by Simon Hall
Yvonne was a little younger than her husband, around 40 or so. She had chin length, ruffled blonde hair and was probably beautiful, but it was impossible to tell through the fog of her misery. Her face was swollen and sallow. She hadn’t changed from the white dressing gown she was wearing when she found her husband’s body.
Alex had inherited her father’s dark looks. Her eyes were brown and her complexion smooth and Mediterranean, the kind that makes other women stare in jealousy. A spray of auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders. She looked a little overweight Adam thought, but that could just be teenage changes. She wore blue jeans and a red-and-white striped rugby shirt. A square silver stud shone in the side of her nose.
WPC Helen Masters, the Family Liaison Officer, pulled a high-backed wooden dining chair from under a table and Adam sat down. It was unforgiving and uncomfortable, the sort you might offer to a guest who you hoped wouldn’t stay too long. He shifted in the seat, took a few seconds to phrase his questions as gently as he could.
‘Mrs Freedman, I’m sorry to have to talk to you now,’ Adam began. ‘I know how much you’re suffering.’ Her mouth started to open, and he continued quickly, didn’t want to get into a discussion about her husband’s suicide note. ‘I just need to ask a couple of questions.’
Yvonne nodded, a barely perceptible shift of her head.
‘Did you have any inkling at all that anything was wrong with your husband? Did he raise anything you thought unusual? Do anything strange?’
A pause, no reply but a slight shake of the head.
Adam thought his way through the note. ‘Was he spending a large amount of time working?’
Yvonne’s tired eyes closed, but she managed a tiny nod.
Adam waited for her to look back at him, then said softly, ‘Was there anything unusual about that? More time than normal?’
‘He was always working.’
The harshness of the voice was a shock. It came from Alex.
‘That was what he did,’ she went on, spelling out each word. ‘He worked. That was all he did.’
On the sofa, Yvonne Freedman bowed her head and began crying, soft flutters of breath, then shaking sobs. Alex glared at her and snorted unpleasantly.
WPC Masters sat down beside Yvonne, reached for her hand, held it gently, whispered some soothing noises. The momentum of the new widow’s misery was growing. She was struggling to breathe through her tears.
Adam studied her, folded his arms. He knew they would learn nothing more from Yvonne Freedman tonight. ‘I’ll leave you now,’ he said quietly, getting up from his chair. Like most men, despite years of experience, he’d never grown competent at handling a woman’s crying. Besides, tears were an unassailable defence against questioning.
He softened his voice, but laced it with a warning. ‘I will need to speak to you again though, and soon. Probably tomorrow morning. For now, just one more thing.’
Adam paused, turned to Alex. Given what they knew about Freedman’s liaison with a teenage prostitute, testing the relationship between father and daughter was important.
He said as gently as he could, ‘I know he was your dad, but were you particularly close?’
Yvonne Freedman looked up, her mouth falling open, but all that emerged was a whimper. WPC Masters placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. Alex opened her arms theatrically and shook her head. ‘Close?’ she asked contemptuously. ‘How close can you get to someone you never see?’
Adam didn’t answer, took a couple of steps towards the door. Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘Where did your dad do his work? Did he have a study?’
‘Out there,’ Alex said sullenly, pointing to the hallway. ‘By the kitchen.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Adam. ‘You should both try to get some sleep. A police doctor will help you if you need a sleeping tablet.’
He held her look. Alex shrugged and mumbled something under her breath.
‘I’m sorry?’ asked Adam, taking a step towards her.
‘I said arsehole,’ she spat, her dark eyes suddenly wide. ‘He was an arsehole. My father. An absolute arsehole. OK?’
10.20. They were on air in five minutes. Dan had to get ready for the bulletin, even if he had nothing to say. Deadlines don’t negotiate.
Adam would call, he knew it. But the detective was leaving it damned late.
Dan squeezed the moulded plastic tube into his left ear, tucked into the back of his shirt the cable that connected it to the radio receiver on his belt. The link crackled, then buzzed.
