The Judgement Book

by Simon Hall

  Adam sounded more interested now. ‘OK. But how does putting all that out help us?’

  ‘The blackmailer knows we’re going to find a fake book. They’ll know we’ll look stupid. They’ll know that once I’ve put it out on the TV that all the television cameras, the snappers, the whole of the press will be there to witness it. They’ll know lots of ordinary people will also turn out if it’s somewhere as public as Charles Church. I reckon they’ll think they can blend in with the crowd and so come to witness our humiliation in person. I tell you, they’ll find it irresistible. There’s your trap.’

  Adam nodded slowly. He reached for his tie and pulled it up to his collar and straightened it. Dan almost smiled, almost. He’d didn’t think he’d ever been so glad to see his friend’s little idiosyncrasy.

  ‘So we put lots of plain clothes cops in amongst the crowd,’ the detective said. ‘And tell them to keep an eye out for anything suspicious.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Dan.

  Adam breathed out heavily. ‘It’s still a long shot.’

  ‘Yep,’ repeated Dan. ‘It is. But the simple point is this. What else have we got?’

  The detective nodded. ‘I think that’s the winning argument. Come on, let’s do it.’

  Dan drove straight back to the studios, slewing the car around the back streets and rat runs, avoiding the inevitable tailbacks of the city’s main roads. He knew he was going too fast, but he hardly noticed.

  It was half past twelve. The lunchtime bulletin was on air in an hour. He parked badly, across two spaces, and ran up the stairs, his head full of how he needed to play his idea. He had to get it just right. Lizzie was standing in the corner of the newsroom, talking to the sports team. Talking at might have been a better description. Her animation said it wasn’t an amicable conversation.

  ‘Got a story for you,’ he panted to Lisa, the lunchtime news producer.

  ‘I’m OK for lunch thanks,’ she replied, looking up. ‘I’ve got enough stuff.’

  Dan gritted his teeth in irritation. Producers who were only interested in filling their slot were a treasured hate. Never mind the quality of what was being offered, they were happy just to have any stories to take up their allotted time. They were computerised hacks, working automatically to a template without the input of thought, and there were far too many of them.

  Plus, if his plan was going to work, he had to make it on air. There wasn’t much time to argue the case. He usually hated melodrama and fuss, but on this occasion it might not be a bad strategy.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Dan shouted, as angrily as he could. He noticed only a few people had turned to look, so he slammed his satchel down on the floor and flung his arms up into the air for added affect. ‘Give me strength!’ he bawled.

  That was better, more heads were turning now. The newsroom was quietening, but most importantly Lizzie hadn’t noticed. More histrionics were required.

  ‘I’ve come running back in here to offer you a corking exclusive and all you do is tell me you’ve got enough stuff!’ Dan ranted, his voice even louder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lizzie’s head snap over.

  ‘It’s a great story, a really top exclusive,’ he yelled. Lizzie was moving now, walking fast towards the producer’s desk. ‘You’d be mad not to run it, absolutely barmy.’

  Lisa gaped at him, raised her hands placatingly.

  ‘OK, what’s all this about?’ Lizzie cut in. She was standing beside Dan, and tall today he thought. Bad news, that meant big heels. He had to get his spin in first.

  ‘I’ve just come running back with a great story about the blackmail case and our alleged lunchtime producer here tells me she doesn’t want it.’

  Lizzie glared at him. Dan could hear a stiletto grinding into the carpet.

  ‘What is it?’ she snapped. ‘It had better be damn good after all this fuss and leaving Exmoor without my say so.’

  ‘It is damn good. I told you it would be.’

  ‘So then?’

  Dan bent down and fumbled in his satchel for his notebook. He knew exactly what he was going to say, but he wanted Lizzie to think he was quoting it, word for word, from a secret source.

  ‘The police have worked out where the Judgement Book is. They’ve solved a series of riddles which have led them to it. They’re going to recover it this afternoon. It’s the end of one of the biggest and most bizarre cases in the region’s history.’

