by Simon Hall
‘Even dead clients?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even on matters as urgent and important as this investigation?’
‘Difficult as you may find it to understand, the law makes no exceptions for your convenience.’
Adam took a deep breath and crossed his legs. ‘Let me ask you this then, to see if it doesn’t impinge on your duty of confidentiality. Apart from you, who might Superintendent Osmond have spoken to about matters concerning his private life?’
‘Mr Osmond has instructed me in the most unambiguous of terms not to answer your questions about him. He believes your methods are unethical, and from what I know of you, I must agree.’
Adam ignored the dangling and tempting bait, tried again.
‘Then let me try this,’ he said heavily. ‘On what matters did you act for Cott and Osmond?’
‘That’s confidential.’
‘Did you have any discussions with them about matters which involved them being blackmailed?’
‘Confidential.’
‘Did you discuss anything they had done they were worried about, or feared being blackmailed for?’
‘Confidential.’
Adam leaned forward and dropped the palm of his hand heavily on the desk.
‘I am investigating a very serious crime which we believe has led to the deaths of two people and I have to say I believe you’re being deliberately obstructive.’
The attack made all the impact of a water pistol on the tank’s armour.
‘And yet again in my discussions with you, Chief Inspector, I find you acting like a child. If you can’t get your way, you throw a tantrum. Will you ever appreciate that not everyone jumps to your commands? You are not the law, merely its tool. I am not being obstructive, I am being professional.’
Adam cleared his throat noisily. His neck was starting to redden. ‘Then let me ask you this. Did you know Will Freedman, or act for him in any way?’
She sat back on her chair. ‘On that matter I can help you, Chief Inspector. As it does not in any way impinge on my professionalism or the law, I can tell you I did not act for him. I was of course aware of him as a local MP, but I did not know him.’
Adam nodded. ‘Then I think it only fair to warn you that as you are linked to two of the blackmail victims and could have been privy to sensitive information about them, you will be considered a suspect in this investigation.’
The solicitor shook her head slowly. Dan wasn’t sure whether the gesture was more contemptuous or pitying.
‘That’s quite ridiculous, but as you wish, Chief Inspector. I must, however, wonder how your investigation is progressing if you consider me a possible perpetrator of these dreadful offences. I hardly need say I had nothing whatsoever to do with them.’
Dan tried not to enjoy the joust. He kept his face set and wondered what Adam would try next. If he was being an impartial referee, he’d have to say Julia Francis was winning.
The detective stood up. ‘Well, thank you for your help, Ms Francis …’ he began, his voice heavy with irony, but she interrupted.
‘I did mention there was one thing I had to say to you.’
Adam stopped by the door. ‘Do go on,’ he said with sarcastic politeness.
Dan thought he saw a hint of pleasure cross the solicitor’s stony face.
‘My client, Mr Osmond, has asked me to pursue a case against you for entrapment regarding an interview you carried out with him yesterday. The matter has taken on added importance given the defamatory nature of the claim being trailed behind a plane over the city earlier. You will be hearing from us regarding legal proceedings, and if I were you, Chief Inspector, I would be more than a little concerned.’
Adam walked fast and determinedly back to Charles Cross, as if he were trying to burn off his anger. He didn’t say anything, seemed lost in his thoughts. Dan kept thinking of Claire and his unborn son. Why was it he imagined the boy as being eight years old? He suspected it was because that was the happiest time of his own childhood. The days of living in a pub and playing football with his dad in the beer garden. The innocent age when the sun always shone.
It was a great life for a kid, growing up in a pub. The regulars would always include him in their rounds. He’d never be short of ginger ale, orange juice or even bitter shandy. They must have been his first tastes of alcohol. Dan sometimes wondered if he could trace his love for beer back to those days.
The coppers of change from the locals’ rounds usually made it into his pocket too and had quickly added up to help buy his first bicycle. He’d ridden it round a corner of the pub car park time and again, his face frowning with determination to learn how to balance. It was such an important mission that even the skinned and scarred knees of the inevitable accidents hadn’t seemed to matter.