‘Testing the line to Dan at the outside broadcast,’ came the harassed voice of the director. ‘This is Emma in the Wessex Tonight broadcast gallery in Plymouth. Oh, for God’s sake, where are you OB?!’
Dan gave a thumbs-up to the camera. ‘Hearing you loud and clear,’ he said, taking the microphone Nigel was proffering.
There was a groan of relief. ‘About time! You’re top of the bulletin and we’re on air in just under five minutes. Standby. The next time we talk to you it’ll be for real.’
Dan felt the adrenaline run, tingling his body and quickening his breath. Live broadcasting, always the most exhilarating part of his job, but by far the most dangerous too. Get it right, and you were admired and respected as cool, composed and authoritative, the man who brought the big news to the hundreds of thousands watching and waiting, hanging on your words of wisdom. But get it wrong, and it was a very public humiliation.
He wondered what the hell he was going to say. All he knew was the thinnest of information from that rushed conversation with Adam. Freedman was dead, suicide, linked to some sex scandal and blackmail. He had no details and no confirmation. What if there’d been a misunderstanding?
It happened. The fire of breaking news could shoot off a thousand sparks of misinformation.
You learn that fast as a hack. First reports were often garbled. In the early minutes of a story, often the only certainty was uncertainty.
What if Freedman was watching and walked out of the house, very much alive, to demand to know what on earth Dan was talking about?
He didn’t like the thought of the consequences. Zero credibility and a laughing stock would be the best possible outcome. Unemployment was more likely. Lizzie wasn’t a forgiving editor, far from it. He glared at his mobile, but it remained obstinately silent.
‘Shift to your left a little Dan please,’ called Nigel, from behind the camera. ‘There’s a tree branching out the top of your head at the moment.’ Dan took a step to his side. ‘That’s better,’ said Nigel. ‘Got the house nicely behind you if you want to refer to it.’
So, what to say? He’d have to couch his words, pad it out and fill as best he could. He could definitely say the police had been called to Freedman’s home earlier that evening. And that detectives were inside at this moment, beginning an investigation into … what?
That was the key question. Whether he could he go further and talk about death, suicide and blackmail. It was the juicy part of the story, what made it so very newsworthy, but the biggest risk.
Nigel flicked on the small but powerful light on top of the camera. Dan blinked a couple of times to allow his eyes to adjust. Three minutes until he was on air. He took a deep breath to calm himself and closed his eyes to focus.
His mobile rang.
Dan jumped, grabbed at his trouser pocket and dropped the phone. Swearing, he scrabbled on the ground, trying to find it in the black and white lines of the shadows.
‘Will you stop clowning,’ came Emma’s piqued voice in his ear. ‘We’re on air in two minutes. Stand still, man.’
Dan found the phone and answered it. His hands were sweaty and shaking. Adam.
‘Wow, am I glad to hear from you. We’re on air in minutes. Some ultra-quick questions. Is Freedman dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sure?’
‘Very.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Bath.’
/> ‘Left a note?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I say anything about blackmail without harming your investigation?’
A pause on the line.
‘Dan, one minute to on air,’ yelped Emma. ‘Drop that bloody phone and look at the camera.’
‘You can say the police are investigating whether Freedman was being blackmailed,’ replied Adam calmly. ‘Nothing about the sex bit though. I want to keep that quiet for now.’
‘OK. Got to go, will call you later.’
‘Thirty seconds!’ came the director’s voice again. ‘Drop that phone Dan!’
Dan turned his mobile off and threw it to Nigel. Experience took over. He felt suddenly calm, his mind clear.
Remember the golden rule of broadcasting. If in doubt, just KISS. Keep it short and simple.
‘We begin tonight with some breaking news,’ came Craig, the presenter’s voice in his ear. ‘We’re getting reports of the death of a prominent local MP in strange circumstances. Our Crime Correspondent Dan Groves joins us from the Plymouth home of Will Freedman. Dan, what more can you tell us?’
