The Judgement Book (18 page)

‘How can I help you then?’ Dan asked.

‘I could do with getting out of the office for a while and fancied a chat. How do you feel about lunch?’

‘Great.’ A prowling Lizzie meant it would be a very good time to exit the newsroom. ‘See you in a while. The Ginger Judge?’

‘Done.’

On the drive down to town, a car pulled out in front of him and Dan hit the horn and swore. The man waved two fingers out of an open window as he drove off, and Dan responded in kind, winding down his window and shouting too. He surprised himself. He wouldn’t normally react that sharply to something so petty, prided himself on rising above the chavvish and thuggish behaviour he was convinced was becoming more common.

He was angry with himself, he thought. He felt as though he had betrayed Rutherford. It didn’t need to be that way. If he and Claire were going to have this baby, they’d have to buy a house big enough for the two of them, the child and Rutherford too. They could afford it. It might not be in the area they’d most like, but it would have to do.

That word again – if. If they were going to have this baby. What did he mean, if? Yesterday, it was when, not if. Was he thinking now they might make a different decision?

Dan braked hard as he realised the lights on a pedestrian crossing had turned red. He’d hardly noticed the drive into town. A young woman crossing the road held the hands of two young children. She shot him an accusing stare.

He passed the library where the joyriders had crashed. A vision of that knife formed again in his mind, but this time the man was pointing it at Claire’s bulging stomach, the tip just inches from the distended flesh. She held up her hands, begging him not to harm the unborn child, but he was smiling, enjoying his power, edging the blade forwards, almost touching her skin. Dan saw himself watching, paralysed by the sight, unable to do anything, only look.

He reached out and turned on the radio, slid the volume up loud. Music boomed from the car’s speakers. He tried to concentrate on it, follow the beat. Shut the thought out, anything to force it away.

Dan parked the car on the street behind the courts, got out and bought a ticket. The parking charges had gone up again and he cursed the council as he fumbled in his pocket for change. More red anger enveloped him at having to overpay by twenty pence. It was such a con, the machines not giving change, just another way to extort money from hapless motorists.

He had to sit on a bench for a couple of minutes to calm himself before he went to meet Adam. Dan counted the branches on the chestnut tree in the graveyard behind him and watched the snowy mountains of cloud drift past.

The detective was waiting in the corner of the Ginger Judge. Sarah had given them their usual table. Dan picked up a bunch of newspapers from the rack by the bar and sat down. He handed a couple to Adam and they leafed through. The blackmailer case was prominent in the headlines, this time accompanied by pictures of the plane and its banner superimposed on photographs of Osmond standing by his car.

All the pictures were credited to Ellis Hughes. Dan could imagine the photographer doing a little dance and improvising one of those strange limericks of his. He must have made thousands of pounds.

‘Never a hint to anyone whatsoever about how you found out where Osmond lived,’ whispered Adam. ‘If word gets out that it came from me, it would be a sacking offence.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Dan. ‘I won’t let on. You’ve told me worse before and I’ve never said a word to anyone about where it’s come from.’

He reminisced about some of the other tricks they’d pulled, not noticing Adam’s growing frown.

‘That stuff about the serial rapist for example, that was far, far worse,’ Dan went on. ‘And what happened to him, and why. That would have landed us in court if it’d ever come out …’

Adam interrupted quickly. ‘OK, enough said. I’ve been trying to forget about that, however much he deserved it.’

He sat back and ran his hand over the spread of newspapers. ‘It worked, getting the picture of Osmond in the press. He’s almost forgotten his complaint against me and is going for the newspapers instead. He’s talking about suing them for breach of privacy.’

‘How did the High Honchos react to him being on the news?’

The flicker of a smile crossed Adam’s face. ‘Remarkably calmly. I got a call from the Deputy Chief asking if I’d seen your report.’

‘And?’

‘I said I’d caught some of it.’

‘What did he think?’

‘He just said, “I suppose the media do what they do.”’

‘Which is true.’

‘Yep.’

‘And sounds like Osmond’s got no great support from on high.’

‘Yep. He’s proving an embarrassment to the force, and quite a few of the High Honchos are young and ambitious, so I don’t think I need worry too much about Osmond.’