What life could his son expect, with a detective and a journalist as parents? Dan felt the sunshine of his imagination dim. Endless days at a crèche to start with, then babysitters, after-school clubs, relatives and friends to stand in for him and Claire on the inevitable days they worked long and late.
Would he give up some of his career to bring up a child? Would she? He couldn’t imagine either of them doing so. The thought seeped its bitterness through his mind.
He tried to push it away. They could talk about all that. They would work something out.
Dan’s mobile rang twice on the walk back. The first time it was Lizzie, repeating her demand for a story. She’d heard about the plane and its banner. They had a big pensioners’ protest about the ever-rising levels of council tax to keep them occupied for the lunchtime news, but she made it very plain he was expected to provide a report on the blackmail case for Wessex Tonight.
‘I want a full splash. I want the works. And I don’t want you giving it away to all the other media in some press conference! You got that? I want the inside track on this Osmond. I want people switching to us in their thousands to find out what’s happening. I want stories, I want lots of them and I want them good.’
So it had gone on. He didn’t bother arguing. With Lizzie in that mood, it was like trying to paddle against a tidal wave. But the barked orders down the phone left Dan feeling irritable.
The next call was from El. He’d seen the plane and its banner and taken a few snaps. But what he desperately needed now was a new photo of Osmond, preferably beside his car to match the story of the drink-driving allegation. Did Dan have any thoughts about how to get one? It could be worth thousands. All the national papers were interested.
Dan felt like snapping at his friend. It seemed that everyone wanted him to sort out their problems. He stopped himself. El was a good mate and they always looked after each other.
He thought about it for a minute, then sensed an idea growing, one which could help them both. It was immoral and probably illegal too, but so what? Osmond was a drink driver, a bully too. He’d need Adam’s help, of a kind the detective never should give, but after that interview with the solicitor and Osmond’s threat of legal action, he might just get it.
They were almost at Charles Cross. Adam was still striding hard. Dan realised he was out of breath, trying to keep up.
‘Just before we go,’ he said, ‘there’s one little thing I’d like to ask.’
Dan explained about El’s call and his own need for a story for tonight’s programme. Adam stared at him. Dan couldn’t read what the detective was thinking. He sensed it wasn’t the time to question or try to persuade, just to keep quiet. They walked on, but slower now.
The ruined church loomed ahead, its tower silhouetted against the brightness of the spring blue sky. The grey sixties block of the police station lurked incongruously behind, like a waiting mugger. A group of people stood around its steps. Adam stopped, squinted, swore under his breath. There were photographers, cameramen, reporters, sipping at take-away coffees, chatting to each other, but watchful too.
‘Press pack,’ Adam hissed.
‘Yes,’ Dan replied.
‘W
aiting for …’ He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
The two men turned down a side street before the pack could spot them.
‘Yep,’ said Dan. ‘They’re all waiting for you. That plane and its less than subtle banner means they want to ask you about Osmond, the investigation, the works.’
Adam swore under his breath. ‘I haven’t got time for all this. I’ve got the High Honchos on my back demanding progress, Osmond making a complaint against me, and now the bloody press hunting me too. Have you got any ideas what to do?’
Dan sensed his opportunity. ‘You need a diversion. To give them a new quarry to hunt. Someone to distract them.’
‘Like who?’
Dan didn’t reply, just gave his friend a look. ‘Regarding what we were discussing a few minutes ago,’ he said eventually.
Adam ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. ‘Come over here a minute, there’s something I want to show you.’ He led Dan around the corner of the street. They crossed the road and stood looking into the window of a camping shop. A range of half-price tents was on offer, all guaranteed waterproof.
He pointed at one. ‘I can’t under any circumstances tell you where Osmond lives so you can go and stake him out,’ he continued. ‘It would be entirely unethical. No matter how it might help you get a story and distract the rest of the pack.’
