The Judgement Book (28 page)

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 them.

‘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.

Chapter
Twenty-five

H
IS MOBILE RANG A
dozen times before he noticed it. Dan swirled the last of the hypnotic liquid in the bottom of his glass, finished it, smiled contentedly and answered. It was Nigel.

‘Hey, old friend, how you doing? Good to hear from you. I’m just …’

‘Where the hell are you?’ Nigel cut in. ‘We’re due down at the church in a few minutes. Lizzie’s going nuts.’

Dan forced his eyes to focus on the empty glasses in front of him. Three pints and two whiskies. A vague thought drifted through his mind that it wasn’t a bad tally for only an hour’s drinking.

‘What’s the time?’ he managed, trying not to slur.

‘Almost half past three!’

Dan wondered why his friend sounded so agitated. He loosely recalled he had been due to cover some story, but surely it wasn’t going to get in the way of this lovely beer. Something to do with some case he’d been working on, wasn’t that it? It was supposed to be important too. Some corruption thing – some murder? No, that was it, blackmail. Suicide. The Judgement Book. And that was the punch line. He remembered now.

He featured in it.

Dan laughed out loud, making a couple of the men propping up the bar look over. One raised a glass to him and Dan grinned and waved back.

‘Where the hell are you?’ came the irritating voice on the phone again.

‘In the pub mate. In town. In the beautiful pub. It’s warm and cosy and safe and …’

‘Well get out of there and get to the church. And sober up.’

The word “sober” drifted through Dan’s mind. He imagined a battery of anti-aircraft guns blazing away at it, trying to shoot down the dangerous foe. He gazed at a line of horse brasses on the bar’s wall. We had some of those in the pub where I grew up. Pure 1970s’ tat he thought, and giggled. But I used to get extra pocket money for cleaning them, so I shouldn’t knock them. The ones here could do with a polish. I might get a cloth and give them a rub when I get up for my next pint, just for old times’ sake.

The nagging voice was back in his ear. ‘Dan! We’ve got a job to do. Come on man!’

These driven people were such a pain. Damned zealots, continually running around chasing some pointless cause. Always making a fuss. Selfishly trying to distract others from the simple business of enjoying life.

What was the point of anything? He had no partner, no child and soon no job. He was about to become famous – maybe infamous – celebrated in that Judgement Book thing. He’d be all over the newspapers.

Dan giggled again. It would be quite a show. Maybe he could bum a free beer or two by telling the story.

There were always upsides, if you looked hard enough. It was important to maintain a positive attitude.

He should be safely sacked by then. That was good too. Staying here would be far more pleasant than the tedious, mundane routines he’d endured for so long. No need to fight and fight. There was only one certainty in life. You always lose in the end. Better sooner than later. Get it done with.

That was settled then. Good. It had been surprisingly easy. Dan smiled happily. It was time to slip away into blissful oblivion.

A memory of a time he’d once interviewed a recovering alcoholic slipped into his lazy mind. The man had talked about “the slide”. Now Dan knew what he meant. And here he was, sitting at the top of it. What a fine place to be. It was warm and comfortable and the view was getting better by the pint. Time to ease himself gently down.

‘Dan, get moving for God’s sake,’ came the carping voice again. ‘I’ll see you at the church in five minutes. You’d better be there.’

Dan looked down at the bunch of roses on the chair beside him. He ran a finger over a red petal. He had an important question to answer and could do without petty distractions. What beer to have next? That was the wonderful thing about ales. There were so many to choose from. And a whisky too, maybe? Or perhaps not this time. The taste was good, the warming shock of its bite, but he didn’t want to incapacitate himself too soon. He had many more lovely hours of drinking ahead if he paced himself.

He checked his wallet. Damn, he was out of cash. How very inconvenient. Dan looked over at the bar. Tarnished horse brasses, a faded and threadbare burgundy carpet and sticky wooden table tops. It wasn’t the kind of place to take a card. How annoying.

He’d have to get some more money before he could have his next drink. Well, it was a pleasant day outside and a walk to another pub wouldn’t be a bad thing. The beer tasted better with a change of scene. The exercise would burn off a little alcohol and help pace his session too. Dan was about to get up when another man walked in, being pulled by an energetic Alsatian.