‘Craig, extraordinary developments here tonight,’ said Dan, putting on his most sombre tone. ‘A senior police source tells me Mr Freedman has been found dead in his bath and that he committed suicide. A note has been recovered and detectives have begun an investigation. One of the most important elements of that inquiry is to discover whether Mr Freedman was being blackmailed. Now, this news will cause great shock. As you’ll appreciate, Will Freedman is a very well known local MP. He’s highly regarded in his Plymouth Tamar constituency, a prominent campaigner for traditional family values and is also reckoned to be one of the rising stars of the Traditionalist Party.’
Craig thanked him and they were on to the next story, something about passenger numbers at Exeter airport. Dan hardly heard it. He popped out his earpiece and breathed deeply.
If only the viewers knew. So often the control of the calm and authoritative on-air persona was a tissue-thin layer of bluff.
A police van pulled up by the house. Nigel spun the camera and started filming. A dozen men and women, all dressed in black, hopped down from the back and marched up to the front door. The police officers on guard opened it and they filed in. Dan noted only two wiped their boots on the mat.
‘Who’s that?’ hissed Nigel from behind the camera.
‘TAG. Tactical Aid Group. They do all the searches. They must be here to take the house apart.’
Dan picked up his mobile and called Adam.
‘I know you’re busy,’ he said, ‘but I just wanted to say thanks for the tip-off and for getting me that info for the bulletin. We got it on – just.’
‘No worries. I’ve been waiting for your call. Now I’ve got something to ask you.’
‘Really?’ said Dan, surprised. ‘What?’
‘This is going to be all over the press and some inside track on how to handle it wouldn’t go amiss. Plus the blackmailer’s apparently been talking about some Judgement Book of people’s secrets, and he seems to have set a code which we’re going to have to try to break. You cracked those others we came up against. Do you fancy pitching in with us again? It’d be the same deal as before. You only get to broadcast what I say, but you’ll have some exclusive angles on the case in return for your help.’
Dan felt a familiar, stirring excitement. A big case and the inside story – he could hardly ask for more. He’d finally managed to admit to himself how much he loved detective work, perhaps even more than being a reporter. It had changed his life, coming at a time when he’d been a journalist for almost fifteen years and was starting to grow stale, to wonder about doing something new.
Was it really only three years ago he was moved from Environment and given the Crime Correspondent job? And to think, at the time he hated the idea, felt lonely and vulnerable in the new post. Now though, he couldn’t get enough of it. It was how he’d met Claire too, and finally just about tamed the debilitating swamp of the depression that had stalked him throughout his life.
‘I think we’d be delighted to help you Adam,’ Dan replied, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.
‘Good. Because we need to get this blackmailer. Freedman was a good man. Whatever he might have done, he didn’t deserve to die like this. Come down to Charles Cross for the morning briefing tomorrow. By then I should have a good idea what the blackmailer wants, what’s in the so called Judgment Book, and what this code is.’
Dan grinned, couldn’t help himself. He was already looking forward to tomorrow immensely.
Chapter Four
DAN WOKE EARLY, STIRRED by the aura of spring sunlight stretching across his bedroom. He yawned, and was surprised to find himself feeling relaxed and content. He knew he’d been dreaming of Claire, but he couldn’t remember the details of the elusive, sleeping images. They flitted on the edge of his memory like smiling ghosts.
He’d have to call her later. They hadn’t had a chance to speak yesterday and they’d planned a day out tomorrow. Saturday, his favourite day of the week. A whole day off and the chance to eat and drink well and have a lie-in on Sunday. The weather forecast was benign too. Perhaps they’d go for a walk on the coast.
He swung himself out of bed, leaned down and stroked Rutherford’s head. The Alsatian sat up and stretched his mouth into a jaw-cracking yawn. Dan chuckled.
‘Classy, my faithful friend,’ he said. ‘Fancy a run?’ Rutherford’s tail thumped on the carpet at the sacred word.
They walked over to Hartley park. It was early, just before seven and there was no one else around, so Dan let Rutherford off his lead. The dog sprinted across the jewelled, dewy grass, skidded to a halt, then careered back. Dan steeled himself and broke into a jog.