Dan looked at the tents, then back at Adam. Again he felt something else was coming, but didn’t know what. He turned back to the shop window and stayed quiet.
Adam indicated a four-man tent and said, ‘You and Claire are looking for a place together, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ replied Dan, puzzled by the change of subject. ‘But I wasn’t thinking of a tent …’
‘Found anywhere yet?’
‘No, not yet. We haven’t really started looking.’
‘Well, let me give you a tip. I know some lovely places. Ermington for example. Particularly those big houses up by the church. They’re well worth a look. You never know what you might find.’
They decided to go together in Nigel’s car to attract less attention. Dan wondered how successful that would be. He was well known from his TV appearances, and El and Nigel both had their conspicuous kit to carry. If they had to start asking around, in a small village they would look exactly what they were.
Predators.
El clambered untidily into the back, carefully cradling the long lens of his camera. He was grinning and mumbling about how much he loved naughty Superintendent Leon Osmond. The muttering became more distinct and another of the photographer’s dreadful limericks was launched on to an unsuspecting world.
“A cop who’s too fond of his drink,
Can cause a quite terrible stink,
With El on his tail,
Then how can we fail?
To see him immortalised in ink!”
Dan groaned. He had thought he was almost inured to El’s awful standards of rhyme, but that had to be one of the worst. Even the diplomatic Nigel looked pained.
En route, Dan put one hand over his ear to dampen El’s background burbling and called Claire to check how she was. She was absolutely fine she said, but sounded a little abrupt. He got the message. No matter how pregnant she was, don’t fuss. That wasn’t going to be easy. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to try to take care of her. The worries about looking after a child were still picking at his mind, but he didn’t mention them. Wrong time, wrong place. They could talk about it soon enough.
He found a couple of bits of Nigel’s emergency clothing on the back seat and donned a spare baseball cap in an attempt to disguise himself. Combined with his sunglasses, he might just get away with looking less obvious and vulnerable to the dreaded shout, “It’s that man on the telly”.
It was another fine spring day, the sunshine dappled by a high gauze of tissue cloud. Nigel drove them east, out of Plymouth, along the dual carriageway of the main A38 and then turned south, following the path of the pebble-bed River Erme to Ermington.
Dan unwrapped a sandwich he’d bought from a petrol station and began eating. He heard El whine plaintively in the back, sighed, tore off a piece and handed it to him. It was like being a parent. Well, he’d better get used to it. The photographer munched gratefully. He reminded Dan of Rutherford.
A line of trees bowed over the Erme, as though bending to sample its crystal waters. They were heavy with paper-white blossom, some escaping and dancing in the breeze. Dan wound down the car’s window and breathed in the warm air. A sweating thatcher sewed golden straw into a cottage roof while an old lady stood at the bottom of a silver ladder waving a tea cup at him. It was pure Devon.
The famous crooked spire of the church appeared through the trees. Nigel slowed and the car crawled past it, just as so many tourists did. El’s head leaned hungrily out of the window, scanning each house for any sign of Leon Osmond or his Jaguar. Dan relaxed. If there was a hint of Osmond anywhere, El would spot it.
They passed a pub and the junior school, a babble of joy and excitement in life with the children running and shouting in the playground. A row of cottages shepherded the narrow road, all perfectly kept and adorned with hanging baskets of bursting colour. Cars manoeuvred carefully to park outside a small line of shops.
Ermington had fought hard to retain the sense of community that so many villages had seen fade over the years. It made such a difference. Too many now had residents, people who passed silently in the street, not neighbours and friends. But not here. It was a living village.
The continued on, through to the outskirts. The houses changed, grew larger, all in their own grounds, detached with drives, some modern, some conversions of farmhouses and barns. Nigel kept driving slowly, their faces sweeping from left to right.
‘Bingo!’ yelped El suddenly. ‘Target in my sights.’
