by Simon Hall
Hang on though, what if it was a double bluff? Given how devious McCluskey was, what if the number of another support was hidden in the pictures? How would he feel if he read next week of someone solving the riddle, the answer on a metal pillar at the Advent Project? Dan checked the pictures again, his enthusiasm returning in an unexpected wave, pushing the swamp back out of his mind. Mood swings he thought, beware the mood swings.
Only two possibilities struck him. Number nine, from the key in picture seven, and 225, from the phone in the first picture. Surely that was the most likely, the most obvious? Nine was easy to check, it was just here. He examined it, found nothing. 225 then. That would be back in the tropical dome. Dan finished the ice cream and set off.
He’d expected it, but was still irritated to be right. 225 was well protected, hidden behind a dense thicket of bamboo. There were too many people around to take this plunge slowly. What the hell, he thought. He’d tell them his car keys fell off his belt and he was looking for them if they called an attendant, something pathetic like that. He wasn’t giving up now. And if it was the answer, he’d just tell them the truth. They’d love the publicity.
He hopped over the low wooden rail and started pushing his way through the trunks and stalks. They were smooth, springy, resistant, pushed right back at him, but this time at least they weren’t thorny. There were a couple of shouts of ‘Oi!,’ but he was through the first thicket and almost at the edge of the dome now. One pole jumped back at him, glancing off his shoulder. He hardly noticed. Just another push...
A foot slipped on some moss, but he kept going. He could hear shouting, ‘What you doing? Come out of there!’ and feet tramping from behind him, but he kept pushing, kept pushing. He almost fell as he reached the clear space of the concrete foundations of the supports.
Dan looked down at the one nearest him. 221. He moved on quickly, aware of the flailing behind and more shouts. 222, 223, 224, 225. Could it be here? It was certainly a good hiding place, he couldn’t imagine anyone finding it by chance. Shit! There was a small envelope taped around the bottom of the support, coloured grey to match the metal, invisible unless you were looking for it. His heart raced. Shit, was this really it? He reached down and ripped it off.
‘Here! You! You! What the hell are you doing?’ A middle aged man dressed in the white Advent polo shirt of the attendants appeared behind him. He stopped, studied Dan, his face slipping from angry to puzzled. ‘Here, blow me. Aren’t you that bloke on the TV?’
Of all the times to be recognised, Dan thought as he stood panting. Of all the bloody times.
‘Yes,’ he managed breathlessly. ‘I’m sorry. But I was looking for something,’ he gasped. ‘Something important.’
The man stared at him, baffled. ‘What?’ He pointed to the envelope. ‘That?’
‘Yes, that.’ Dan was getting his breath back now, but could still feel his heart pounding. Sweat dripped from his chin and he reached up a hand to wipe it. There was no point lying. ‘I’m looking for the answer to the Death Pictures riddle. You know, Joseph McCluskey, the artist?’
‘Cor, yeah I do.’ The attendant’s face changed again, flashed with excitement. ‘And you reckon it might be in that?’
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Dan. ‘It’s taken enough bloody effort. You want to find out?’
The man walked over, stood alongside. ‘Yeah, you bet.’
Dan leaned back against metal support 225 and started to tear at the envelope. He noticed his hands were shaking, but he couldn’t stop them. An image of the final Death Picture on his wall at home filled his mind. That or a lovely holiday somewhere on the money he’d make from selling it.
The envelope ripped open and a small piece of paper fell out. He grabbed at it, but missed and it fluttered down onto the grey concrete. Dan stared at it, hardly daring to look. Was this it? Not another clue surely... He couldn’t take another clue.
He bent down and picked it up, unfolded it. There was writing on it, handwriting. This had to be it… Just two words there, only two. What did they say? ‘Well done’? ‘It’s yours.’ ‘My congratulations?’
No. Nothing like it.
‘Sorry. Wrong!’
Chapter Sixteen
A break. A beautiful break at last. Adam almost raised a fist to the sky in jubilation. By tomorrow they could have their man. He straightened his impeccable tie.
