by Simon Hall
They waited on. Another half hour edged by. Dan tried to occupy himself thinking about Claire and his baby boy. What name might they choose? He went through a mental list and found he didn’t really like any apart from his own. What would Claire think of Dan junior? He could imagine her face if he even dared raise the question.
El let out a low moan of frustration. Dan checked Nigel’s digital watch, cheap, but always accurate. It was getting on for a quarter past four. Time was running out.
A pigeon landed in a tree above them and let loose a dropping. It hit El’s foot.
‘Blimey,’ he groaned, looking up. ‘Even the bloody birds are against me. Thousands of quid just slipping away in front of my eyes.’ He took a sly look at Dan. ‘Any ideas?’
Dan stared over at Osmond’s house. He was sure he’d sensed life in there. Perhaps just the twitch of a curtain and the faint sound of hammering. Nigel was right. The Superintendent was safely inside, probably doing some DIY. He’d gone to ground to stop the media getting a fresh picture of him.
‘I could just be straightforward and try ringing the bell,’ he said. ‘You two could get a shot of him when he came to the door.’
‘No chance,’ replied Nigel. ‘He’s not stupid. He’d either send his wife or just not answer.’
Dan nodded. It was a vain hope. Osmond had seen enough of journalists in his career to expect such a trick. He had to come up with something better.
He scanned the house and the car shining outside. So, what would tempt Osmond out? Everyone had a weakness. What did he know about the man that he could use?
His thoughts again started to drift to Claire and playing football in the park with his son. Days like this would be perfect for a kick-about. It would be just the way his father had once played with him. Dan wondered how Claire’s interview with the pilot of the plane had gone. Were they getting any closer to catching the blackmailer? He blinked the thoughts away and forced himself to concentrate.
He stared at Osmond’s Jaguar and an idea started to tug at his mind. The blackmail note said Osmond loved his car. And it certainly looked impeccably cared for, standing here, shining brightly in his drive.
Dan checked Nigel’s watch again. Almost half past four. They were nearly out of time. If he was going to do it, it had to be now.
Dan stood up and clambered out of the front of the hollow. Time to move before he changed his mind.
‘Cameras at the ready, boys,’ he whispered. ‘This is our one chance, so let’s give it our best.’
Dan crouched low and followed the line of the hedge to the side of the house. Not for the first time he was glad he always bought soft-soled shoes. They were indispensable for a TV reporter, smart enough to be worn on camera, but still practical for running after reluctant interviewees or away from irate victims of their filming.
He felt his heart thumping and had to concentrate to control his breathing. He crept across the drive and knelt down beside the Jaguar. No sound or movement from the house. They hadn’t seen him. He waited for a moment to compose himself, then slid around to the back of the car. He took his handkerchief and stuffed it into the exhaust pipe.
Dan looked over to the bushes. He could just make out the shine of the camera lenses protruding through the leaves. The snipers of the media. They were well camouflaged, but Nigel and El were ready. Good. Now it was just down to him. He’d have to move fast.
Dan stood up, rested his backside on the Jaguar’s bonnet and bounced it up and down.
The screaming siren of the car’s alarm split the air. Dan was instantly away, sprinting, back towards the bushes. He felt his legs ache with the effort. He crashed through the greenery, landed heavily in the ditch and ducked down, caught his breath and turned to look back at the house.
The front door flew open and out strode Osmond. He was wearing a pair of long blue shorts and a white T-shirt with the logo of a local brewery on it.
What a wonderful irony. Dan silently thanked the Gods of News. Truly they had blessed him for his boldness. He couldn’t have asked for more.
Osmond glanced suspiciously about, held out a key fob and stopped the siren. He walked over to the car and checked it twice, circling carefully around, running a hand over the bodywork, examining it. He even knelt down to check the underside. Then he opened the car’s door and tried the engine. It coughed and turned over, but wouldn’t start. He tried again with the same result. The blockage in the exhaust pipe was doing its job perfectly. Their quarry was out in the open, and for more time than they could ever need.