  The whole newsroom had gone quiet. Everyone was watching.

  ‘On air,’ she barked. ‘Lead story. Go on then, get writing. What are you waiting for?’

  ‘You,’ she added, turning to Lisa. ‘Get a better nose for news or get looking for another job.’

  Dan walked over to his desk, logged in to the computer and began working on his script. He kept his head down to avoid having to look at Lisa’s tears. He put a note in his diary to take her for coffee tomorrow, explain and apologise – if he still worked here tomorrow.

  ‘Some breaking news this lunchtime on the blackmailer case,’ began Craig. ‘We have an exclusive report for you on extraordinary developments. Our crime correspondent Dan Groves is with us.’

  A camera spun and focused on him. Dan put on his most sonorous broadcast voice and intoned, ‘Craig, I can tell you this. The police think they have discovered the secret location where the Judgement Book is hidden. I’ll say that again, because of the importance of the story. The police believe they have discovered the location of the Book that’s been used to blackmail several prominent local people, led to the suicide of two, and is said to contain the scandalous secrets of many more.’

  Craig nodded, and put on his serious face. Every time he did it, when introducing stories of death and disaster, Dan couldn’t help thinking back to Christmas, the newsroom party and the presenter’s drunken karaoke of Jake the Peg, complete with bizarre dance. If only the viewers knew what really went on, he thought. And that applies just as much to the way I work and the things I do, probably more so in fact. Much more.

  Which is why I’m about to say what I am.

  ‘Dan, what more can you tell us?’ Craig asked.

  ‘The police want to keep the Book’s location a secret, so they don’t have large crowds of people and the media to deal with when they recover it. But I can tell you this. They believe the Judgement Book is hidden right in the centre of Plymouth, at a well-known landmark, probably one of the city’s most famous. In fact, Charles Church …’

  Dan stopped, only for a second, just enough to make the mistake clear, to let it linger. He tried to force his eyes to widen as though shocked with himself and put a false fluster into his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he continued. ‘What I meant to say was the police believe the Judgement Book is hidden in a well-known Plymouth landmark and they intend to recover it sometime around four o’clock this afternoon.’

  Dan had to sit for ten minutes in the studios’ relaxation room after the broadcast. The base of his back was damp with sweat and his heart was racing. The trap was laid. The only question now was whether it would work.

  He closed his eyes and lay back on the reclining chair. The room was quiet, still, soft with its thick cream carpet and matching curtains, but the peace just amplified the barrage of his thoughts. His mind oscillated like a frantic pendulum, from thinking it was a great plan which couldn’t possibly fail, to ridiculing himself about how stupid it was.

  The only conclusion he came to was that they’d see soon enough.

  Adam called after the lunchtime news. He’d watched the bulletin from Charles Cross and praised Dan’s act. He found it convincing he said, and he wasn’t alone. They’d had scores of calls from journalists asking if the police really were going to recover the Judgement Book from Charles Church at four o’clock this afternoon. The official line was “We do not comment on irresponsible press reports”, but the implication was clear.

  The media would be there.

  Many other people had rung the station as well, to ask
if they could watch. They were told the police couldn’t stop them from gathering at a public place. It was their right.

  Adam had made his plan. He, and a small team of police and forensics officers, would walk into the church and down to the plaque where they would go through a charade of trying to unscrew it. They would take their time, making it look as though detailed forensics work was slowing their progress. Plain-clothed police officers and detectives would fill the crowd, searching for anyone who might be the blackmailer.

  Dan wondered how they could do that. The blackmailer wasn’t exactly going to advertise his presence. But Adam was confident his officers would spot someone behaving suspiciously or nervously. It was a large part of a cop’s job, he said. It became second nature.

  Onlookers would be kept behind a cordon thrown around the walls of the church. The edge of the roundabout made a natural boundary which limited the number of people who could watch. That was their hunting ground.

