The Judgement Book (17 page)

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

D
AN 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.

Dan whistled softly under his breath. It was an evisceration in print.

‘A couple of developments from our background checks,’ Adam continued. ‘Father Maguire has suddenly become more interesting to us. He’s got a criminal record, for burglary.’

‘What?’ asked Dan, more than a little surprised. ‘Really?’

Claire opened a box file, found a couple of sheets of paper. ‘It’s from before he became a priest. When he was in his twenties. He had some family bereavement – his dad, I think – and went off the rails. Got involved in drugs, starting burgling homes to support his habit.’

‘Blimey,’ Dan said. ‘Who’d have thought it? About him, and, well …’

His words faltered. Their eyes again crept to the photograph of Linda.

‘What happened to Maguire afterwards?’ Dan asked quickly.

‘He was spared jail,’ said Claire. ‘Did some community work, found God and the church. There’s no further hint of wrongdoing. Quite the reverse in fact. No one’s got a bad word to say about him. He’s noted for being a caring and compassionate priest.’

‘But,’ said Adam pointedly. ‘But …’

Dan nodded. ‘He’s got form – as I believe you lot say.’

‘Yep.’

‘A possible means of getting information he could use for blackmail. From the confessional for Freedman and Linda, if not Osmond.’

‘If he’s been telling us the truth,’ said Adam. ‘If.’

‘And a motive?’

‘Don’t know – yet.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Well, his little misdemeanours were a long time ago, and he might well have left them all behind. But we keep it in mind. See what else happens, whether we need to talk to him again.’

The door opened and a couple of detectives walked in, greeted them and settled at the line of computers at the back of the MIR.

‘Anything else?’ Dan asked. ‘It sounds like there’s plenty to go at.’

Claire opened another folder. ‘We’ve done some work on the clues we’ve broken so far. “Open original memorial.” All we managed to come up with were plaques commemorating the Queen’s Silver and Golden Jubilees – assuming the Silver is the original memorial, and the Gold the newer one, and the sailing of the Mayflower to the New World. As you know, the Mayflower steps, where the Pilgrim Fathers set off from, have been moved a couple of times, hence more than one memorial. But neither idea gave us anything.’

‘There was one other thing,’ Adam said. ‘It came from our checks on Julia Francis.’

‘Who you gleefully told she was a suspect. You didn’t really mean that, did you?’ Dan asked.

‘Not really. But I had her checked, just in case. Her background’s more interesting than I suspected. Her family are from South Africa. Her father was a prominent anti-apartheid campaigner. He was imprisoned several times, and died in jail. The family escaped to England afterwards. It seems young Julia took up the law because of what happened to her Dad. She’s a prominent supporter of Freedom, the civil liberties group, and does a lot of legal work for them, all for free apparently.’

Dan wondered whether to say it, but thought he would anyway. ‘Which might explain why she took exception to your interview technique.’

He readied himself for the retaliation, but was surprised when it didn’t come.

‘It may indeed,’ Adam replied quietly. He looked almost abashed. Dan could see he was reconsidering his view of Julia Francis. It was as evident as an old-fashioned computer, a pattern of lights flashing on its frontage to indicate a program was running.

Claire got up from her desk, opened a window. A welcome breeze slipped around them, easing the room’s stuffiness.

‘What about the banner on the plane?’ Dan asked. ‘Any luck with that?’

‘No,’ said Claire. ‘It was commissioned and made at the same time as the bill poster which exposed Freedman, paid for in cash and delivered by the company to the pilot. When I asked if it might seem odd to them, putting that drink-driving message on to a banner no one batted an eyelid. They’ve had much worse. They’ve made and flown banners about unfaithful husbands and wives, cheating business partners, you name it. Revenge is good business, apparently.’

Dan itched again at his back. He glanced down at his mobile phone. So far no call from Lizzie, but it was early. He knew she’d want another story today and he was wondering what he had to offer. Not much, given this briefing. There were some fascinating titbits, but nothing Adam would allow him to report. Not yet, anyway.