Sarah bustled up and made a fuss of them, even complimenting Adam on his tie. She was a fine hostess, the kind you rarely got now. Most pubs were so industrial. You went in, ordered a beer or some food, sat, ate and drank and left. It was production line leisure, processing people without the input of any humanity. Having someone who knew your name and wanted to have a little chat made such a difference.

‘Have you seen all that?’ Sarah asked, pointing to the newspapers. ‘What a scandal. Everyone’s talking about it. Are you still working on the case?’

‘Yep,’ said Adam, sipping at his beer.

‘Have you got him yet?’

‘Not yet,’ the detective replied. ‘But I will.’

‘Good,’ replied Sarah, crouching down next to them. Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘That poor Mr Osmond. He came in here a lot you know.’

‘Really?’ said Adam, suddenly sounding interested. ‘Was he in over Christmas at all? Can you remember?’

Sarah gave him a mock frown. ‘Of course. I remember all my customers. Yes, he came in several times over Christmas, usually with that lovely wife of his. And Mr Freedman too. A very kind man he was. Always left a good tip.’

‘Really?’ Adam replied. ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but you might have some information which could be important. When the lunchtime rush is over, can we have a chat? I’d be interested to know who they were with, who was sitting near them, and what they were talking about.’

‘Me? Some information?’ Sarah sounded surprised. ‘Of course, if I can help in any way I will.’

Adam nodded. ‘After lunch though,’ he said meaningfully. ‘I’m starving.’

Sarah took the hint and brought them a pair of menus. Dan scanned through his, then got up to look at the Specials board behind the bar. Chicken pie, some salad that he edited from his sight, scallops and roast pig.

‘That’s an unusual description, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Roast pig?’

‘All local and very popular, Dan. We serve it cold with chips or salad. But I’m afraid we’re out of it.’

Another little irritant for his day, thought Dan. When life wasn’t running your way it really did so with style. He ordered sausage and mash instead. Adam had another mixed grill. Brain food, he explained. Dan tried not to glance at his friend’s stomach. He was sure Adam was putting on weight. It was something that often happened when he was in the middle of a big case. There was little spare time for healthy eating or exercise. It was remarkable how fast it could happen when you reached a certain age.

The bar was about half full, plenty of lawyers again, but more than a few lunching ladies too. The wooden floor was strewn with a minefield of shopping bags. The sounds of a busker blasting away on a harmonica drifted from outside.

Adam began talking about something to do with a family birthday he must remember to get a card for, but Dan couldn’t quite concentrate on what he was saying. Something was bothering him, nagging at his consciousness, distracting his thoughts. Claire again? More guilt about Rutherford? He didn’t think it was any of that, but the inkling wouldn’t go away, sat annoyingly on the edge of his mind, just out of reach.

‘Err, what, sorry?’ he said.

‘I said, I was thinking it could be useful, talking to Sarah,’ repeated Adam, tapping the table to make Dan concentrate. ‘The Worm might have somehow overheard conversations his victims were having. Perhaps he even found a way to bug them.’

Dan frowned. ‘A bit far fetched, isn’t it? How? Slip some sort of bug into a pocket, or bag? It sounds too Hollywood for me. And how do you choose the likely victims anyway, not to mention get close enough to them to do it?’

‘Ah, you’re probably right. I didn’t really believe it. But I do think that if we can find the link between the victims we’re almost there.’

‘Sure. But where is the link? That’s the problem, isn’t it? We don’t have a link between them, or not all three of them anyway.’

Adam sighed. ‘Let’s leave it for now. I could do with talking about something else.’

Sarah brought their food. People had been slipping in through the door in their ones and twos and the pub was almost full. Dan was amused to see almost all the lawyers had bottles of mineral water on their tables. It was the fashion of the moment, a politically correct eschewing of alcohol. He and Adam hadn’t hesitated to get themselves a couple of pints of ale. He wondered if journalists and detectives would be the last to change. He certainly hoped so. For him, political correctness was a target for attack, never aspiration.

Delicious scented steam wafted up from their plates and again Dan felt his stomach growl. He reached into the hexagonal wooden pot, fixed to the side of the table, to get a knife and fork and handed a set to Adam. His own slipped from his grip and dislodged something in the pot so it hung from the inside lip.

