by Simon Hall
Dan was about to reply when Claire suddenly retched, threw her hands to her mouth and ran out of the MIR. He stared in disbelief, then jogged after her, down the stone stairs to the toilets. From inside he could hear more retching.
‘Claire? Claire!’ he called. There was no reply. He stared at the thick wooden door and wondered what to do. He hardly wanted to walk into the women’s toilets at a police station. He pushed the door ajar and called her name again.
The retching subsided. ‘I’m OK,’ she shouted from inside. ‘Just feeling a bit under the weather. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Dan walked slowly back up the stairs. The two flights felt a long way. The tiredness was back with him.
‘She’s OK, just feeling a bit queasy,’ he said, in reply to Adam’s quizzical look. ‘She ate some odd food last night. Chocolate, bananas, toast, weird stuff like that. I expect it’s just caught up on her. She says she’ll be back up in a minute.’
Adam blinked a couple of times and stared at him. ‘OK,’ said the detective eventually, and in a strange tone. ‘But if she’s feeling odd, make sure you look after her. And I mean look after her well.’
There was a silence, before Adam continued, ‘Right, time to confront dear Superintendent Osmond.’
He stretched his arms, took a long breath, pursed his lips and walked slowly out of the MIR.
Chapter Eleven
ADAM SAT ALONE IN his office, door closed, fingers on his temples thinking. He was going through his plan, testing it, checking it.
He had an idea, but it was risky.
The criminal psychologist’s report lay on his desk. Doctor “Sledgehammer” Stephens was so named within Greater Wessex Police because he suffered an antipathy to subtlety and an irresistible desire to make sure his views were conveyed with painful clarity. His thoughts on the blackmailer were couched in none of the usual caveats and equivocations so beloved of his profession.
“I consider blackmailer HIGHLY DANGEROUS”, Stephens had written. “Clearly very DRIVEN in his actions. Obvious PSYCHOPATHIC TENDENCIES – that is a person who has no empathy or sympathy for others.”
‘Yes, I know what psychopathic means,’ muttered Adam.
“Burning sense of GRIEVANCE and INJUSTICE. This person has a SELF IMPOSED MISSION which he is utterly dedicated to carrying out. He WILL NOT STOP until caught.”
Not for the first time, Adam reflected that Stephens had managed to tell him little, if anything, that he didn’t already know or suspect. He flicked tetchily at the report, pushed it into a filing tray.
The phone rang. The desk sergeant, as instructed, telling him Osmond had pulled in to the car park. Adam got up from his chair and jogged down the stairs. He needed to have the initiative. It was going to be a bitter confrontation, quite probably simply a shouting match. He had to see the Superintendent’s reaction to his revelation before the man had a chance to gather his thoughts, refuse to answer and walk out.
Osmond could easily hide in taking legal advice about the drink drive and corruption allegations. They were perfect barriers to questioning, allowing him weeks to consult, gather his thoughts, prepare his defence. But there were three blackmail notes now, and two dead victims. The threat of another two victims to come. The inquiry was too urgent. It couldn’t afford to stall.
It was too much to expect Osmond to confess. But all they had to be sure of was that there was truth in the claims against him. And fast.
Adam reached the bottom of the staircase and headed for the back of the station. It was quiet, Sunday morning, skeleton staff. The night shift had gone home to recover after the familiar hours of arresting drunks. Charles Cross always seemed hollow on a Sunday. It was the only day of the week there weren’t shouted conversations echoing around the corridors and the continual pounding of heavy police feet on its long-suffering staircase. The sounds were the station’s heartbeat and it felt lifeless without them.
Adam forced his mind back to Osmond. He had to concentrate. The word that came to mind was ambush.
He was setting a trap.
The superintendent was hauling his bulk out of his car, locking it. He was even checking to make sure the central locking had engaged, rubbing a smear off the side mirror and checking his reflection.
Adam waited.
Now Osmond was almost at the door. He walked with a slight hobble, a legacy of his military service, or so he liked to say, but in fact the product of falling off a ladder when doing some DIY. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his security pass and the clumsy grappling exposed the bulging roll of his stomach. He wore a crumpled old single-breasted navy suit, his usual.