‘Twenty laps of the park hound,’ he called to Rutherford, whose head was buried in a thicket of bushes.
It was a beautiful morning, a Devon speciality. There was still an edge of the night’s chill in the air, but the ascending sun was fast chasing it away. Hartley Park was one of Plymouth’s highest points, rich with fine views on a clear morning.
Dan grimaced as a stick jabbed him in the back of his legs. He stopped jogging and wrestled Rutherford for it. The dog locked his jaws, insurmountable determination in his unblinking eyes.
‘I’ll never understand why you bring me a stick, then don’t want to let go of it, stupid,’ Dan told the growling dog. ‘But I’ve got a trick for this, haven’t I?’
He let go of the branch, picked up another from the hedge and held it up like a great prize. Rutherford immediately let go of the stick he was holding and jumped for the new one. Dan threw it, the dog sprinted after it, and Dan picked up the original.
‘And I’ll never understand how you don’t get wise to that con either,’ he called.
A gang of starlings squabbled in the trees as he jogged, jostling amongst the brave new buds. The park felt awash with springtime. On the steep slope covering the underground reservoir a pair of magpies hopped and chattered. It was a morning made for contentment.
There was just the one trial to endure, and he had a strategy ready. Dan took Rutherford back to the flat, showered, and put on a clean shirt and his best jacket. His tyrannical editor could require serious manipulating and he had to get it right. He didn’t want to risk her turning down Adam’s offer to join the blackmail inquiry.
Dan walked into the newsroom just after half past eight. Lizzie was already there, and wearing low heels today, only a couple of inches. A good sign. He ticked off a line on his mental checklist. Only the bravest or most foolhardy approached Lizzie when she wore her favourite four-inch daggers. They were harbingers of peril.
Next, some flattery to oil the approach. ‘Morning. I have to say, you’re looking good today. Is that a new hair-do?’
A momentary suspicion he thought, but she seemed pleased, tossed her dark bob. ‘No, I’ve just styled it. That’s all.’
Dan had learnt early in life that asking a
woman if she’d had her hair done was a strategy which couldn’t lose. If she had, she was flattered. Ditto if she hadn’t. The real risk was saying nothing.
Next on the list, some self-promotion. ‘Good story that last night, I thought,’ he said, trying not to sound sly.
She nodded. ‘It was acceptable.’
‘Obviously as I was out covering it – out late that is – and in my own time, of course – I didn’t get to see the opposition’s bulletin. Did they have the story?’
‘No.’
‘So it was our exclusive.’
‘Yep.’
‘On a huge story.’
‘Yep.’
‘Could be an award-winner, that one.’
‘Yep.’
An eyebrow arched. Another good sign. He was making headway, albeit slowly. As with so many of Dan’s conversations with his editor, it felt like being on board an ice-breaker, the ship trying to make its way through the Arctic Ocean in the middle of a frozen winter.
They held a look. Lizzie narrowed her eyes and raised a finger from the desk. Long experience had taught Dan that she found unqualified praise impossible. He sensed one of her familiar “Not rest on our laurels” speeches coming, the kind which she used every time Wessex Tonight scored a success. Complacency was never an option with Lizzie.
Dan took a gamble, got his spin in first. ‘Well, I don’t want to rest on my laurels, naturally. It’s too big a story.’
She nodded again and Dan sensed the final target on his range was within sight.
‘It’s so good for the ratings,’ he added. ‘I bet people are turning to us in their thousands for the latest on what’s going on with Freedman and this blackmail plot.’
Lizzie nodded dreamily. The ratings were her church. Every morning she’d sit in her office for half an hour, scouring scores of statistics from last night’s programme for clues as to the viewers’ current likes and dislikes.
‘Well, that’s why I’ve lined us up a follow-up story for today,’ Dan continued. ‘And I reckon we’ve got a great chance for some more corking exclusives.’
He outlined Adam’s offer of joining the inquiry, then quietened, waited for the reaction. A perfectly manicured fingernail tapped on the desk.