The Judgement Book (3 page)

‘And there’s a rumour going round about that MP, Freedman,’ he continued. ‘Some sort of sex scandal brewing, so I’m going to do a bit of the famous Dirty El sniffing. It’d be big money if I could stand that one up.’

‘It certainly would,’ mused Dan. ‘He’s made quite a play of going for the family vote. Let me know if you get anything. It’d make a great story for the TV too. How’s the rest of life? Anything else interesting?’

‘Not really. You?’

Dan had been shifting the conversation to that question. He hesitated. For days now, he’d been wondering how to break the news to El. The photographer was his best friend. They were drinking and working buddies, had been through difficult times together and between them covered some of the biggest stories the South-west had seen. The conversation they were about to have felt bizarrely as if Dan was telling El he was leaving him for someone else.

A young couple walked in, made for the bar. The pub was about half full, a few spaces left on its wooden benches and the odd smaller table. It was a local of the kind of which few were left now, untouched by the insatiable hunger of the big chains and genuinely battered from the passing years, not fitted out with the fashionably worn look which never came close to convincing.

‘I made a big decision last week,’ Dan said slowly, leaning back on the knotted bench. ‘Well, I say I, but I mean we.’ He paused again. ‘In future I may not be quite the bachelor, out-on-the-beer type that you’ve always known.’

El looked surprised. ‘You’re not – getting married?’ He managed to make it sound like Dan had a terminal illness, and only days left. ‘Having – a baby?’

Dan chuckled, couldn’t help himself. ‘No, it’s not quite that bad. Claire and I have decided to buy a house. We’re going to have a shot at living together.’

The photographer rubbed his double chin. ‘Well – err – congratulations.’

Dan wondered if he’d ever heard the words sound less sincere. Unusually for him, El seemed to notice his tactlessness and tried to make amends, although not altogether successfully.

‘Congratulations … I suppose.’

The two men looked at each other. For once, El was silent.

‘Don’t worry,’ Dan went on. ‘I’ll still be out for a few beers now and then, and we’ll keep working together. I won’t be one of these guys who disappears into a relationship and dumps his friends. I’ve lost too many mates like that. It’s pathetic.’

El nodded. ‘Sure. I know that. I suppose I just didn’t ever see you settling down.’

‘I’m not sure I did myself. But anyway …’

Dan’s mobile warbled, interrupting him. He fished it out from his jeans pocket, got a surprise. Adam’s name was flashing on the display. He and Dan had become close friends after the series of cases they’d worked on together, from the shotgun murder of the businessman Edward Bray, to the riddle of the Death Pictures, then last year the extraordinary days that led them to Dartmoor, and the horror of Evil Valley.

Dan shivered, despite the bar’s warmth. He didn’t want to go back there. Working with the police on investigations had become a fascinating new world. It was only in that last inquiry that he’d learnt the savage reality of just how traumatic it could be.

He knew the call was trouble before he answered it. Adam wasn’t a man to ring for a friendly chat.

‘I’ve got a big case breaking,’ the detective said quickly, sounding harassed. ‘In fact, it’s going to be huge. This is a quick tip-off to let you know, and because I get this feeling I’ll need your help – again. The media’s going to be all over it.’

‘Go on,’ said Dan, fumbling for a pen and piece of paper.

‘This didn’t come from me.’

‘As ever and always.’

‘Will Freedman, high-flying local MP.’

‘Uh huh,’ mumbled Dan, balancing the phone under his chin while he tried to write. He motioned to El to finish his pint. The photographer nodded and drained the glass.

‘He’s dead. Topped himself at his home.’

‘Suicide you say? That’s a decent story, but it’s not huge. It happens.’

There was a pause. The mobile line hummed.

‘Yeah, but not when his death appears to be connected to a bizarre bomb hoax. And not when he seems to have been driven to it by a blackmailer who knows some dynamite sex scandal about him. And not when he leaves a note saying he pities the other prominent people whose sordid secrets are about to be revealed, courtesy of something called the Judgement Book.’

Another pause, then Adam said huffily, ‘Now, does that sound like a story to you?’

Dan was already out of his seat and heading for the door.