  Dan thought about getting a sandwich from the canteen, but he didn’t feel hungry. He couldn’t stop wondering whether the blackmailer would come, and what the next few hours would bring. He ran his tongue over the ulcer. It was smaller now he thought, and wasn’t hurting. Or it could just be that he was too distracted to notice the pain.

  To try to occupy his fretting mind, Dan logged into the internet to look up a new Dartmoor walk to take Rutherford on at the weekend. They hadn’t been up to the north moor for ages. Perhaps somewhere around Taw Marsh. The river valley was a wonderful natural amphitheatre, bursting with colour and life in the springtime. They could even go to see the Ted Hughes memorial if they felt like a longer hike. He’d hardly been since he discovered it five years ago, the great granite rock etched with a dedication to the extraordinary poet.

  Dan was proud of the find. It had taken several years of work and many miles of walking, but finally he’d tracked it down, to a barrow of grass, in a secluded valley, high on the lonely moor by the trickling source of the River Taw. Walks to the memorial were now included in all the local guidebooks, a few even crediting him with finding it.

  A thought grew in his mind that it would be a better day for being with Claire, but he blocked it. He had to concentrate on work, not her, had to keep his mind on the trap they were setting for the blackmailer. Anyway, it was hard to face, but he might soon have to begin thinking about life without her. What other explanation was there for her silence?

  Dan stared hard at the computer screen and the map of the area around Belstone. There was a good pub in the village, he remembered it from previous walks. Maybe he could book in for the night. He and Rutherford could walk to the memorial, then come back, have some dinner and a few beers and crash out.

  His mobile bleeped with a text message. Claire’s name flashed on the display. Dan sat up straight, instantly nervous.

  Even after all these hours, waiting and wanting to hear from her, he wasn’t sure he was ready to know what she had to say.

  Whether he could face it.

  His hand was shaking.

  He hesitated, then pressed the read button.

  “Feeling ill so staying home. Know you’re busy, but any chance you can pop round? Really need to see you.”

  Dan tried to call her. The phone rang, but her answer machine kicked in. He tried again with the same result. The anger roared back.

  What the hell was she doing, ignoring him? What the fuck was she up to? How dare she?

  She was pregnant with his son. What a despicable way to behave, to just disappear, not want to talk to him, then to think she could click her fingers and summon him with a text message.

  He wanted to rage at her, tell her to forget it, get lost, leave him alone, not be so selfish, so vindictive, so vicious, so foul. Instead he placed the phone down on the floor, lay back in the chair, closed his eyes, tried to force himself to be calm. Whatever happened between them she was pregnant with his child, and that at least they had to discuss.

  It was quarter past two. Less than five hours left until the Judgement Book was released. Just under two until they made their attempt to trap the second blackmailer.

  For now, all he could do was wait. Dan had an hour before he and Nigel went down to Charles Church to film the police opening the plaque. His mind was full of Claire.

  He had time to get to her flat.

  Dan stared at Claire’s door. He checked his hair in the reflection of the blue gloss. He looked OK he thought, reasonably calm, but his chest felt rigid with a steel tension and his forehead hot as the racing blood pumped its seething resentment through him.

  He felt like wrenching the key in the lock, letting himself in, slamming the door, then storming around, flailing his arms, shouting at her, screaming, venting his anger, raging until he could enjoy the satisfaction of her tears. He thought of their son, playing football, their daughter, having her hair cut and tried to calm himself. He reached out an unsteady hand, curled it into a fist and knocked.

  Inside, he heard uncertain footsteps. They paused. He counted off the seconds. He’d begun to wonder if she would answer, what to do next, when Claire slowly opened the door and stood looking at him. Her eyes were ringed with angry red circles. She held one hand over her stomach and she was visibly shaking. Her lips trembled, her cheeks too. She looked ashen, almost colourless.

  Claire reached out her arms and Dan hesitated, fighting the anger. Her lips mouthed the word, ‘Please’, but her voice couldn’t find the strength to project it.

