The Judgement Book (15 page)

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t believe it – it can’t be …’

She nodded. ‘It is. It’s true.’

‘You’re serious – I can’t believe it … it can’t be … it’s …’

Dan hesitated, couldn’t find the words. Finally, he spluttered, ‘It’s … it’s cancer, isn’t it? You’re dying. Please don’t tell me you’re dying. Please, no, please. It can be cured, can’t it? Don’t say you’re dying.’

She looked at him and seemed to laugh, a breathless, disbelieving noise. He just stared, uncomprehending. Her hands ran over his and gripped them hard.

‘No. No, I’m not dying. Quite the opposite. I’m full of life.’

‘What?’ Dan put his hands on her shoulders. ‘What?!’ He couldn’t hide his bafflement and alarm. ‘What? I don’t understand. Tell me! Please, tell me!’

She reached out and wrapped her arms around him, held him close. He felt her take a deep breath, then another. She was shaking and her voice trembled.

‘Dan, I’m pregnant. Pregnant.’

The words seemed to bounce around his mind, flashing in bright neon pink and green, always elusive, floating just in front of him, lingering for hours before he could finally stretch out to catch them, hold them, examine them and understand what they meant.

Later, in the countless times he thought back on the moment, Dan could only compare it to being hit by an avalanche, a solid wall of sweeping emotion. It rendered him utterly helpless, numbed and paralysed with its power. It was a defining moment in his life. Nothing would ever be the same again.

It was one of those rare seconds when his universe changed for ever. He saw the stars spin around him, and felt the world and all its billions of people stop to stare at him and Claire, cuddled into the corner of a sofa in a small first-floor flat in Plymouth. There was no sound, no motion, nothing, just a second eternally stilled in time.

Later, he also rued how appallingly he handled it.

‘Blimey,’ was all he managed. ‘Blimey,’ he gasped. ‘Is it mine?’

She stared at him, her mouth opening. He wished more than ever at that moment he could fly and grab the words back from the air, swallow them and erase them from existence.

Claire burst out laughing, her face suddenly shining through the tears. ‘Yes, you idiot,’ she said kindly. ‘Of course it’s yours. He’s yours, in fact. I think it’s a boy.’

‘Blimey,’ Dan repeated. ‘Blimey. I need a drink.’ He got up and walked over to the kitchen. He noticed his legs were wobbling and seemed to be only partially under his control. She watched him, shaking her head, but smiling.

‘Actually, what I probably mean is I need a cuddle,’ he said, walking unsteadily back and taking her into his arms again. ‘I mean, you need a cuddle. Or we both do. Yes, that’s what I mean.’

‘That’s better,’ she sighed into his neck. Her breath was hot and she was still shaking. ‘God I was so nervous about telling you. I’ve been trying, but you didn’t pick up the hints.’

‘What hints?’

She sighed. ‘Never mind.’

They cuddled, held each other tight. Claire started crying again, the warm tears seeping through the shoulder of Dan’s shirt. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed meshed together. He seemed to have lost any sense of time. Nothing felt real. It was a waking dream. He tried to force his brain to think about what she’d said, but it was blank.

‘Did Adam know?’ Dan asked finally, remembering how the detective had questioned his emotional intelligence.

Claire leaned back against the sofa and dabbed at her eyes with another tissue.

‘I think so.’

‘So I was the only one to miss it.’

‘Don’t blame yourself. Adam’s got experience of having a kid. You haven’t. Plus you’ve been wrapped up in the blackmail case. Don’t worry about it. You know now. That’s the main thing.’

Dan could feel a familiar burgeoning annoyance with himself.

‘It must have been horribly lonely for you, bearing it on your own. I’m so sorry I missed it.’

‘No, it’s fine. Forget it. You know now. That’s all that’s important.’

Dan reached out and ran a gentle hand over Claire’s stomach. She watched him, then placed her hand over his and held it there.

‘How pregnant are you?’

‘I don’t know. Probably only a few weeks I think, but I’m not sure. I’ll have to see a doctor to check.’

They both stared at her stomach.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ managed Dan finally.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ she replied, stroking his forehead. ‘I’m fine and I feel so much better for having told you. Tonight I think we should just try to relax, have something to eat and we can talk about it when it’s sunk in.’

‘OK,’ replied Dan, standing up. ‘But you stay there. I’ll sort the food out, and …’

‘And don’t think you have to wrap me up in cotton wool,’ she interrupted. ‘I don’t need molly-coddling. I’m pregnant, not terminally ill.’

She got up and found the take-away menu. It was in a drawer Dan had already checked. They ordered a Chinese. On the phone, Dan managed not to ask whether there were any ingredients or additives which could be harmful to an unborn child. He also stopped himself questioning whether Claire should drink the tiny glass of wine she poured for herself. They sat and watched a film, held hands throughout and didn’t talk about it any more that evening.

Dan had expected to suffer a restless night. His mind should be full of the news, buzzing with what it meant and what they should do. But he slept deep and easily and dreamt of playing football in the park with a boisterous eight-year-old with dark hair, an unpredictable temperament, a pronounced and immensely irritating selfish streak and dreadful egotism.

In essence, a boy very much like his father.

Chapter Fifteen

D
AN SCARCELY RECOGNISED IT
as a Monday morning. He didn’t feel the familiar, tedious lethargy of the return to routine after the weekend, the struggle to find time for food shopping, ironing shirts and trousers. None of that mattered. It didn’t even register in his mind.