‘Superintendent,’ Adam said, as brightly as he could. ‘Thank you for coming in. I very much need your help.’
‘What the hell is this about, Breen?’ the man grunted. ‘It’s Sunday. It’s supposed to be my day off.’
‘I’m sorry, you were the only person I could think of who could help me.’
Osmond made to walk along the corridor towards his office, but Adam stopped him.
‘Would you mind coming to my office please? I’ve got something there I need you to look at. It is urgent.’
Osmond huffed, but followed Adam’s guiding arm and started up the stairs. He was embarrassingly overweight for a police officer and was panting within a few steps. OK, it didn’t matter so much when your patrol was only ever a desk, but it couldn’t be good for the public to see such a fat cop.
The superintendent’s face was embroidered with a tiny network of broken veins, the faint trickles of blues and reds that marked many of the old school of senior officers. Slaves to the ritual opening of a special drawer in the inner sanctum and the chink of a whisky decanter. There were less of his kind now, but some still inhabited forgotten corners of remote police stations, unmoved by change, waiting only for retirement.
His dark hair was greasy and thin and his ears oversized, as if they’d been designed to match the figure he had grown into. He was about fifty, but looked older.
‘Please do sit down,’ said Adam pleasantly, offering Osmond one of the padded visitors’ chairs. The superintendent lowered himself heavily onto it.
‘What’s all this about then, Breen?’ he huffed again. ‘Whatever it is, can we get it over with? I’ve got lots of other things I’d rather be doing.’
Adam opened a drawer and took out a photocopy of the blackmailer’s note.
‘This arrived here this morning,’ he said calmly, passing it over. ‘It was addressed to you.’
Osmond took the piece of paper and began to read. Adam watched him intently. The man’s eyes worked their way down the page. If what he was reading was true, he was good, very good. No real reaction so far. He thought he saw a twitch of Osmond’s cheek and a blink, but that was it.
The room was still. The clock on the wall ticked loud.
Osmond was halfway though the note.
Still nothing definite. Nothing to give him away.
Not yet.
Adam shifted in his chair, tried to do it silently. He didn’t take his eyes from Osmond’s face. The man was still reading, almost finished now, continued to show no reaction. There was nothing to indicate that what the blackmailer had written was true.
‘Pathetic,’ grunted Osmond, dropping the piece of paper onto Adam’s desk.
He flicked at it dismissively, then switched his look to Adam. ‘You called me in here because of that? The pathetic ravings of someone I’ve banged up, no doubt. Some small-time criminal with a grudge.’
Adam held the man’s stare. There was still nothing to suggest he was even worried, let alone guilty. But he was an experienced cop. He knew how to handle pressure. He could be bluffing.
Adam steadied himself, then said, ‘You’ll appreciate this note forms part of an inquiry into a very serious crime, one which we believe has led to two people taking their own lives. So, it’s my duty to ask you if there is any truth in the allegations.’
Osmond struggled up f
rom his seat. ‘How dare you!’ he roared, and his voice was surprisingly loud.
‘This is contemptible. I am your superior officer, Breen. I was policing this city when you were pissing your nappy! I am going home.’ A pause, then more sinisterly, ‘When I return to work, I will decide whether to lodge a formal complaint against you.’
Adam stood to face Osmond. ‘So you deny the allegations completely?’
The Superintendent turned for the door. ‘I have no intention of lowering myself to even reply,’ he hissed. He was sweating, his face furrowed and red.
Adam studied him, thinking fast. That anger sounded genuine. Osmond could be totally innocent.
But … he didn’t deny it. Just blustered.
‘Superintendent,’ Adam heard himself say. Osmond stopped, half in, half out of the doorway. ‘What?’ he grunted. ‘You want to apologise? Not a bad idea, Breen. It might just help your cause if you did.’
Adam stared at him. There was the slight hint of a tic under Osmond’s eye.
‘Superintendent,’ Adam repeated, his voice soft. Osmond took a step towards him. ‘One final thing.’
