by Simon Hall
‘What are you going to do with the poster?’ Dan asked, as they followed Exeter Street eastwards, out to the edge of the city. He fumbled to clip the seat belt around him. Adam’s driving wasn’t reassuring.
‘Look at it, get it photographed, then taken down and bagged up for forensics to check.’
Perfect, thought Dan, but didn’t say so. Not yet. He was thinking his way through the scoop he wanted, and how to sell it to Adam.
Yet again he was serving two masters. He needed to bank some credit with Lizzie, appease her with a sacrificial story to be sure of securing time to work on the case. Over the past few years he’d had to learn to become adept at balancing the two interconnected worlds, hack and amateur detective, keeping both Lizzie and Adam happy. It could usually be done, but sometimes required near-shameful cunning and the kind of deviousness which would make Machiavelli rise from the ground and applaud enthusiastically.
The car’s clock said it was coming up for half past ten. The timings might just work out.
‘And what about the media?’ Dan asked, holding on to the door strap to fight the force of Adam’s cornering. A couple of horns blared from the blurs of the cars they passed.
‘Haven’t thought about that yet. Got more important things to worry about.’
They turned onto the embankment, the sun laying a carpet of diamonds on the wandering River Plym. The green slopes and spreading trees of the parkland around Saltram Country house rose from the opposite bank. It should have been one of the city’s most beautiful areas, in many places it would have boasted a promenade, cafés, shops and bars. Not in Plymouth, city of missed opportunities. Here there was a railway line and dual carriageway.
A couple of canoeists paddled hard through the smooth waters, leaving waves of glitter in their wake. An occasional fisherman sat hunched over his rod. Dan suspected they were more enjoying the day than in serious pursuit of an elusive fish. The effort of catching and landing one of the unfortunate creatures might only spoil the mood.
Adam accelerated around a milk lorry and the car bounced on the bumps in the uneven road. Dan’s stomach lurched with it. They’d be at the Marsh Mills roundabout in a couple of minutes. Time to make the move.
‘I’ve got a suggestion about the media,’ Dan said, trying to make his voice sound nonchalant.
‘What?’
‘A press conference. That way you’ll sort them all out at once. Give them half an hour of your time and they’ll go away with a story and leave you alone for a while.’
‘Not a bad idea. But I’ve got lots on with the investigation and can’t really spare the time.’
‘It’ll be worthwhile,’ Dan quickly interrupted. ‘We can make the media work for us. I reckon if I come up with what you should say, we can hit big articles in all the papers, national and local, and get it on all the TV and radio news too.’
‘How would that help?’
‘We could work in a way to try to get anyone who knows Freedman to come forward. Particularly the people we discussed at the briefing. Lawyers, priests, that sort of thing. And any of his mates. It could be a useful shortcut to finding them. It might even raise something at the Blackpool end.’
They were approaching the roundabout. Adam slowed the car and changed down a gear. The engine growled in protest.
‘Mmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Sounds good. What would I have to say to make sure all the media ran it?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort that bit out. I’ve got a few ideas.’
Dan ignored the warning voice in his mind that told him he was yet again crossing the line. From impartial hack to … freelance detective and media adviser. It went against all the journalistic principles of impartiality and neutrality. He could see Lizzie berating him, a sharpened fingernail wagging.
The thought succeeded only in making him smile.
A couple of police cars had pulled up on the side of the road ahead. The traffic slowed as other motorists gawped and pointed. For some people, this was high excitement. Only last week Dan had realised the numbing mundanity of many lives when he’d sat in the Old Bank pub on Mutley Plain, waiting for El, and overheard three women animatedly advocating the merits of various deodorants. The discussion had lasted almost half an hour.
Adam indicated and tucked in behind the police cars.
‘And what’s the price?’ he asked, reaching for the car door.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Dan replied lamely.
‘Just get on with it please, time’s against us. Remember how well I now know you.’