He pointed ahead to a modern, detached and whitewashed house standing at the end of an asphalt drive. Parked by its front doors was a gleaming maroon Jaguar.
‘Gotcha,’ chattered El happily. ‘One half of mission Naughty Drinky Cop accomplished. Now the tricky bit. The man himself.’
They got out of the car and discussed their plan. There were sturdy black iron gates at the end of Osmond’s drive, firmly closed, and it was more than a hundred yards to the house. The drive curved away from them in a sweeping arc so a hedge obscured the front door.
‘Too far for me to get a decent shot of him,’ said Nigel, hands on hips, studying the scene. ‘Even if he decided to come out.’
‘Me too,’ grumbled El. He hopped from foot to foot and stroked the lens of his camera. ‘Even with this beautiful all-seeing eye. Got to get closer. Got to lure him out of the house too. That won’t be easy. Bet the bugger’s gone to ground.’
They both looked at Dan. He rolled his eyes and muttered, ‘Down to me then, is it? Thanks, lads.’
He gazed at the house and its surrounds, thought for a moment, then pointed to a shallow ditch that ran alongside the edge of Osmond’s land. It was thick with bushes and overgrowth.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s our way closer. Let’s do a recce.’
They waited for a hiatus in the passing cars, then tried to walk nonchalantly along the road until they found a gap in the hedge. It was dense and leafy, but after a while they came upon a break and pushed quickly through into a field full of stubble. They crouched, waited for the challenge, the angry shouts wanting to know what the hell they were doing, but none came. A car passed, then another. They squatted down, waited, then slowly slid back towards the ditch.
It was mostly dry, but Dan did get a couple of shoefuls of cold and stagnant water. They crept along, bent double, Nigel and El carrying their cameras, Dan with the ungainly weight of the tripod. Lively young branches snapped at them as they pushed their way through, landing a couple of whipping blows and the odd thorn tore at their clothes. A blackbird sang out its alarm and fluttered away across the open fields.
Dan paused and looked b
ack over his shoulder. They were all sweating heavily, Nigel panting and El sporting a chain of leaves in his shock of hair. He held up a hand, let them have a moment’s breather, moved on.
About twenty yards from the front of the house the ditch widened into a dry hollow. There was a clear view of the door and the car. Perfect. Nigel and El trained their cameras on the house and they waited. It was a quarter past one. Plenty of time for their prey to emerge.
They only needed a few seconds of pictures to get their exclusive. Just enough of Osmond by his car to start Dan’s report for tonight. No one else would have that. It would be fresh and entertaining and should suffice to keep Lizzie happy. El could snap all the shots he needed in the time it took the Superintendent to venture out of his door. For whatever reason; to check the weather, stretch his legs, get some air, it didn’t matter. All that was important was that he appeared.
Dan had lost count of the number of stake-outs he’d endured. He’d never cared for them. It was always waiting which was the worst. Action he could handle, reacting to a breaking story, busking his way through a live report. But waiting made you feel impotent, knowing you could get a fine scoop or simply nothing, depending on the vagaries of your luck.
Two hours ticked slowly by. Dan leaned back against some grass at the rear of the hollow, Nigel and El bent over their cameras at the front. It was like some military scene, he thought. Not a bad way of earning a living, sitting in the Devon countryside in the sunshine, but he was getting increasingly twitchy about the time.
If he was going to get a story, Osmond would have to come out soon. Wessex Tonight was on air at half past six. Dan reckoned he’d need an hour to edit the report, and they’d take half an hour or so to get back to the studios. So five o’clock was their deadline.
It was getting on for half past three.
‘Come on, come on, come on,’ El mumbled over and over again, stroking his camera lens for luck. ‘If I don’t get the snap of him to London soon, it’ll be worthless. That’s thousands of quid down the drain. Thousands!’
‘He’s not daft though, is he?’ whispered Nigel. ‘He’ll know the media will be after him for a picture. I reckon he’s staying put safely inside.’