. She was going back to London soon and wanted to see a Devon sunrise first. The CCTV shows her going up to the roof terrace of the hotel just after five in the morning and then back to her room again fifteen minutes later.’
Dan nodded and said thoughtfully, ‘Does it now?’
***
A young, tall and burly security guard, who stomped rather than walked, led them up the stairs of the courthouse. Adam had rung ahead while they were in the police car, to list his demands.
‘He definitely doesn’t know we’re coming?’ Adam asked the man.
‘No sir. He’ll just be asked to report to the chambers.’
‘And he won’t be told who’s here, or why?’
‘No sir,’ the guard replied, patiently. ‘It’ll be exactly as you asked.’
‘You’d better hang around at the end of the corridor. But discreetly please, not as though you’re guarding a nightclub.’
For the first time, the man looked more interested. ‘Is there going to be some action? I wouldn’t mind a bit of that. I get fed up with just checking bags and confiscating knives.’
‘I doubt it,’ Adam replied. ‘But I’d appreciate your help, just in case.’
They were shown into Templar’s chambers. The fine old clock on the mantelpiece said the time was twenty to four. They had an hour, perhaps a few minutes more, to solve the case.
Dan noticed he was leaving little black circles of drips on the thick pile of the carpet. With a thought of Rutherford he shook himself, discarding a shower of droplets. His jacket and shirt were heavy with the soaking rain. He stood by the radiator and tried to dry himself.
As for Adam, he had no thought for how wet he was. The detective paced back and forth across the room, hardly standing still for a second. He studied some leathery old books on the shelves, then crossed to the window and stared out.
The storm had
lost none of its vigour. Rain continued to lash the deserted plaza. Another flash of lightning speared across the sky, the thunder no more than a half a second behind. It rattled the wooden panels of the room.
Adam stalked over to the door and rested an ear against it, before returning to the window.
‘Are you ok?’ Dan asked.
‘Fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really, really?’
‘No.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on.’
‘Ok then,’ the detective snapped. ‘I’m thinking about the next few minutes. I’m thinking about how to handle this interview. How, if I get it wrong, if I don’t get a confession, I’m off the case, facing a disciplinary and maybe even the end of my career. If I’m lucky, I might be giving out parking tickets. So I’m thinking about exactly what to say, and the best way to crack the case. At least that’s what I’m trying to think, when I’m not being interrupted.’
Dan fielded the cudgel of a hint and quietened. He paced over to the judge’s desk and set the Newton’s Cradle in motion.
Click, clack, click, clack…
To pass the waiting time, Dan studied the paintings on the wall. All were gloomy oils of Dartmoor scenes. They reeked of an intemperate, uplands day, and an artist in a dour mood.
A trickle of water wound its way down Dan’s neck, and he pulled tetchily at his shirt. Adam was gazing out at the multi-storey car park, one foot tapping on the carpet.
He turned as footsteps settled outside.
***
The wooden panels eased open and Jonathan Ivy stepped into the room. He saw Adam and Dan and stopped.
And in that moment, just that one single second, Dan knew. It was in Ivy’s face. Something changed. It was a realisation, an understanding. The pale disc of his features lost another tone of colour. The thin line of his mouth twitched.
He had been exposed. He was part of a conspiracy to murder that resulted in the deaths of a brother and sister. His role had been revealed.