In that moment, in Claire’s flat last night, the world had been transformed. It looked the same, but it felt new. He struggled to take his eyes from Claire’s stomach. All he could see was her. Everything else was blurred, a meaningless background. She caught his look and gave him a brief, sideways smile.

It was eight o’clock and they stood in the MIR, drinking the pungent canteen tea and discussing the day ahead. Adam wanted to talk about the interview with Julia Francis, but Dan was finding it hard to concentrate on anything except Claire. He longed to reach out and place a protective arm around her wherever she went.

His mind still hadn’t come up with any sensible thoughts about what her pregnancy meant and what they would do about it. But that wasn’t bothering him. He felt adrift in a gentle tide of easy contentment, a valium dream. The coming day, the interview with the solicitor, even Lizzie’s call earlier to demand a follow-up on yesterday’s story, none of that mattered. All he could see was Claire and his son growing inside her.

‘I don’t expect to get much from Francis,’ Adam was saying. ‘But we’ve got to try. She’s a link between Osmond and Linda, although she says she didn’t know Freedman. She’ll hide behind client confidentiality, but we’ll give it a go.’

A plane droned by in the sky above the city. Dan looked out at the lines of cars, commuters queuing dutifully to get to a place almost all probably didn’t want to go. He wondered what percentage of people actually liked their jobs. Not high, probably.

The ruined church stood to welcome them with its loneliness. A couple of crows perched on the edge of the tower, scornfully watching the mundane rituals of the human world. Dan’s eyes wandered up to the plane. It was small, just a single propeller engine. A banner trailed behind it. One of those promoting a new bar or car dealership, he suspected. It had become fashionable to advertise by air.

Dan squinted to look at it, then stared. He blinked, looked again.

‘Adam,’ he said slowly. ‘Adam!’

‘Yes,’ snapped the detective, looking up from a sheaf of papers. ‘I’m busy. Is it urgent?’

‘I think you should come and look at this.’

‘What?’

‘It’s easier if you just look.’

Adam put the papers down heavily and walked over to the window. Dan pointed to the plane. He said quietly, ‘I think we’ve just found out how the Worm planned to expose Osmond.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Adam gasped. ‘Claire, get on to Plymouth air traffic control and get that plane down. I want to talk to the pilot.’

Claire picked up a phone, still staring at the plane. The banner trailed behind it, shining in the morning sun, bold black letters on shimmering white plastic. Dan could imagine the thousands of eyes looking up at it and wondered what they must be thinking of the message.

SUPERINTENDENT LEON OSMOND DRINK DRIVER

Dan followed Adam into Julia Francis’s small, modern office. It was stacked with books, all in orderly rows and piles and smelt of pine air-freshener. A couple of prints hung on the walls, colourful geometric intertwinings of lines of cats, backs arched, tails erect, smiling out into the room. There was also a small photo of a Siamese cat on the solicitor’s desk.

It was a familiar theme. Dan could count three cat-obsessed women with whom he’d had brief relationships. All lived alone, apart from their pet, and every single one talked to and treated the lucky feline more like a close relative than an animal. Naturally, the slightest of attempts to expose such ridiculousness – usually in an attempt to win some well-deserved attention for himself – would be greeted with disdain, if not horror.

One particular house had excelled in its felinity. There were pictures of the cat on the mantelpiece, by the side of the bed too, and assorted feline paraphernalia scattered around the house, from cat door-knockers to cat welcome mats, cat corkscrews, cat ornaments, even a cat duvet.

Dan had made a point of ensuring that particular relationship didn’t last.

He was about to begin enjoying a familiar superiority complex when that annoying corner of his mind which he presumed housed his conscience whispered a sly suggestion. What about Rutherford? The creature Dan always thought of as his best friend. The only one he could ever really rely on. Who was always loyal. Of whom he had countless photos.

The nag of self-awareness could be so irritating.

Julia Francis stood up from behind her desk to shake their hands. It was one of the most reluctant gestures Dan thought he had ever seen. Her chubby fingers stretched out quickly, made a brief, transient contact, and were immediately withdrawn. He noticed she wore no rings and her fingernails were short and bitten down.

Her desk was clinically tidy, no human disorder to soften its austerity, and her appearance matched it. Dan had first thought of her as like a matron, but without the kindliness, and that image stuck with him.

She wore a plain black suit with an equally plain white blouse, had short blonde hair, greying over her ears, and pale, watery blue eyes which rarely blinked. Her features were sharp and severe, her face prematurely lined. She radiated hostility.

Facing her felt akin to standing in the path of an enemy tank.

Francis opened her attack before even they’d sat down. ‘Chief Inspector, is it usual to arrive for an interview in a criminal investigation with a journalist in tow?’

‘Dan’s been co-opted onto the inquiry,’ said Adam levelly. ‘It’s a case which has attracted great media interest and he’s helping me handle it. He understands that all he witnesses is confidential.’

Francis stared at him, said frostily, ‘Well, I’m not happy with him being here. And given what I have to say to you in a moment, you may prefer for us to be alone.’

Adam held her look. ‘Thank you for your advice. However, how I conduct my investigations is my business. He stays. Now, regarding Linda Cott and Leon Osmond.’

‘Very well, Chief Inspector, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Not that it matters. As I have said, I won’t be able to help you. Discussions with my clients naturally have the protection of law in their confidentiality.’

‘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.