Dan tried to keep a straight face. ‘Fair cop. OK, let me get Nigel here to film the billboard before you take it down. It’ll be a scoop for me. That’s the trade off for the advice on how to handle the media.’
Adam didn’t reply, so Dan continued his salesman’s patter, ‘Then I’ll work up a way of getting the story everywhere. It’ll really give the investigation some momentum.’
They got out of the car, walked over to the roundabout. Dan pointedly took out his mobile, caught Adam’s eye, waited. The detective frowned, but managed a slight nod.
‘It’d better be a bloody good splash of a story,’ he muttered.
‘It will be.’
Dan had no idea yet how he’d make it happen, but he could worry about that later. Sometimes it was better to win one battle at a time.
Claire sat down on the same dining chair Adam had the night before and felt no more welcome. Detective Constable Jack Roffey stood beside her, notebook in hand. Yvonne Freedman and Alex sat side by side on the sofa. Both had their hands folded in their laps, just like they were preparing to face a firing squad.
‘I’m sorry to bother you again, but I know you’ll appreciate we have to ask certain questions,’ Claire began. They both nodded, but didn’t speak. ‘It’s important I get a full picture of Mr Freedman’s movements and behaviour in recent days.’
They nodded again in unison, the movement dislodging a tear from Mrs Freedman’s eye. She was wearing a black skirt and jacket, patent black shoes and a white blouse. Alex wore jeans and a T-shirt. She had to split the two of them up, Claire thought, couldn’t ask the important questions with Mum here.
She tried to put on a sympathetic smile and began. ‘Was there anything at all you found unusual in Mr Freedman’s behaviour in recent days?’
Yvonne shook her head again, another tear rolling down her cheek, chasing the first towards her chin. Alex managed a low ‘No.’
‘Was he spending a lot of time away? Working?’
Alex jumped up from the sofa. ‘Jesus, I told you that last night. He was always bloody working. That was all he did.’
She stalked out of the living room, slamming the door behind her. An expensive looking blue vase rattled on the mantelpiece. Jack made to follow, but Claire held out an arm to stop him. Her limited experience of teenagers suggested being followed was exactly what was wanted, and all that was required to justify another outburst against adult persecution. Let her calm a while.
‘Mrs Freedman?’ Claire asked. ‘Was there anything unusual about your husband lately?’
‘No,’ said the woman softly, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. ‘It was a complete shock. Everything was normal. Our lives were all normal until …’
Her voice tailed off, but her mouth remained half open, glossed lips quivering. Claire sensed she wanted to say something else.
‘Go on,’ she prompted gently.
‘Until he started with all the party thing – the politics.’
Her cheeks coloured, the anger starting to show through the pain, the words coming more easily now. ‘Climbing the greasy bloody pole! He got caught up in it. That was when we lost him. When all these toadies told him how talented he was – how far he could go. When he started to think he could be prime-bloody-minister! We stopped being his family … started just becoming the decorations a bloody MP needs to help in his career!’
Claire hid her surprise, raised a calming hand, b
ut the tirade hadn’t finished. Nowhere close. Yvonne Freedman’s face creased with lines of misery and anger.
‘Do you know what happens to wives and daughters of so-called special men? We’re not people in our own right any more. I stopped being Yvonne and started being “Will Freedman’s Wife”. And Alex – well, it was the same for her. “That MP’s daughter” they called her. How do you think that feels? So what are we now he’s gone, eh? And left us with the legacy of shagging some teenage – bloody – tart!’
Yvonne buried her head in her hands and began to sob. Claire nodded to Jack to sit with her and walked out into the hallway. From upstairs roared a thumping beat and howling electric guitar. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the vibrating door. There was no answer.
She pushed at the door and it swung open. A pointedly unmade bed, the duvet in a pile, posters of tanned, muscled young men grinning down from the walls. She must be getting old, Claire thought, they looked adolescent. The music was overwhelming, an instant headache. But then, every generation thought that of the anthems of the new young. Her parents had said the same to her. Claire reached across to the stereo and turned it off.