‘So what do we do next?’ he asked.

Adam shrugged. ‘We wait. Probably for the next blackmail note, to see if that takes us anywhere.’

Dan remembered the news stands he’d passed on his way to Charles Cross. They were full of headlines about the blackmailer.

‘I bet we won’t wait long,’ he said. ‘The abuse you hurled at the Worm in the press conference, I’m sure he’ll want to react. It feels to me like the person we’re after is very proud of what he’s doing. He’s not going to take it lightly, you suggesting he’s some kind of common criminal and inadequate.’

Adam yawned. ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘I feel like we’re treading water, waiting for something to happen. And it’s bloody frustrating.’

Dan drove back to the studios, his mind full of the briefing. There were lots of tantalising possibilities, but no hard leads. His legs ached and he could still sense a lingering fatigue. He would have welcomed a lie in bed this morning. Still, he’d seen Claire and now felt more content about their relationship. Those worries about how they’d ever look after a child remained on the outskirts of his mind, but at least they’d quietened.

He peered through the porthole window of the newsroom door before walking in. Lizzie was at her desk, working on the computer. He craned his neck to see her shoes and got a pleasant surprise. Low heels today, probably only a couple of inches.

‘You got a story for us then?’ she asked as he walked in. She sounded remarkably jovial. Dan noticed she was sporting a new silver bracelet. Unusual. She didn’t wear much jewellery.

‘Not at the moment. The detectives are investigating a series of leads and I’ll hear if anything comes up.’

He didn’t like lying at the best of times, and found it even more difficult with Lizzie. She had laser eyes, could see straight through him. Dan looked around for a distraction, spotted the corner of a greetings card sticking out of her bag.

‘Happy birthday, by the way,’ he added, trying to sound nonchalant, as though he’d planned to say it all along.

‘You remembered!’ Lizzie sounded genuinely touched. ‘Thanks, that’s kind of you. Men are usually so hopeless about things like that.’

‘It’s never a good move to forget your boss’s birthday.’ Dan began edging away, towards his desk. Time to quit while he was ahead. ‘I wish you a good one.’

‘Thanks,’ she said again. ‘A present of a story would be nice.’

‘No promises today, but I’ll see what I can do.’

He was surprised she let that go. It was almost worth a story in itself. She must be feeling mellow.

Dan spent a dull morning answering emails and filling in two month’s worth of expenses. He’d clocked up four hundred pounds when he gave up, and was sure he was owed at least another couple of hundred more. He’d never got the hang of paperwork – far too tedious for a limited lifespan – but sometimes that could be costly.

He found himself doing a couple of internet searches for babysitters, nannies and playgroups in Plymouth. There were scores. How would they ever choose which to use? You didn’t just entrust your child to anyone. A recommendation from a friend would be the best way, but it wasn’t something he was going to raise with anyone just yet.

He was about to type in “animal rescue homes” too, but stopped himself. He could scarcely believe it. Was he really considering that he might have to find another home for Rutherford? Never, he would never do that. Rutherford had been a loyal friend through some difficult times and Dan resolved he would never allow himself to even consider losing him. Never.

His stomach growled. The newsroom clock said ten past twelve. He began thinking about braving the canteen for lunch when his mobile rang. Adam.

‘Hello mate,’ said Dan, excited. ‘You got something? A breakthrough?’

‘Nothing like it.’ Adam sounded flat, dispirited. ‘We’re checking everything we can think of, doggers and all, but at the moment we’re not getting anywhere.’

Dan tried to keep his eyes away from Lizzie. He could hear her voice cutting across the newsroom. She was berating a producer for his sloppy use of English. A sharpened fingernail jabbed at the air. Her charitable mood of earlier hadn’t lasted. It wouldn’t be long before she was hovering, hounding him for a story. “I want, I want, I want …”