‘So Freeman got into a fight?’ Adam asked.
‘Well, to be fair to him, I don’t think it was his fault.’ Suzanne smiled, not a common sight. ‘He had some guy in the back who was drunk. He was sick in the cab and Freeman stopped and told him to get out. He refused, Freeman tried to grab him and there was a bit of a punch up, quite a vicious little one apparently. Both men were bleeding. We were lucky that it was on a main road and there was a patrol car going by. They were both brought in and the custody sergeant recognised his name. Interestingly, Freeman didn’t want to give a DNA sample, but as he’d been arrested on suspicion of actual bodily harm we could take one. It’s being analysed now.’
She checked the clock on the wall. ‘The lab has promised the results will be ready by this time tomorrow morning.’
Dan was beginning to feel as though life was conspiring against him. A button had pinged off his favourite blue work shirt this morning and he couldn’t find it. It had probably rolled far under the bed or into a dark corner behind the wardrobe, somewhere way out of reach. After ten minutes on his hands and knees looking, he’d given up. Anyway, that was almost a relief. He hated sewing. He’d changed into another shirt, but it was new and itching his back.
The cold tap in the kitchen had started dripping a monotonous, tinny beat. He’d have to find a plumber to fix it, but when would he have time? He’d discovered it at about four o’clock this morning. He hadn’t slept much before that and not at all afterwards. Try as he might, he couldn’t shut out the sound. It echoed through his brain.
The only time he managed not to notice was when he thought about the Death Pictures, but that made him tense with irritation. His notes on the riddle had been consigned to under the bed where they could gather dust, not to come out again until the solution was revealed. He’d wasted enough valuable time on the bloody thing.
Dan was getting seriously worried about himself. Not even the morning run with Rutherford had lifted his mood. The swamp was thick and greedy, sucking him down into its lifeless depths. Its sticky tendrils wrapped around him, slowing him, sapping his energy and spirit. It felt as though he would never free himself of its grip. The world outside the flat’s windows looked a hostile and menacing place. If it went on like this, maybe he would have to see that doctor for the drugs he had offered.
He’d managed to force himself into the car and driven to work. He hadn’t been surprised to find a traffic jam in his way after a minor collision between a car and a motorbike. He waited for quarter of an hour, scratching his back the whole time.
‘I’ve got a story for you,’ called Lizzie from across the newsroom when he finally made it to the studios. She waved an envelope in the air as though beckoning. It was ten to nine and he hadn’t even had a chance to sit down at his desk yet. He felt like shouting, slamming his bag down, but he controlled it, ignored her, took his notebook carefully out of his satchel.
She came bustling up, her heels high today, maybe four inches. Not a good time to pick an argument.
‘Yes?’ Dan asked in as neutral a tone as he could manage.
‘Did you have a nice day off?’
‘No. I could do with another one to make up for it.’
‘Tough. I need you on a story.’
‘Am I the only person who works here?’
A stiletto grated into the carpet. ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘But you’re the one who’s supposed to be the expert in crime. And here’s one for you. A crime by the cops themselves.’
‘Look, I’ve got other…’
Lizzie cut in. ‘We got this in the post this morning.’ She slapped the envelope down on his desk. ‘It’s a complaint about the police harassing this guy. He says they think he’s the rapist and are following him just because he won’t give a DNA sample, something he’s entirely entitled to do. He says it’s a shocking waste of resources which should be devoted to catching the attacker. He also says it’s led to his neighbours thinking he’s a paedophile. It sounds good.’
Bad days rarely get better, Dan thought. Trouble has a momentum of its own. Adam’s going to love hearing from me on this one.
‘Are you sure it’s worth doing?’ he asked. ‘One guy who might be the cops’ prime suspect moans that they’re watching him. Surely we’d expect them to do that?’
‘Are you sure you’re not getting too close to your detective friends?’ she shot back. ‘Anyway, I’m not saying that’s all the story. What I’m thinking is we haven’t done anything on the hunt for the rapist for a while, and it’s time we had an update. This – and the lack of an arrest – makes me think the cops are struggling.’