‘Alex?’ she said. ‘Alex?’
She opened the wardrobe door, then knelt down and checked under the bed. A few old board games, balls of fluff and dust, but no Alex. Claire walked over to the window. It was open, and the garden shed was just below. An easy jump. She leaned out. No sign of Alex. ‘Shit,’ she said to herself.
Claire sat down on the bed, suddenly felt tired, longed to lie back and close her eyes. No chance. No time. They had to find Alex. But first, she allowed herself the luxury of a few precious recuperative seconds.
Claire rubbed her eyes and caught a sight of herself in the wardrobe mirror. It might have been the angle, or the light, but she was convinced she was growing fatter.
She was going to have to tell Dan soon.
It was one of the busiest press conferences Dan had seen. The room was packed with journalists, cameramen and photographers. Dirty El stood at the front, grinning happily. Dan noticed he’d bought himself a new pair of jeans, the fashionably grimy and battered look. He’d never fancied a pair himself, didn’t see the point of something new that was produced to look so worn. It was hardly value for money. They’d be falling to pieces in weeks. He prided himself on resisting the more absurd dictates of fashion.
A friend once remarked that Dan Groves had found a style he liked in the mid 1980s, and had stuck with it ever since. He’d been about to remonstrate when the fire of his argument was dowsed by the realisation that the claim was entirely and annoyingly true.
‘Beers on me next time we go out,’ El gushed, stroking the long lens of his camera, then added, ‘Like my new jeans? All courtesy of our dead MP.’ He did a little twirl, ran his hands unappealingly down his ample backside and launched into one of his impromptu and forever dreadful rhymes.
‘The MP may be totally dead,
But he’s feathering Dirty El’s bed,
He snapped up his shots,
Gave the tabloids the hots,
And lifted his bank balance way out of the red.’
For once, Dan struggled for words. He thought it was one of the worst he’d heard, and that was against some very strong competition. El didn’t seem to notice, still less care.
‘Your tip-off meant I was the first one with pics of Freedman’s house and the cops on the scene,’ the photographer continued gleefully. ‘I hoovered up the cash. Sold the snaps to everyone. Even better, all the papers want a follow-up too. They love their dirt. Especially when it’s an MP who’s been caught with his pants down. Naughty naughty!’
Adam walked in at exactly midday. Dan had never known his friend be late, another of his quirks. He sat down to a blaze of photographers’ flashes and blinked hard. A cluster of microphones rose threateningly on the desk in front of him, all propped up on a strip of white plastic bearing Adam’s name and the Greater Wessex Police crest.
Dan had sat himself at the back of the room, Nigel alongside, bowed over his camera. He and Adam always tried to make sure it wasn’t obvious how well they knew each other. It could raise awkward questions from the other journalists. And it was particularly important today, given how they’d agreed to stage-manage the press conference to make it their own little drama.
Adam straightened his already perfect tie and welcomed the gathering. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, thanks for coming here. We are investigating a highly distressing case and we need your help in finding the person responsible.’
Dan checked his notes. Adam was sticking exactly to the script he’d written a few minutes earlier.
‘Will Freedman was a popular and talented Member of Parliament for the Tamar constituency of Plymouth. Yesterday evening, he was found dead at his house. We can now confirm he committed suicide.’
Adam looked around the room. All the journalists were taking notes, the cameramen intent on their shots.
‘Mr Freedman left a note, which said he was the victim of blackmail over an issue in his private life. I believe it was the actions of this blackmailer that led Mr Freedman to kill himself. I have two things to say about that. The first is that a man has been pushed to his death over an indiscretion. Whatever anyone may think about that, it is a personal matter, and to use it against him is both illegal and immoral. In fact, I go further. We have all done things we are ashamed of. I say the actions of this blackmailer are disgusting and reprehensible and have no place in a modern and caring society.’