Chapter Two

T
HEY RAN OUT OF
the pub and tried to hail a black cab. Two drove by, despite their frantic waving. One driver even gave them a cheery smile as he passed.

‘Bloody Plymouth cabbies,’ grunted Dan. ‘They don’t want to know unless you’re young, female and cute.’

The evening was still, the fading light mixing with the orange of the streetlamps. Dan spotted another taxi rumbling up the road. They had to move fast. If a big story was breaking, getting there as soon as possible was vital. Some creativity was required.

‘Come here El,’ he said, stepping out into the middle of the road. The photographer remained determinedly on the pavement. ‘Big money for good piccies,’ Dan cooed, rubbing his fingers together, and El reluctantly joined him. The cab slowed.

‘’Ere, what the hell you doing?!’ shouted the driver, waving a fist from the window. Then his tone changed, surprise replacing the anger. ‘’Ere! Aren’t you that bloke off the TV?’

For once, Dan thought the dreaded words could just work for him. Usually followed by a jabbing finger and, “What you should be reporting on,” or “What you don’t understand is,” this time being recognised might be useful. They clambered in to the back of the cab.

‘Yeah, I’m the man on the telly and we’ve got a story breaking,’ said Dan. ‘Quick as you like please.’

The man whistled. ‘Cool. I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Wait until I tell the Mrs! Hold tight.’

The taxi’s wheels squealed in protest as the driver forced it into a spinning U-turn. Dan and El instinctively grabbed the door handles to steady themselves. Dan started going through his Scramble plan. He called Nigel to get him to Freedman’s house, then the newsroom. There was a satisfactory panic at the end of the line. The outside broadcast truck would be despatched. They wanted a live report for the 10.25 bulletin.

The cab’s engine gunned as it headed through the city centre, past the bombed-out Charles Church, lonely memorial to the Blitz of Plymouth, up to the University, all glass and concrete towers, and on to El’s flat on North Hill.

The taxi pulled up on the double yellow lines and the photographer jumped out, jogged up the path and waddled back less than a minute later, panting heavily, camera slung around his neck. He cradled it lovingly as he climbed back into the cab. Despite the warmth of the evening, El wore his familiar battered body warmer, its pockets filled with flash bulbs, lens cloths, light meters and spare batteries. The paparazzo was ready for action.

Dan checked his ever-unreliable second-hand Rolex. Almost nine o’clock it said, so probably about ten past. Only an hour and a quarter until the late news. They’d have to move quickly.

El handed Dan the jacket he’d borrowed for the auction. ‘Here mate, think you’ll need this.’

Dan took it and checked the inside pocket. The black tie he kept for sudden VIP death stories was safely there. Good. He found a few scraps of paper in his jeans pocket. Enough for some hasty notes. He had all he needed.

Blackmail, sex, a fake bomb and the suicide of a well-known MP. It sounded like the sort of story journalists dreamt of. He looked at El. The photographer’s face was soft with the whimsical contentment that said he sensed a scandal erupting, and the scent of big money to be made.

The cab sped through a turning traffic light, screeched around a corner. The flats and terraces of the city centre faded, replaced instead by semi-detached houses. All were in the impeccable decorative order so beloved of estate agents, all with two or more cars in the drive, and all with neatly trimmed lawns, both front and back, naturally. They’d reached Hartley, probably the most upmarket area of Plymouth, although many locals joke that might be a contradiction in terms.

The taxi growled to a stop in Hawthorn Lane and Dan hopped out, El managing more of an untidy clamber. Elegance had always eluded him. Within seconds of their arrival, curtains began twitching.

It was that kind of an area.

‘Thanks, mate,’ said Dan, giving the driver a ten pound note. ‘Keep the change, but do me a receipt would you?’

‘Done,’ said the man, grinning and exposing a couple of gold front teeth. He handed Dan a piece of paper. ‘Me mobile number’s on there. Call me if you need anything and I’ll drop what I’m doing and come. I’ve always wanted to get into TV. The birds love it.’

Dan couldn’t disagree. He knew he was a reasonable-looking man, had his own teeth, most of his allocation of hair still hanging on, albeit forlornly, was neither fat nor thin; in short, very average. But many of his romantic entwinements had been kindled by women recognising him from the television. They seemed to assume it guaranteed a level of quality that he usually failed to come close to living up to.