Dan crept carefully along the ditch to Nigel and El. He could have sworn the paparazzo was purring with delight.
‘Got enough?’ he whispered.
‘Yep,’ they both replied without taking their eyes off the viewfinders of their cameras.
‘Beautiful,’ added El. ‘Wonderful. Heavenly. I’m in snapper’s paradise.’ He sounded entranced and broke into another limerick.
‘Oh, how Osmond loves that car,
It’s taken him so very far,
But when he’s fuelled up with drink,
Looking all so fat and pink,
El cashes in and laughs – Ha ha!’
‘Shhh,’ urged Dan, trying not to chuckle. ‘Let’s hope he just thinks there’s something wrong with the car. I reckon he’ll go back into the house in a mo to call a garage. When he does, we’re off, OK? And be quiet about it. The last thing I want is for him to spot us.’
‘Wait until he sees the news tonight,’ whispered Nigel.
The traffic was light on the drive back to the studios and they made it by quarter past five. El waddled off happily to file his pictures, still burbling to himself, and Dan sat in an edit suite with Jenny and put the report together. As he wrote it, he had to stop himself giggling. It was certainly entertaining.
Again he had a dilemma how to begin. The most recent pictures, and the most dramatic were those they’d just shot, of Osmond charging out of his house and checking his car. They also had that added delight of his T-shirt. But the shot that told the story – the golden image – was the one El had taken, the snap of the plane trailing the banner. Then again, stills were never as interesting as moving pictures. Quickly, Dan jotted down the pros and cons, weighed them up.
Ten minutes ticked past. Half past five. An hour to on air. Jenny coughed pointedly.
Dan took the hint. The best of stories, the most stunning of pictures, the finest of elegant scripting meant nothing if the report didn’t make the programme. He was thinking too much.
Eventually, he reverted to the basic question – what is news? It came down to the old adage, the difference between the mundane “dog bites man”, and the headline-grabbing “man bites dog”. The viewers were unlikely to ever before have seen a plane trailing a banner accusing a senior police officer of drink driving. Argument settled.
Over one of El’s snapshots of the plane, Dan talked about how the blackmailer had decided to make it very clear who his latest victim was. Then Jenny cut to another photo, this time from a newspaper article in which Osmond was interviewed about his campaign against drink driving. It was pure counterpoint, and made the man look an utter hypocrite.
To follow, they used some pictures of Osmond checking his car, Dan talking about the allegation that he was driving the Jaguar when he was caught. He added the police press office’s official statement; that Osmond had been suspended, was under investigation by the Professional Standards department, and that no further comment would be made.
Finally Dan recapped on the case, how Freedman had killed himself, as had Linda. He signed off by saying detectives would like to hear from anyone with information that could help their investigation. Adam had been very keen that should feature. It was a police cliché, said in just about every inquiry, but it did often help bring forward new witnesses.
And so another assassination by television was completed.
Claire was working late on her inquiries into where the plane’s banner had
come from, so they agreed to spend the night apart. She wasn’t getting very far, she said, just about nowhere in fact, but she didn’t want to go into details. She sounded busy, tired and irritable. Dan asked if Claire felt they were coming any closer to finding the Worm and received an unattractive snort. He wasn’t surprised. He’d reached the same conclusion himself.
Dan ate some beans on toast on the great blue sofa in his flat, Rutherford at his feet, and realised he didn’t know how to feel about not being with Claire tonight.
Logically, it made perfect sense. He could do with a good sleep and some quality time with Rutherford. It was never certain when she’d get home when she was working on an investigation. He was sure she wasn’t punishing him because of his clumsy reaction to the pregnancy. Claire wasn’t like that. She didn’t use emotions as a weapon, unlike some women he’d met. Men too, in fairness. They could both probably do with time and space to think. But he still couldn’t calm the squealing of the instinct which said he should be there with her.