‘I’m sure they’re doing their best…’
‘As am I,’ Lizzie interrupted again. ‘Doing my best trying to report the news. My job… and yours.’
He was going to say something, but curled his toes in his shoes and kept quiet.
‘Get on to it then,’ she added briskly. ‘I want to interview this chap. I want to talk to the cops. I want to put it to them they’re stumped. Oh, and I want it on for lunch as well.’
‘OK,’ Dan mumbled, getting up wearily from his chair and itching his back.
‘And another thing,’ Lizzie continued. He tried not to grimace. ‘McCluskey’s funeral is tomorrow. We’ve just had notification. Hundreds of people expected. You’re the expert on him as well now. I want you to cover it.’
She was away before he could argue. Great, a funeral, just what he needed in the mood he was in. That should cheer him up nicely.
Dan’s mood brightened a little when his mobile rang and El’s name flashed up on the display. Nigel was driving them down to Charles Cross to interview Adam about the state of the rape investigation and the harassment complaint. When Dan phoned to arrange it, the detective’s reaction had been baffling. First the irritation and defensiveness Dan had expected. Then he’d gone off to think about it, then a call back 15 minutes later when he sounded strangely keen.
‘Hi El. How’s the hunt for the mystery woman going?’ Dan asked.
‘Nowhere. That’s why I’m calling you.’
‘And you tried the electoral register, art galleries, all that?’
‘Yep. Not a sniff of her.’
‘So what you going to do now?’
‘That’s why I’m calling you. You’re the hack. You got any ideas?’
Nigel manoeuvred the car into a tight gap between a badly parked police van and a wall. Dan thought for a moment.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said slowly as his mind ground into gear. Not a bad one either, he mused. ‘If we can’t go to her, let her come to us.’
‘What?’ said El. ‘What you talking about?’
I’m as bad as McCluskey with my riddles, Dan thought. No wonder I can’t honestly find it in me to dislike the man that much.
‘We’ve just had word that McCluskey’s funeral is going to be tomorrow.’
‘And?’ El sounded highly unimpressed. ‘Might be worth a snap, but...’
‘It’ll be well attended, won’t it?’ interrupted Dan. ‘I imagine anyone who thought highly of him will want to be there. And particularly anyone he may have taught. Anyone he may have comforted when they were upset. Anyone who thinks they owe him something. Anyone like your mystery lady…’
A uniformed officer showed them up to the Major Incident Room. It was empty, so they sat on a couple of desks and waited. Unlike Adam not to be here, Dan thought. But he was busy with the case. He must be under stifling pressure, with no result so far. The High Honchos on his back and the media scrutinising mercilessly. Still, it was odd.
The door opened and Suzanne Stewart walked in, wearing a dark and weatherbeaten trouser suit. Her usual attire. She looked genuinely pleased to see him. That was strange too. She normally thought he had no place here and wasn’t shy of showing it. What was going on?
‘Hello, Dan,’ she said pleasantly. He tried not to look surprised. ‘Mr Breen wants a word before you do the interview,’ she continued.
Stranger still, but OK, he probably just wanted to discuss what questions he’d be asked. It was a sensitive subject, the force being criticised for hounding an innocent man. He got up from his desk, as did Nigel.
‘Erm, not you, if you don’t mind,’ Suzanne said to the cameraman. ‘Mr Breen needs to see Dan alone.’
She escorted him down a flight of echoing stairs and into Adam’s office, a room Dan had never been in before. It was small, just a wooden desk, computer, phone and a couple of chairs for visitors. There was only one window and it was small and dark, looking out onto the 60s, grey-sided tower block of Plymouth Art College. Still no sign of the Detective Chief Inspector. Suzanne didn’t leave, but sat down on the chair next to his. She was still smiling. What was going on?
‘Suzanne, do you mind me asking…?’ Dan began, but was interrupted by the door opening.
Adam strode in, shook Dan’s hand and slid behind the desk. He didn’t say anything. He’d closed the door, but Suzanne got up and opened it again, looked out, checked there was no one around, then closed it once more. She stayed standing in front of it, like a sentry.