And now those days were gone, Dan reminded himself. He was in a serious and contented relationship, about to buy a house with Claire. It was the first time he would live with a woman and attempt that intimidating and long-avoided phenomenon only ever whispered by men – and even then looking over their shoulders, as if in fear of the fabled bogey man – the thing known as “commitment”.

Dan expected to feel a nudge of nostalgia for his carefree bachelor days, just a hint of regret, but was pleased to find none came. It must be right, this new way.

He hoped.

He and El walked quickly over to the house. A couple of uniformed cops stood outside on sentry duty. There was a line of cars and a white van on the road outside, Greater Wessex Police CID and scientific support staff standard issue, but there were no other journalists or photographers.

‘Great!’ hollered El, stroking the long lens of his camera lovingly. ‘We’re first on the scene and not another snapper in sight. I can whazz the pics off to all the nationals and clean up.’ He mimicked the sound of an old-fashioned cash register. ‘Kerching!’

The photographer’s face warmed into a sleazy grin and he launched into one of his bizarre limericks.

‘There once was a dead MP,

Who made poor El happy,

He was mired in scandal,

Which lit up El’s candle,

As he did his snap snappy!’

El raised his camera and began clicking off a series of pictures of the house. Staccato white flashes lit the darkening night.

Freedman’s home was a politician’s choice. Pleasant and respectable, but not ostentatious, just right to fit in with his people. Semi-detached, circa 1930. Whitewashed stone, new slate roof, probably four bedrooms, safe and enclosed garden at the back for the kids. Couple of lemon trees and a patch of grass in the front garden, bird table with a half-full wire mesh feeder hanging down. It said family and contentment.

Dan had never interviewed Freedman, but remembered he talked a good game of compassionate politics, not letting yourself get too far removed from your constituents. Living here he could claim to be one of them, even if his life was nothing like the nine-to-five office grind of most of theirs.

A diesel engine rumbled and groaned. A large white van with Wessex Tonight painted on the side bumped up the pavement, slewing heavily from side to side. A thickly bearded face poked out from the driver’s window. ‘Loud’ Jim Stone, the outside broadcast engineer had arrived.

‘Bloody late for a call out,’ he grumbled accusingly. ‘I was getting ready to go to bed. Even had me pyjamas on.’

The hairy head disappeared back into the cab. The truck jumped into reverse, lurched backwards and snapped a sapling. The two policemen watching from the drive exchanged glances and shook their heads. Dan smiled his best placating look at them and shrugged. He fumbled his mobile from his pocket and called Adam.

‘Not a good time,’ the detective replied, emphasising the first word.

‘Sorry, I know you’re busy, but …’

‘And I know you’ve got a bulletin in an hour,’ Adam cut in. ‘Working with you has ingrained them in my thoughts. I’ll give you a call in a while with some info. Don’t worry, I can guarantee you it’ll be in time and interesting.’

Another car pulled up fast, a green estate. Nigel jumped out, ran around to the back and grabbed his camera and tripod from the boot. Dan noticed he was wearing slippers, but managed not to comment.

‘Evening,’ said Dan. ‘Welcome to the latest episode in our frantic “run around like trained hamsters to get a story on air” show. That’s Freedman’s house, and the only pictures we’ve got so far. So I’ll have as much of it as you can shoot to start us off please. Lots of the cops guarding the place too.’

The two officers straightened their tunics and caps and stood up straight at the sight of the TV camera. It had that magical effect, could create a parallel world of polite, smart and efficient illusion in the ambit of the lens.

Nigel set up the tripod, checked the camera’s focus and exposure. ‘OK,’ he said, his eye fixed to the viewfinder. Dan noticed he already felt more relaxed having his friend here. A few years older than him, Nigel and he had been through countless stories together, many difficult and emotional, but had always managed to produce some decent television. Nigel had also appointed himself father-figure to his errant reporter, and his wise counsel was often invaluable.

