by Simon Hall
Dan took it and checked the inside pocket. The black tie he kept for sudden VIP death stories was safely there. Good. He found a few scraps of paper in his jeans pocket. Enough for some hasty notes. He had all he needed.
Blackmail, sex, a fake bomb and the suicide of a well-known MP. It sounded like the sort of story journalists dreamt of. He looked at El. The photographer’s face was soft with the whimsical contentment that said he sensed a scandal erupting, and the scent of big money to be made.
The cab sped through a turning traffic light, screeched around a corner. The flats and terraces of the city centre faded, replaced instead by semi-detached houses. All were in the impeccable decorative order so beloved of estate agents, all with two or more cars in the drive, and all with neatly trimmed lawns, both front and back, naturally. They’d reached Hartley, probably the most upmarket area of Plymouth, although many locals joke that might be a contradiction in terms.
The taxi growled to a stop in Hawthorn Lane and Dan hopped out, El managing more of an untidy clamber. Elegance had always eluded him. Within seconds of their arrival, curtains began twitching.
It was that kind of an area.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Dan, giving the driver a ten pound note. ‘Keep the change, but do me a receipt would you?’
‘Done,’ said the man, grinning and exposing a couple of gold front teeth. He handed Dan a piece of paper. ‘Me mobile number’s on there. Call me if you need anything and I’ll drop what I’m doing and come. I’ve always wanted to get into TV. The birds love it.’
Dan couldn’t disagree. He knew he was a reasonable-looking man, had his own teeth, most of his allocation of hair still hanging on, albeit forlornly, was neither fat nor thin; in short, very average. But many of his romantic entwinements had been kindled by women recognising him from the television. They seemed to assume it guaranteed a level of quality that he usually failed to come close to living up to.
And now those days were gone, Dan reminded himself. He was in a serious and contented relationship, about to buy a house with Claire. It was the first time he would live with a woman and attempt that intimidating and long-avoided phenomenon only ever whispered by men – and even then looking over their shoulders, as if in fear of the fabled bogey man – the thing known as “commitment”.
Dan expected to feel a nudge of nostalgia for his carefree bachelor days, just a hint of regret, but was pleased to find none came. It must be right, this new way.
He hoped.
He and El walked quickly over to the house. A couple of uniformed cops stood outside on sentry duty. There was a line of cars and a white van on the road outside, Greater Wessex Police CID and scientific support staff standard issue, but there were no other journalists or photographers.
‘Great!’ hollered El, stroking the long lens of his camera lovingly. ‘We’re first on the scene and not another snapper in sight. I can whazz the pics off to all the nationals and clean up.’ He mimicked the sound of an old-fashioned cash register. ‘Kerching!’
The photographer’s face warmed into a sleazy grin and he launched into one of his bizarre limericks.
‘There once was a dead MP,
Who made poor El happy,
He was mired in scandal,
Which lit up El’s candle,
As he did his snap snappy!’
El raised his camera and began clicking off a series of pictures of the house. Staccato white flashes lit the darkening night.
Freedman’s home was a politician’s choice. Pleasant and respectable, but not ostentatious, just right to fit in with his people. Semi-detached, circa 1930. Whitewashed stone, new slate roof, probably four bedrooms, safe and enclosed garden at the back for the kids. Couple of lemon trees and a patch of grass in the front garden, bird table with a half-full wire mesh feeder hanging down. It said family and contentment.
Dan had never interviewed Freedman, but remembered he talked a good game of compassionate politics, not letting yourself get too far removed from your constituents. Living here he could claim to be one of them, even if his life was nothing like the nine-to-five office grind of most of theirs.
A diesel engine rumbled and groaned. A large white van with Wessex Tonight painted on the side bumped up the pavement, slewing heavily from side to side. A thickly bearded face poked out from the driver’s window. ‘Loud’ Jim Stone, the outside broadcast engineer had arrived.
‘Bloody late for a call out,’ he grumbled accusingly. ‘I was getting ready to go to bed. Even had me pyjamas on.’