The dog looked just like Rutherford. A little smaller perhaps, but remarkably similar. He even had that tongue-hanging-out smiling face. Their mothers and fathers must teach them it as soon as they’re born, along with other useful expressions like the forlorn, “I never get fed or loved” look, so very handy for begging titbits.

A feeling broke through the haze.

His dog. He hadn’t spent any quality time with his beloved dog for far too long. What about that weekend walk on Dartmoor he’d planned? He’d been neglecting Rutherford because of Claire. And where had that got him?

Claire.

Claire.

Fuck Claire.

She could do whatever she liked, but he wouldn’t let his faithful dog down. And he wasn’t letting that bastard blackmailer get the better of him either. He was the one who’d come up with the plan to trap the second Worm. He was going to see it through.

He got up from the chair. His legs wobbled a little, but they were mostly OK. It was only a five-minute walk to Charles Church and he could do with some water to sober him up on the way. But he had no money left.

Dan smiled at the woman behind the bar and traded the roses for a small plastic bottle of mineral water.

It could have been the loving reassurance of the beer, it might have been the angry defiance burning in him, but Dan was sure that in the next couple of hours they were going to catch the other Worm. As he walked fast to the church, he wondered who it would be.

The suspects he’d discussed with Adam formed a procession in his mind. Yvonne Freedman, Linda Cott, Leon Osmond, Father Maguire, Julia Francis, Major Anthony Robinson, Steven Sinclair. Dan found he couldn’t settle on one as his favourite, the most likely accomplice. Somehow, for some reason he didn’t understand, he just knew that whoever it was would soon be caught.

He paused for a second as he rounded the corner of Exeter Street and saw Charles Church. Today, for once, it wasn’t lonely. The green of the roundabout was covered with people, hundreds of them, a multicolour ring of expectant humanity, waiting in the spring sunshine. Most were standing, a few sitting, pointing, some under shades, others sipping from bottles and cans. It was like a crowd waiting for a concert.

The plan was working.

Nigel gave him a friendly scolding, but offered the opportunity for a chat if Dan needed it. He thought he would, but not today. Perhaps over the weekend, or when his feelings had settled down a little. He could still taste the emotions spinning inside him, but he could hold them at bay with the pursuit of the blackmailer. For now …

They would assault him again when the time came. And he knew he was frightened of what they would do to him.

Dan tried to focus on the story, the case, to help block out the echoing thoughts of Claire. They needed a high shot to get a sense of the mass of people surrounding the church. He led Nigel over to the police station and they climbed the steps up to its entrance.

‘Perfect,’ Nigel said. He positioned his tripod and swept the camera back and forth in a couple of pans while Dan counted the numbers. He estimated at least three hundred people had gathered. He wondered how many were detectives.

The ruin itself had been cordoned off, the blue police tape fluttering around it. Uniformed officers patrolled up and down the walls, to make sure no one tried to get inside. Dan noticed another couple of TV crews in the crowd and a line of photographers, Dirty El amongst them. Even from this distance Dan could see he was grinning.

Nigel unhooked the camera and they walked down to the roundabout. A policeman was stopping traffic to let people cross the road to the church. It was like a circus. Roll up, roll up, come see the show. Watch the true-life drama unfold, and all for free.

It was just before four, almost time for Adam to make his appearance. Nigel hauled the camera onto his shoulder and filmed some shots of the police cordon and close-ups of the expectant faces of the people around them. Dan’s gaze drifted over the crowd. How did you spot a blackmailer in this lot? Everyone looked absolutely ordinary. Couples, families, older people, children. The person they wanted was obviously clever and wouldn’t just give himself or herself away.

He started to doubt whether they would even come at all. Why not just avoid the risk and watch it on the TV later? Claire forced her way back into his mind too, joining forces with his other fears. Dan screwed up his eyes, tried to blink them away.

The sun was high in the sky and the day was hot. Most of the people wore sunglasses and hats. That was going to make spotting the blackmailer even more difficult. A few groups of families and friends had sat down on the grass and a couple even munched away at sandwiches. Dan felt a tug of hunger. He was surprised how quickly he’d sobered up. His mind felt clear and sharp, ready for what the next few hours might bring.