‘What?’
Adam held his look. Neither man spoke.
The pit was yawning. It was only a question of luring the victim towards it.
But what a risk.
Finally Adam spoke. ‘Leon.’
‘What? How dare you, Breen! I’m Superintendent …’
‘Leon, please. I’ve always looked up to you.’
The flattery quietened him. Osmond was listening now, suspicious but intrigued, despite himself.
Vanity, such an irresistible lure.
‘Superintendent, you’ve been a cop here for years, and the things you’ve done for this city …’
‘Just get on with it, Breen. If you’ve got something to say, say it.’
Adam nodded, kept his voice calm. ‘Sir, between us and out of respect for you, before you leave I think it’s only fair to warn you we have a witness who saw you and your car pulled up by the traffic officer on Exeter Street.’
Osmond glared at him. ‘It wasn’t Exeter Street …’ he began, then stopped himself.
And now there was a stark tic, jumping and angry under his left eye, hammering away, sending tiny waves through the pasty flesh.
‘You bastard,’ Osmond hissed, his face flushing fast. He turned, hobbled out of the office and slammed the door.
Dan was surprised to realise it was the first time he’d been alone in the Major Incident Room. He walked along it, past the desks with the blank and silent computers and to Adam’s beloved felt boards. The picture of Freedman stared out at him. Dan couldn’t stop himself from shuddering. What a way to die. Alone in a bath, your family downstairs, oblivious.
The door crashed open and Adam burst into the room. He looked as though he’d been in a bar room brawl, his eyes wild, hair tussled. Dan didn’t say anything, just gave him a questioning look. Adam walked to the boards, pinned up a copy of Osmond’s blackmail note and a small photograph of the Superintendent. It had been cut from a newspaper and showed him standing by a police patrol car, holding a breathalyser.
‘It’s true,’ was all he said.
There was a silence. Dan tried to keep his face impassive, but the detective must have noticed the hint of an expression. Or perhaps Adam just knew him too well.
‘But!’ he added. ‘No reporting, no story. Not yet, anyway. We’ve got too much on with the investigation. That has to be the priority.’
They both gazed at the boards and the photographs staring back at them. Freedman, Linda Cott, now Osmond. Dan saw Adam going through the same thoughts. What linked them? What was the golden thread that connected two police officers and one MP? And when they found the link, who was the blackmailer it would lead them to?
The door opened again, gently this time and Claire slid in. She moved slowly and looked pale. Dan raised his eyebrows and she lifted a calming hand, then lowered it and rubbed her stomach.
Adam watched as she gingerly sat on the edge of a desk. ‘Being sick in the morning,’ he said, thoughtfully. Claire nodded. ‘Something unusual in the stomach area?’ he went on. She closed her eyes and nodded again. ‘Better see the doctor and talk it over with him. I’m sure Dan will take you. It sounds like it might be something that could last for quite a few months.’
‘Of course I will,’ Dan replied, indignantly. ‘But usually with sickness they just tell you to drink lots of water, eat simple foods and it’ll pass. That’s what I’d do.’
Adam sighed heavily. ‘I’m not sure that’ll work here.’
‘Well, what do you suggest then?’ Dan said. ‘I didn’t know you’d suddenly become a doctor, as well as a cop.’
If he expected a feisty response, it didn’t come. Instead Adam looked pitying.
‘You know what I don’t understand about you?’ the detective asked. ‘It’s how you can be so smart in so much of life, but your emotional intelligence barely registers a blip on the meter.’
Dan was about to retaliate, but Claire spoke first. ‘I’m OK,’ she interrupted forcefully. ‘I’ll talk to Dan about it later. We’ve got a Worm to catch first.’
Adam stared at her. ‘Fine. I understand. OK then, let’s have a brainstorming session. I want to look at exactly what we’ve got and work out where we’re going.’
He pointed to Freedman’s handsome face, captured in the studio photograph. ‘He’s where it started. Linda’s the second element.’