Dan ironed a couple of shirts and some trousers for the week as he watched Wessex Tonight. His story was second on the programme, after the protesting pensioners. He wondered how shocked Osmond would be, but he couldn’t focus his mind on the Superintendent.
When his stomach had successfully digested some of the weight of his tea, Dan took Rutherford for a run around Hartley Park. The dog spun wheels of yelping joy around him as he rummaged in the hallway cupboard for the lead. He bent down to give Rutherford a cuddle. He felt better for spending time with his beloved friend. The guilt always stung when work forced him to neglect his dog for a couple of days.
They jogged slowly around the park. Twilight was creeping in, stretching the shadows of the lime and oak trees that guarded the boundary of the green. It was a wonderful time of year. The land was awakening from the sleep of the winter, bringing new life and light, fresh buds, shoots and colour after the darkness of the long, cold months. It was the season of renewal.
Rutherford sprinted off towards the ginger blur of a cat, but, as ever, got nowhere near it. He ambled back to Dan and jogged beside him. He had his mouth open and his tongue hung out in his smiling face. Dan patted his head and ran his hand along the dog’s sleek back. He was a beautiful animal.
Another unwelcome thought intruded. What would it mean for Rutherford if there was a baby in the house? How would the dog react? Some got jealous at the competition for affection. Rutherford had never lived with anyone else. Could they trust him with a baby crawling on the floor, perhaps poking him, or pulling his tail?
Dan increased the pace of his run to try to shut out the worry. But it combined with his other concern about how he and Claire would ever find time to care for a child. Together they goaded him, attacking from opposite corners of his mind.
He tried to distract himself. Adam wanted to meet at eight tomorrow morning to talk about the case. How were they doing? They had three victims, two suspects and three of the five code words. Surely they could make some progress now? What did “Open original memorial” mean? Could the irascible priest, or that tank of a solicitor really be the blackmailer?
An image flitted through his mind, an Alsatian bent snarling over a terrified baby. Dan blinked hard to exorcise the vision, but it hung in the air.
He forced his heavy legs to run faster still. He was panting heavily. Was he sure enough of his relationship with Claire to have a child? They weren’t married, hadn’t even discussed it. They’d only got as far as agreeing to move in together and they hadn’t even made any real efforts to find a place yet. Was that commitment?
Dan reached the end of the lap and slowed to a jog. His heart was racing and his mind ran with it. Tiny spheres of sweat slid from his face onto his T-shirt. He stopped suddenly and stared up at the darkening sky. The bravest stars were beginning to force their way through the cowl of the night. The city was peaceful, preparing to sleep.
‘What’s the matter with me?’ Dan whispered to Rutherford. ‘Last night, this morning even, I was so happy. What’s changed?’
He slipped the lead over the dog’s neck and walked slowly back towards the flat. Dan didn’t know where the ambush of emotion had come from, but suddenly he felt afraid of the world.
Chapter Sixteen
DAN DIDN’T HAVE MUCH time that spring Tuesday evening to compose an entry in the diary he kept of the cases he worked on with Adam. But despite all else that was going on in his life, he made sure he found just a couple of minutes, so important was it to record the headlines of what had happened.
“Caught the bloody blackmailer!” he wrote. “The case is SORTED! Great TV scoop on it too. Groves does it again. Yeah, yeah, yeah!!”
Looking back on the case of The Judgement Book, in the coming weeks and months, when he finally found the courage and strength, Dan didn’t know whether to be angry or laugh at himself, so woefully naive were his words.
The day started quietly enough, with the briefing Adam had arranged in the MIR. It was eight o’clock exactly.
‘I scarcely know where to begin,’ the detective said, standing beside his beloved green boards. He looked at Dan. ‘We’ve had some very interesting information come in. Your broadcast last night certainly caused a stir.’
Dan sipped at his canteen tea and flinched. It was bitingly strong, the way the police seemed to like it. Built for the beat, Adam always said.