The hairy head disappeared back into the cab. The truck jumped into reverse, lurched backwards and snapped a sapling. The two policemen watching from the drive exchanged glances and shook their heads. Dan smiled his best placating look at them and shrugged. He fumbled his mobile from his pocket and called Adam.
‘Not a good time,’ the detective replied, emphasising the first word.
‘Sorry, I know you’re busy, but …’
‘And I know you’ve got a bulletin in an hour,’ Adam cut in. ‘Working with you has ingrained them in my thoughts. I’ll give you a call in a while with some info. Don’t worry, I can guarantee you it’ll be in time and interesting.’
Another car pulled up fast, a green estate. Nigel jumped out, ran around to the back and grabbed his camera and tripod from the boot. Dan noticed he was wearing slippers, but managed not to comment.
‘Evening,’ said Dan. ‘Welcome to the latest episode in our frantic “run around like trained hamsters to get a story on air” show. That’s Freedman’s house, and the only pictures we’ve got so far. So I’ll have as much of it as you can shoot to start us off please. Lots of the cops guarding the place too.’
The two officers straightened their tunics and caps and stood up straight at the sight of the TV camera. It had that magical effect, could create a parallel world of polite, smart and efficient illusion in the ambit of the lens.
Nigel set up the tripod, checked the camera’s focus and exposure. ‘OK,’ he said, his eye fixed to the viewfinder. Dan noticed he already felt more relaxed having his friend here. A few years older than him, Nigel and he had been through countless stories together, many difficult and emotional, but had always managed to produce some decent television. Nigel had also appointed himself father-figure to his errant reporter, and his wise counsel was often invaluable.
Dan stood behind him, watching Nigel’s back as a good TV reporter should. The cameraman was oblivious to much of the world when looking down the lens. Now it was time for some research. Dan called the newsroom library for a quick biography of Freedman. It’d be useful for background and context and they could also use an archive story to show pictures of the man.
Forty-four years old, Dan scribbled on the back of a flier for a nightclub. Began in politics as a “special adviser”, or spin doctor, at the age of 25. Elected Traditionalist Party MP for Plymouth Tamar in the General Election of 1997. Good majority too, almost eight thousand votes. Only the second mixed-race MP the party had. Well regarded by his constituents, several items about him campaigning hard on local issues, winning the refurbishment of a local junior school, the building of a new swimming pool, and traffic calming for one street that suffered from being a rat run.
One sad story dominated his past. Just over ten years ago, Yvonne had become pregnant and given birth to a boy. He was named Andrew James, after Freedman’s father who had died the previous year. There was a series of articles in the local press about the couple’s delight at having a son.
In a magazine interview, Freedman joked, ‘I’m delighted because now it evens the family up, and I’ll have an ally in the house to make sure I get to watch the football on TV.’ Yvonne had playfully retorted, ‘Don’t bet on it!’
The next story, covered in all the papers, was the news the baby had died. Dan could sense the shock. There was no interview with the Freedmans, just some quotes from friends talking about the couple wanting private time to come to terms with their loss, and being ‘devast
ated’. It was the standard word produced at a time of any personal disaster, the nearest most could come to expressing their despair, but this time Dan found himself nodding. He could hardly imagine the pain. A new life so quickly ended.
He’d never wanted children, in truth had never even thought about it, but now realised he’d begun wondering if perhaps, just maybe, one day he and Claire might … He stopped the run of thought. First, find a house and see how living together goes. That was a step quite sufficient for now.
A gap of several months and then another story, about Will Freedman becoming patron of a charity dedicated to research into the causes of cot death. And now many more reports about him repeatedly raising the issue in parliament and tireless fundraising for the cause. The most prominent was a cycle ride from Land’s End to John O’Groats. It was a familiar enough tale, barely newsworthy any more, but Freedman had found a new angle to make sure he attracted plenty of interest. He’d done the whole trip on a Penny Farthing.