Adam moved his hand to the next board and her picture. She was a plain looking woman, almost the definition of nondescript. Mousy coloured hair, shoulder-length with a fringe, thin face, but somehow kind and trustworthy. It was her eyes that won belief, grey-green and clear, but with a nascent web of crows’ feet spreading from each corner. She wore no make-up or jewellery in the picture. It looked like a blown-up police photo from her warrant card.
‘And Osmond is our third,’ Adam continued, pointing to the other board. ‘He’s not going to say anything more to us. We’ll let Professional Standards investigate the allegations against him. We’ve got the note though, and that’s the third piece in our puzzle. So, let’s look at what connects Osmond, Linda, and Freedman.’
The detective pulled up his tie, checked his reflection in a window, made certain it was straight. Dan hid a smile, knew there was some good news coming, as sure as if Adam had written it across the boards.
‘We already have one lead, and it could be a good one,’ he said. ‘Late yesterday, the inquiry teams found that Linda and Freedman shared the same priest. So, could this all have come from the confessional? From the priest himself, or someone who overheard what was said? We’ll see this Father Maguire when he’s finished his service.’
Claire took out her notebook and unfolded her copy of Freedman’s blackmail note.
‘The letter to Osmond is almost exactly the same format as Freedman’s, sir,’ she said. ‘Word for word, much of it. The Worm’s working to a template.’
‘And the information in it sounds like it’s taken from a conversation again,’ added Dan. ‘That’s still my hunch.’
There was a quick, polite knock and the door opened and Eleanor and Michael walked in. Adam greeted them and they sat down, Michael on the edge of a desk, Eleanor on a chair. Dan made a point of pulling it out for her. He’d had enough of Adam’s criticisms of his chivalry.
‘So then,’ continued Adam. ‘First, what do we make of the order of victims? An MP, then two police officers. Anything strike you?’
They looked at each other.
‘I couldn’t see much in it either,’ Adam went on. ‘I reckon it’s what we originally thought. The victims are connected by being some kind of authority figure. That fits with what the Worm goes on about in the letters. That stuff about exposing you and your rotten kind.’
‘There is the publicity angle,’ said Dan. ‘If the Worm wants to make an impact with their crimes, an MP’s a great one to start with. The media love a
story about a politician caught with his trousers down. And Freedman’s the only one who’s actually been exposed so far, isn’t he? The billboard was quite some way of doing it. But there’s been no similar move against Linda.’
‘Perhaps because the Worm knew she was dead, so didn’t need to,’ said Claire.
‘Yep,’ agreed Dan. ‘And we don’t know what’s going to happen with Osmond yet, do we? How he might be exposed.’
Adam nodded at them. ‘Good thoughts. We’re getting an idea how our man works.’ He caught Claire’s look. ‘Or woman,’ he added. ‘So, what about leads? We’ve got our priest. But what else? How about the riddles? Eleanor and Michael, that’s your department. You’ve got a new one to solve.’
Adam pointed to the copy of Osmond’s blackmail letter and explained how it had arrived. The pair got up from their seats and looked at it. Dan noticed Michael pressed his face almost up to the note, as if he was scrutinising each word individually.
‘“So then, your riddle,”’ Eleanor read softly. ‘“As a clue, I give you this advice. It might help you to think back to last Sunday to solve it. Now tel me the answer to this.
“1112, 7257, 1173, 22584.’”
‘Any thoughts?’ asked Adam eagerly.
‘Numbers again,’ mused Eleanor, walking dreamily back to her seat, hands on her flowing skirt, the climbing tulips again. It was a clue she’d got up in a hurry this morning thought Dan, the first time he’d seen her wear the same skirt two days running. She and Michael must have received the same early call as he and Claire.
Eleanor settled herself down, crossed a languid leg. ‘Numbers …’ Her voice changed, became sharper. ‘Yes, I think I might have an idea how this code works. I’m pretty sure in fact. Give me a few hours.’
Adam couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Really?’
She smiled kindly. ‘I’ll need access to a library, but I suspect it’s not too tricky, this riddle. Perhaps even deliberately so. The key’s in the sentence before the numbers. “Now tel me the answer to this”. Misspellings are often a giveaway in codes.’