He hadn’t slept well, those goading thoughts about his future with Claire and his unborn son intruding continually into his dreams. But the two of them had managed to find five minutes together before the briefing, hidden in the far corner of Charles Cross car park, and the quick squeezing cuddle had lifted his spirits.
He’d felt his eyes ache and had to blink back the gathering tears. Where had they come from, he wondered? Even in the days when the swamp was at its most powerful, and dramatic mood swings were a familiar sufferance, he couldn’t remember such mercurial emotions.
Dan focused back on Adam. The detective’s face had darkened and he seemed to find what he was saying distasteful.
‘Sorry, what?’ Dan asked.
‘I said sex.’ Adam spelt out the taboo with all the distaste of an accomplished prude. ‘S – E – X. Linda Cott and sex.’
Dan instinctively reached for his notebook. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’
‘I bet you are. So I’ll remind you again. No stories without my say so, remember?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Go on.’
Adam gave him a look. ‘We had an anonymous call after your story last night. It was from a woman. She said she knew why Linda had killed herself.’
‘And?’
‘She said it was down to sex. She claims Linda used to take part in an activity known as “dogging”.’
Dan blinked hard. He liked to think of himself as a man of the world and was pretty sure he knew what dogging was, but thought he’d better check before he made a fine fool of himself.
‘And dogging is?’
Claire looked away. Adam’s face was reddening. He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Sex – in public – with strangers – watched by … other people.’
There was a pause. Dan frowned, couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice. ‘Linda Cott? A senior cop? Who you all rate so highly? Doing – that stuff?’
Adam and Claire exchanged glances.
‘Well – do you believe the caller?’ Dan prompted. ‘Is there any evidence to back up what she says?’
Adam folded his arms. ‘I don’t want to believe it.’
‘Nor do I,’ Claire interjected forcefully, shaking her head hard. ‘Not one little bit.’
‘But, I have to consider it might be true,’ Adam continued. ‘Because if it is, it certainly explains a lot. Linda’s reluctance to let us see the blackmail note. Her killing herself. You can imagine the scandal if it had got out.’
Claire walked over to the window, stared out at the brightening day. Adam joined her. Down on the grey concrete steps the press pack
was gathering again, photographers and reporters leaning against the railings, waiting.
The MIR had been cleaned overnight; all the bins were empty, the windows shiny, a lingering hint of polish in the air. But the pervading atmosphere Dan could sense was disbelief.
‘Well – I hardly know what to say,’ was all he could manage.
‘Imagine how it feels for us,’ Claire replied quietly.
More silence, then Dan asked, ‘So – what do we do?’
Adam tapped a palm on the windowsill. ‘We have to check it out. We’ll send a team of detectives to look into the wonderful world of dogging. We’ll see if we can find some of these …’ he struggled for the word. ‘… these – doggers.’
Outside, a flock of pigeons fluttered by, wheeled in unison in the blue sky, headed back for their loft. Cars crawled around the ruined church. It must have been a couple of minutes before anyone spoke.
Adam walked slowly to the boards. He couldn’t keep his gaze from Linda’s face, calmly staring out at him. How many eyes hid such secrets, Dan thought. And that was exactly what this case was about. Human frailty and guilty secrets.
‘I’d better fill you in on what else has happened,’ the detective said heavily. ‘Yvonne Freedman’s found a way to get her revenge on the Traditionalists, without breaking the law this time.’
He picked up a copy of the Daily Gazette from a desk. The broadsheet’s front page splash was headlined, “They killed my husband”. Dan scanned through the story. It was based on an interview Yvonne had given, accusing the party of gross self interest, and using people like components on a factory line.
Some of the quotes were very spicy. “Faceless party barons, interested only in the pursuit of power at any cost … misplaced adoration for the rising stars, giving them messianic complexes … far too selfish and dishonest to ever be trusted with real responsibility.”
Yvonne had further embroidered her attack by saying that, since her husband’s suicide, no one from the senior ranks of the Traditionalists had bothered to get in touch to find out how she or Alex were coping.