  Still he stood, staring. The seconds passed. Again her lips formed the words. ‘Please. Please …’

  His resentment broke and he stepped forwards and hugged her. She collapsed into him, sobbed against his shoulder, uncontrolled, wracking gasps of breath and tears. His eyes found the photo of the two of them together, Rutherford between them and he stared at it, not daring to allow himself to speak. Slowly her breathing grew more regular and the sobs subsided to whimpering.

  Dan took her hand and sat her down on the sofa. Shame and anger crashed together in his mind, like two mighty armies in an ancient battle. He wanted to tell her what she’d put him through, but also to reach out, to comfort her.

  The red roses lay untouched on the coffee table, some of the tips of their graceful petals beginning to droop and fade. He stretched over, picked them up and put the bouquet in her arms. She stammered a low, ‘Thanks.’ She was still trembling and started crying again, the tears speeding their silver trails down her face.

  Dan put a hand on Claire’s and tried to calm her. She closed her eyes and lay back on the sofa, that protective arm never leaving her stomach. He waited, but she just lay there, still whimpering, the occasional tear dripping softly onto the armrest.

  ‘Claire,’ he whispered gently. ‘Claire – what is it? What’s the matter?’

  She said nothing, just lay there, her eyes closed, the lids occasionally fluttering.

  ‘Claire,’ Dan said again. ‘It’s just your hormones. That’s all. It’s bound to happen when you’re pregnant. Your hormones are all over the place. That’s what’s making you feel so strange. It’s perfectly natural.’

  She opened her eyes and reached out for him again. Dan took her and cuddled her, squeezing the shuddering body into him. She was trying to talk, mumbled gasps of words, so he leaned back and looked into her eyes, did his best to summon a reassuring smile.

  ‘Claire, it’s OK. I’m here. I’ll look after you. Don’t worry. We’ll sort it all out. We’ll work it out together.’

  She looked at him, her lips trembling hard. She went to mouth some words, then stopped, tried again, faltered.

  ‘Claire, what is it? What’s the matter? I’m here now. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  She bowed her head, stared down at the sofa. A tear hit the fabric, spreading into a tiny dark circle. Dan watched it grow.

  Sunlight flared in the room, then faded.

  The silence edged on.

  And then came the words. He would never forget the
m.

  ‘I’ve had an abortion,’ Claire said quietly.

  Dan felt himself go numb. His eyes, hands, mouth, nothing would move. Even his brain was frozen. He wanted to ask questions, leap to his feet, wave his arms, shout, scream, but nothing came. All he could do was sit, rigid, staring at her.

  Claire looked up at him, her eyes glazed. She began crying again, the strangled words struggling through her sobs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so sorry.’

  Dan began to shake. It started in his chest, then spread fast, out across his body, infecting every artery, vein, organ, muscle and limb. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

  He saw the joyrider’s knife plunging into Claire’s swollen stomach. He saw his son, playing football in the park, screaming with triumph at scoring a goal past his father, his daughter’s proud excitement as she stepped from the salon after her first hair styling. He saw Claire, alone, in a hospital bed, crying, a faceless surgeon stalking towards her, holding something metallic, silver.

  He shut his eyes to try to escape the thoughts, but they danced around his mind, circling him, taunting him.

  Claire reached out her arms. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Dan started to back away. He kept moving, sliding inch by inch until he was up against the arm of the sofa, as far from her as he could get. He was still shaking, couldn’t speak, just stared.

  Outside he heard the thump of a football against a wall and the joyful shout of a young boy.

  Dan forced his rigid legs to stand. A sickness swirled in his stomach and his eyes wouldn’t focus. It felt as though the body he inhabited was no longer his. He had to concentrate to force it to move.

  His slow eyes found the blue gloss of the door and he fixed his gaze upon it until it was all he could see, a shining oblong at the end of a blurred tunnel. He picked up the roses and walked out.