Dan leaned over to see what it was. The object was tiny, a black plastic oblong, the size of a pen nib. A thin black wire trailed from it down to the bottom of the pot. He carefully traced the wire, then pushed a finger down on the base. It shifted slightly under his touch. He did it again and levered up the wood. It was a false bottom. Underneath was a small, metallic box, about half the size and thickness of a cigarette packet. The wire from the plastic oblong led into one side. A dot of green light glowed from its edge.

Dan stared at it, baffled. He knew well what it was, used one almost every day. It was a radio microphone, a low powered, short range transmitter ideal for a reporter to walk around and talk, unencumbered by cables, while a receiver on the back of the camera picked up his words.

He felt his body go cold and sat back, rigid on his chair. It was a feeling that had become so delightfully familiar, since he first experienced it, back on the Edward Bray case. The sacred Epiphany moment. From blank incomprehension to beautiful understanding in an instant.

Adam looked up from his plate. ‘You OK?’ he managed through a mouthful of pork chop. ‘Not feeling hungry? You look pale.’

‘I’m fine – just fine,’ stammered Dan.

His mind spun, churning up ideas. He checked through them, again and again, kept probing, kept testing. Each time the answer came back the same. It made sense, he was sure of it. He was about to look round, say something to Adam, but stopped himself. Dan knew that if his vision was correct he had to cap his excitement and act naturally.

He forced himself to pick up his knife and fork and take a mouthful of mashed potato. He was vaguely aware it was hot, but didn’t taste it. His eyes seemed unable to focus on the food. He kept staring at the cutlery pot. He made himself breathe deeply and try to be calm.

Dan allowed himself a casual look around the pub. There was no sign of Sarah. She was probably in the kitchens. Had she been in the pub when he and Adam were talking about the blackmail case earlier? When they’d discussed Osmond, or the rapist investigation? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure.

Was that as significant as he now thought it might be?

He cut off a piece of sausage and dunked it into the gravy. He had to tame his racing excitement or he’d give himself away.

‘Mmm, good sausage,’ he managed.

‘Great mixed grill,’ agreed Adam. ‘Just what I needed.’

Dan looked back at the hexagonal wooden pot. Was what he was thinking right? Surely it was ridiculous. But didn’t it add up?

He took a sip of his beer and ate some more mashed potato. A drip of gravy plopped onto the wooden table, but he didn’t notice. Dan made himself think, slowly and carefully.

‘You sure you’re OK?’ asked Adam, who was now attacking a chicken breast. ‘You’re not eating very fast.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just taking it easy and enjoying it.’

Dan stared at his food as the ideas tumbled through his mind. He looked around again, more carefully this time. Still no sign of Sarah. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She could be in the kitchens, or looking after a delivery.

He craned his neck to see the Specials board. Roasted pig. It had been some ham dish when Linda had thrown herself from the cliff. And fried local shark when Freedman had killed himself. It was disgusting, crass, ridiculous, but – but, he was convinced he was right.

Two pigs and a fried shark. A sick gloat.

How was he going to tell Adam? He had to know and now, but without blowing it. If he was right, this was the moment they could catch the blackmailer in the act.

Dan chewed on another piece of sausage and swallowed. He fumbled in his satchel and found a piece of paper and a pen, began writing.

URGENT!! Say NOTHING, this is deadly serious. I think we’re being BUGGED. Just keep eating and act normally, OK?

He checked around again. Still no hint of Sarah. Dan casually slipped the piece of paper across the table to Adam and ate some more mashed potato. The detective read it and looked up, his eyes widening. He frowned, tilted his head quizzically and Dan nodded slightly.

He took another sip of his beer and wrote more words.

Get a squad of cops here. Go OUTSIDE to do it. Make some excuse about remembering something urgent.

Adam read again and stared at him. Dan quickly scribbled more words.

URGENT! Trust me!! Do it NOW!

Adam finished a chunk of lamb, stood up.

‘I’ve just remembered there’s something I need to check on,’ he said. ‘I’m going outside to make a quick call.’