‘Er, what’s going…’ asked Dan.
‘Right,’ interrupted Adam. ‘Sorry about the MI5 bit, but I don’t want any chance of anyone overhearing this conversation. Right,’ he said again, looking Dan straight in the eye and adjusting his already perfectly straight tie. ‘You’ve helped us before and I need your help again. What I’m about to ask is illegal and must remain entirely between us three. It breaks all police rules and no doubt whatever dubious code of practice you journalists work by too.’
He managed a smile, but it was tight and fleeting. ‘So just between us three, OK?’
Dan nodded. He felt suddenly nervous. ‘Yes, sure.’
Adam held his look. ‘This is crunch time and I need your help,’ he said. ‘How bad are you prepared to be in the interests of justice?’
Chapter Seventeen
Dan Groves, TV Crime Correspondent, senior and experienced reporter, proudly cool and hardened professional hack was feeling shaky. More so than in a long time he thought, perhaps since he was interviewed for his first job as a junior TV journalist, 15 years ago. A persistent sweat ran its sticky fingers up his back, making the new shirt itch even worse. He stretched his arm around for another scratch.
‘You OK?’ asked Nigel. ‘You seem tense.’
‘Fine,’ lied Dan. ‘I just didn’t sleep too well last night.’
He took a steadying breath, reached out and knocked at the frosted, double-glazed glass of the door. It quickly opened.
‘Mr Godley?’ Dan asked. A nod from the head poking around the door. ‘Hello. I’m Dan Groves, the reporter. This is Nigel, the cameraman.’
He stood back to let them in, ushered them through. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see us at such short notice, Mr Godley,’ said Dan, struggling not to chip the cream hallway walls with the tripod he carried.
‘No problem, no problem at all,’ the man replied. ‘It’s important this sort of thing is exposed. There’s too much police harassment going on. I’m glad to talk to you about it. And please call me Will.’
They made it to the living room. Nigel took the tripod and began setting up the camera.
‘Mr Godley… sorry, Will, please excuse us getting a move on, but my edito
r wants this story on the lunchtime news.’ Dan glanced at his watch. Just after 11.30 it said, so probably more like 11.45. ‘Which means we have to shift.’
‘No problem. I want to get back to work anyway.’
Will Godley seemed pleasant enough. He certainly doesn’t look like a rapist, Dan thought. I hope Adam knows what he’s doing or we’re all in trouble. Deep in it. I couldn’t go on doing my job if word got round I’d been acting like a police stooge. Lizzie would sack me instantly. His back prickled again at the thought.
When to do it then? When to do what Adam wants? Not yet, build up some rapport first. Break the ice, establish a little trust. Do it after the interview, when we’re de-rigging the kit or it’ll look suspicious.
‘Nearly ready,’ said Nigel, checking the camera’s focus and exposure.
‘Will, we’ll sit you on the corner of your sofa, if that’s OK?’ He nodded and sat where Dan was pointing. ‘I’ll be by the side of the camera. When I ask you the questions, just talk to me. I know it’s easier said than done, but ignore the camera and think of this as a chat between the two of us. Try and keep your answers fairly short, we’re looking for little sound-bite-type chunks of 15 to 20 seconds. It’s not live, so if it goes wrong we can just do it again. Is that OK?’
‘Fine.’ Godley looked composed and relaxed, even enjoying the moment. His revenge on the police no doubt. We’ll see, thought Dan. It’s a good job you don’t know what I do. You could have offered them the ammunition to shoot yourself with.
Godley shifted on the sofa, crossed his legs. ‘Before we start, can you tell me what you’re going to ask me?’
‘Sure,’ replied Dan. All interviewees wanted to know that and he had a well-rehearsed answer. ‘I’ll ask you to tell me your story, what’s happened to you to bring us here to interview you. So, in this case, it’s about the way you’ve been treated by the police. Then, after the facts, I’ll ask you for your opinions, about what affect it’s had on your life and what you think about it. OK?’