There was one quirky item, from a couple of the national papers. Freedman had become chairman of the All Party Commons’ Gardening Group. Apparently he loved to relax with a bit of pottering amongst the greenery. Dan wondered whether it helped keep his mind from the death of his son.
The librarian read excerpts from more profiles and stories. Freedman certainly received a healthy press. He was regarded as a rising star of the Traditionalist Party. Speciality economics, which he’d read at university in Southampton, part of the Traditionalists’ Treasury team. Tipped to join the Shadow Cabinet by the next election. Strong on family values, a recurring theme in his speeches.
“The family is all, the foundation and heartbeat of our society. Anyone who betrays it, betrays us all”, was a quote that resonated. Dan juggled the phone under his chin and added it to the end of his list.
He thanked the librarian and hung up. The flier was almost full, a good measure he had enough background material. It certainly helped to explain why Freedman might be pushed to suicide if he was caught with his trousers down. It would destroy his reputation and career in an instant.
Adam stood in the bathroom of the Freedman family home and forced himself to study the corpse.
The man’s eyes were mercifully closed and he looked oddly at ease. A half empty whisky bottle lay on its side on the floor, spreading a sticky, amber puddle across the stripped wooden floorboards. There was still condensation on the bathroom window.
‘Dead,’ said Silifant, the police doctor. He sniffed hard, stood up slowly from the body and pulled unattractively at a tuft of silvery hair protruding from his left ear.
‘Very dead in fact,’ he added. ‘This was no cry for attention. He saved up a lovely cocktail of all sorts of pills. They would probably have done the trick on their own. Combine them with the insulin and whisky and it’s a quick goodnight. One of the more efficient suicides I’ve seen. Nine out of ten for lethal effect, I’d say.’
Adam rolled his eyes. He’d never come to terms with Silifant’s way of dealing with death. ‘Still marking corpses for efficiency of dispatch then, doctor?’ he asked tetchily.
It was a familiar argument, and Silifant produced his standard reply. ‘It lessens the tedium of being a mere worker on the factory line of mortality.’
‘What’s a ten then?’ asked Adam. ‘Spontaneous human combustion?’
The doctor edged out of the room, holding his back. ‘Something like that. But this was a good effort. Not as dramatic as plunging off a building or throwing yourself in front of a train, but just as effective and certainly less messy. Nine out of ten for him. Goodnight.’
Silifant stepped carefully down the stairs, one hand still on his back. He’d injured himself playing golf. That in itself was something of a mystery. It wasn’t the easiest game in which to maim yourself, hardly replete with physical risk. He was one of those men whom it was impossible to accurately age, but was probably somewhere between 50 and 65. Adam tried, but usually failed, not to hope the figure was closer to the retirement age. Silifant had become the local police doctor by simple virtue of the fact that no one else appeared to want the job.
Adam thought he heard a faint sobbing from below. Mrs Freedman and their daughter Alex, being comforted by a police Family Liaison Officer. The usual pathetic attempts to soften the shattering shock. An endless supply of cups of tea, a uniformed stranger’s arm around the shoulder. They did their best, but it never worked. What could?
Detective Sergeant Claire Reynolds stood in the doorway behind him, her hands intertwined over her stomach. ‘Who found the body?’ asked Adam, still staring at the frozen form.
‘Mrs Freedman, sir. She came upstairs to find her husband like this.’
‘Any possible doubt about it being a suicide?’
‘Not that I can see, sir. The house was locked up, very secure and there’s no sign whatsoever of a break in. I’ve called out Scenes of Crime to check the place to be certain, but I don’t think there’s any doubt. And there’s a note too.’
Adam sighed, nodded, picked at a stray fibre which had the temerity to have attached itself to his suit. ‘So, what does the note say?’
‘I haven’t touched it, sir. It was left in the Freedman’s bedroom. Mrs Freedman read it, then threw it down on the bed. I thought I’d wait for you to have a look. What I told you on the phone about blackmail and that Judgement Book thing came from Mrs Freedman.’
Adam pursed his lips, then said, ‘Let’s see for ourselves then. It’s time to delve into the despair of a dead man’s soul.’