Dan stood behind him, watching Nigel’s back as a good TV reporter should. The cameraman was oblivious to much of the world when looking down the lens. Now it was time for some research. Dan called the newsroom library for a quick biography of Freedman. It’d be useful for background and context and they could also use an archive story to show pictures of the man.

Forty-four years old, Dan scribbled on the back of a flier for a nightclub. Began in politics as a “special adviser”, or spin doctor, at the age of 25. Elected Traditionalist Party MP for Plymouth Tamar in the General Election of 1997. Good majority too, almost eight thousand votes. Only the second mixed-race MP the party had. Well regarded by his constituents, several items about him campaigning hard on local issues, winning the refurbishment of a local junior school, the building of a new swimming pool, and traffic calming for one street that suffered from being a rat run.

One sad story dominated his past. Just over ten years ago, Yvonne had become pregnant and given birth to a boy. He was named Andrew James, after Freedman’s father who had died the previous year. There was a series of articles in the local press about the couple’s delight at having a son.

In a magazine interview, Freedman joked, ‘I’m delighted because now it evens the family up, and I’ll have an ally in the house to make sure I get to watch the football on TV.’ Yvonne had playfully retorted, ‘Don’t bet on it!’

The next story, covered in all the papers, was the news the baby had died. Dan could sense the shock. There was no interview with the Freedmans, just some quotes from friends talking about the couple wanting private time to come to terms with their loss, and being ‘devastated’. It was the standard word produced at a time of any personal disaster, the nearest most could come to expressing their despair, but this time Dan found himself nodding. He could hardly imagine the pain. A new life so quickly ended.

He’d never wanted children, in truth had never even thought about it, but now realised he’d begun wondering if perhaps, just maybe, one day he and Claire might … He stopped the run of thought. First, find a house and see how living together goes. That was a step quite sufficient for now.

A gap of several months and then another story, about Will Freedman becoming patron of a charity dedicated to research into the causes of cot death. And now many more reports about him repeatedly raising the issue in parliament and tireless fundraising for the cause. The most prominent was a cycle ride from Land’s End to John O’Groats. It was a familiar enough tale, barely newsworthy any more, but Freedman had found a new angle to make sure he attracted plenty of interest. He’d done the whole trip on a Penny Farthing.

There was one quirky item, from a couple of the national papers. Freedman had become chairman of the All Party Commons’ Gardening Group. Apparently he loved to relax with a bit of pottering amongst the greenery. Dan wondered whether it helped keep his mind from the death of his son.

The librarian read excerpts from more profiles and stories. Freedman certainly received a healthy press. He was regarded as a rising star of the Traditionalist Party. Speciality economics, which he’d read at university in Southampton, part of the Traditionalists’ Treasury team. Tipped to join the Shadow Cabinet by the next election. Strong on family values, a recurring theme in his speeches.

“The family is all, the foundation and heartbeat of our society. Anyone who betrays it, betrays us all”, was a quote that resonated. Dan juggled the phone under his chin and added it to the end of his list.

He thanked the librarian and hung up. The flier was almost full, a good measure he had enough background material. It certainly helped to explain why Freedman might be pushed to suicide if he was caught with his trousers down. It would destroy his reputation and career in an instant.

Adam stood in the bathroom of the Freedman family home and forced himself to study the corpse.

The man’s eyes were mercifully closed and he looked oddly at ease. A half empty whisky bottle lay on its side on the floor, spreading a sticky, amber puddle across the stripped wooden floorboards. There was still condensation on the bathroom window.

‘Dead,’ said Silifant, the police doctor. He sniffed hard, stood up slowly from the body and pulled unattractively at a tuft of silvery hair protruding from his left ear.

‘Very dead in fact,’ he added. ‘This was no cry for attention. He saved up a lovely cocktail of all sorts of pills. They would probably have done the trick on their own. Combine them with the insulin and whisky and it’s a quick goodnight. One of the more efficient suicides I’ve seen. Nine out of ten for lethal effect, I’d say.’

Adam rolled his eyes. He’d never come to terms with Silifant’s way of dealing with death. ‘Still marking corpses for efficiency of dispatch then, doctor?’ he asked tetchily.

It was a familiar argument, and Silifant produced his standard reply. ‘It lessens the tedium of being a mere worker on the factory line of mortality.’