Adam paused to check the room again, let the drama build. The reporters were all still scribbling, lapping it up, just as Dan knew they would. Strong quotes, he’d said, give them spice. Don’t do the police’s usual leaden, “I was proceeding along the road in a northerly direction when I came upon the aforementioned felon,” canteen-talk-type cliché. Make it direct and gripping, and Adam was delivering it beautifully. Many times Dan had wondered if his friend was a frustrated actor.
There was just the sole issue they’d argued over. But that wasn’t surprising. It was the same one which bothered so many in British society. Fascinated with it they may be, but that could never be mentioned, let alone admitted. The subject was usually unspoken, but if it really had to be brought up – only if there truly was no choice, naturally – it was done so with taut faces and stilted words.
Just three letters, but so dominant, driver of so much in life. And unfailing in always attracting interest.
Sex.
Give the hacks sex, Dan had advised. Sex makes stories and sells papers. But Adam was wary. He didn’t want to get the police involved in a sex scandal. Dan again checked his notes outlining Adam’s little speech. As with everything, there was a way around the problem.
And here it came.
‘The second thing I have to say is this,’ Adam continued. ‘A person who can blackmail someone so coldly, and with such evident enjoyment, is extremely dangerous. We need to catch them and as quickly as possible. I would appeal for anyone who Mr Freedman may have spoken to about what was happening to him, or who knew him well and can give us an insight into his life, to contact us. Your information could be vital.’
Adam stood up and there was the burst of questions from the journalists that Dan had expected. The detective ignored them and shuffled the papers on the desk, played for a little time. Dan waited for a moment to let the reporters’ flurry die down.
Journalists began reaching for their phones, keen to file their copy. In the era of 24-hour news being first with the story was all. Dan knew it was a good tale, but not quite good enough to guarantee a nationwide splash. Not yet – but it would be in a moment.
He readied himself for his part in the drama.
Adam turned towards the door. Now, it had to be now. The room was still noisy with reporters, photographers and cameramen talking to each other. But it had to be now and loud too.
Dan swallowed hard, then shouted, ‘What about the prostitute?’
; The room was suddenly silent, the hubbub instantly halted. Everyone turned. Adam stared too.
‘What about the prostitute?’ Dan repeated, more quietly now. ‘Come on, that’s what my sources say. That the blackmailer knew Freedman had sex with a prostitute. Are you deliberately keeping important information from us?’
Adam held his stare. Dan felt his heart pounding. All the other reporters stayed silent, were watching the exchange. But they were getting their notebooks ready again, pens poised above paper, faces watchful and waiting.
They sensed the story.
‘Certain details of the investigation are being kept back so as not to hamper it,’ said Adam quietly, his face impassive. ‘And certain areas I did not want to go into out of respect for the late Mr Freedman. But as you ask the question so directly, I will give you a direct and honest answer. Yes, it is alleged that Mr Freedman had sex with a prostitute, and that was the reason he was being blackmailed.’
That, thought Dan as he drove quickly back to the studios, was one of his masters sated. But despite being a senior detective, hardened by the horrors he’d seen and investigated and driven by his compassion for victims and commitment to justice, Adam was nonetheless often the easier of the two.
Lizzie, though, was the definition of never satisfied. Dan often thought of her as like a nest of baby birds, no matter how many juicy morsels he brought she always wanted more and wouldn’t hesitate to produce a cacophony to demonstrate it. He once dreamt of finding an exclusive on a cure for cancer, complete with interviews with the scientists responsible and people whose lives would be saved, only to have her wanting an extra interview with some undertakers to emphasise the downside of the discovery.
Dan found his expectations were not disappointed.
‘What the bloody hell were you doing?’ Lizzie yelped as he jogged back into the newsroom. He glanced at the radio-controlled clock. Half past twelve. Just an hour to edit the story for the lunchtime news. He had the structure and script for the report in mind, but didn’t have time to hang about.