Chapter Three
THE FREEDMANS’ BEDROOM WAS unremarkable, the sort you’d find in a million family homes. A couple of built-in wardrobes, a dresser and a chest of drawers. A double-glazed window looked out over the back garden. Adam pushed open a curtain. A spill of light from the windows downstairs revealed it was immaculately kept, bordered with neat earth beds.
The walls of the room were painted cream. Two sets of pine bedside cabinets, a digital radio and alarm clock on one. His side, Adam thought. It was usually the man who had the gadget. The clock’s glowing red numerals said 9.46.
He picked up the note, holding it carefully by its top corners so Claire could read it too. The handwriting looked shaky, but was painstakingly legible, as if produced by a child trying to impress a teacher.
Dear Yvonne and Alex,
Please forgive me. I’ve been the most stupid and selfish of men. I hate to have to tell you this, but I’d rather you heard it from me than the newspapers. I know that’s where it will end up. I’m so sorry.
In a moment of weakness, on a conference, I spent a night with a young prostitute. I don’t expect you to understand and I don’t try to excuse my behaviour, but I’d had a few drinks and couldn’t stop myself. I can still hardly believe I did it. I’ve never ceased hating myself for it. But even worse, somehow, someone got to know about it. I’ve been blackmailed.
The blackmailer didn’t ask for money, but seemed to want to humiliate me. In an odd way that was worse than some outrageous financial demand. The power he had over me was a torture. He set out very clearly in a letter what I had done and said that if I wanted to save myself, I had to solve a riddle. It was as though he was enjoying toying with me, watching me suffer. I can’t describe to you the depths of the pit of despair I’ve known in the last few days.
Forgive me if I’ve been behaving strangely, but recently I’ve been doing little except trying to solve the riddle. I’m afraid I have failed and the time limit the blackmailer set is up. I have no doubt he is about to expose me, so this is the way out I’ve chosen. I could see no other. At least this way the screams of scandal will be brief. The press will not have the fun of chasing me down the street every time I venture out and the blackmailer will be denied the enjoyment of seeing the pictures. Most importantly, you two will be spared it.
Again, I ask for your forgiveness. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you what I had done and what I’ve been going through in person. Desp
ite all this, please never doubt that I love you both very much and wish I could have been a better man for you. Please try to find it in your hearts to forgive me.
My love always,
Will
PS. I know the police will have to become involved. To them I say this: Please do everything possible to catch this person. He has taunted me with the knowledge of my own stupidity and weakness, and used his power over me in a sick and ruthless way. He has also told me that four other well-known people have behaved in similar immoral, criminal or corrupt ways, and that they too will suffer the attentions of what the blackmailer calls the “Judgement Book”. Please try to help these people, find this Book, and destroy it.
Adam laid the note gently back down on the double bed. He breathed out heavily. Claire said nothing. From downstairs, there was another muffled sob. Adam pointed to a couple of streaks on the paper, icicles of ink where the writing had smudged and blurred.
‘Tear marks,’ said Claire quietly.
Adam nodded slowly. ‘He was crying as he wrote. And he was a decent man, you know. He did a lot for this city. He helped us stop plans for a hostel for sex offenders being set up in a street not far from my house. And he championed a police sports project which turned a load of kids away from crime when the council didn’t want to know. He’ll be missed.’
The detective’s voice hardened. ‘Get the search teams in. Get them going over the house. Begin in whatever room he used as a study. Get the Square Eyes technical boys in too. They can start on his computer to see if he’s been using it to try to solve this riddle. We’ve got to find the note this blackmailer sent him.’
He hesitated, ran a hand over the dark stubble on his cheeks. ‘I’m going to talk to Mrs Freedman.’
Yvonne Freedman was sitting in the living room in the corner of a beige sofa, her legs scrunched up tight to her body, her arms wrapped around them. Her eyes were narrow slits, edged red and angry. Alex sat in a matching chair, staring at her mother. She wasn’t crying, and there was no sign she had been.