Nigel finished his close-ups and they pushed their way back through the throng, up the bank, to the edge of the grass. It was higher here, giving them a clear view of the church and the crowd around it. They could see into the ruin through some of the open arches of the windows. Perfect. They would be able to film anything that happened anywhere on the green. The other TV crews came to join them, as did several of the photographers. The pack mentality always tended to bring them together. Journalists were paranoid creatures.

In just a few minutes the crowd had grown noticeably, as ever some people leaving it to the last minute to get to the show. A young couple, hand in hand, ran across the road, zig-zagging through the traffic, hurried on by the blaring of car horns. There must be at least five hundred people surrounding the church now, few gaps in the tightness of the packed mass.

‘Alert!’ yelped Nigel, and Dan sprung to his side to avoid the wheeling camera. The rest of the line of lenses spun too, following Nigel’s lead. Adam was crossing the road to the roundabout, behind him a couple of uniformed officers and two white-overalled forensic technicians. Arthur was one, but Dan didn’t recognise the other. In the distance, clear above the rumble of traffic, the bells of St Andrew’s Church struck the hour. It was exactly four o’clock.

The procession pushed their way slowly through the crowd, every curious face turning to watch them. Many held up cameras and mobile phones, taking photographs and videos. A policeman lifted the tape and they marched into the interior of the church. They stared at the plaque for a few minutes and there was some discussion and pointing. Dan knew it was all an act, but it looked convincing. Around him, everyone was intent on the performance.

A series of plastic sheets were laid down beneath the plaque, the group stood back and there was more pointing and conversation. The two technicians walked forwards, began making a play of examining it, fingers probing the smooth metal edges, faces pressed to the stone wall. Dan heard the whirr of the camera’s motor beside his ear as Nigel zoomed in his shot.

Dan counted the minutes, wondering at how slowly they passed. For every one that ticked by he imagined himself and Adam being eased ever closer to the end of their careers. At seven o’clock the Book would be released. They had less than three hours. Claire too stalked the fringes of his mind, one hand protecting her swollen stomach but her head held high, never looking at him.

Around him some people sat down on the grass, stretched out, settled to watch the scene inside the church. Dan tried sitting too, then quickly stood up again. Relaxing was not an option. He shifted a foot back and forth, tapped at the odd daisy, scratched tetchily at an itch on his back. The time passed slowly with the drag of expectancy.

For half an hour, the technicians dusted away at the plaque and picked around its sides. Arthur got down on his hands and knees and crawled around on the flagstones beneath it, his hands scouring the smooth surface. Adam stood back, arms folded, watching. Occasionally he would look round and scan the crowd.

Dan noticed a series of men and women walking slowly amongst the onlookers, stopping occasionally as if to gaze at the church. CID he thought, they must be. There’d be others, standing back from the crowd and probably some overlooking the area from the police station too. From where he stood with Nigel they could see all around the church. There was no hint of anything suspicious.

A rumble of conversation buzzed through the crowd. People were turning to their neighbours, exchanging excited whispers, some pointing. The technicians had begun unscrewing the plaque, slowly, painstakingly. It was a little looser on the wall now and they held it, checked the gap behind, probing it with tiny brushes. Dan had a sense of the people around him craning their necks to get a better look. Most had gone quiet. They could feel the moment was coming.

If only they knew.

Dan looked over at Dirty El. The photographer had his camera trained unerringly on the technicians. He stood perfectly still. That would be the shot that told the story, the golden picture, the one that sold. The moment the technicians removed the plaque and held up the Judgement Book. El wouldn’t risk missing it, not even by daring to wipe his sweating face.

‘I wish they’d get on with it,’ whispered Nigel. ‘I take it we want to get this on tonight?’

‘Yep,’ was all Dan could reply. His throat was dry and he felt too tense to manage anything else.

It was just past five. They were on air at half past six. Time was growing tight. He knew Adam would eke out the operation for as long as he could, until he thought there was no chance left for an arrest. But how much longer could that possibly be? Some of the crowd had already grown bored and begun drifting away.