The Judgement Book (5 page)

Craig thanked him and they were on to the next story, something about passenger numbers at Exeter airport. Dan hardly heard it. He popped out his earpiece and breathed deeply.

If only the viewers knew. So often the control of the calm and authoritative on-air persona was a tissue-thin layer of bluff.

A police van pulled up by the house. Nigel spun the camera and started filming. A dozen men and women, all dressed in black, hopped down from the back and marched up to the front door. The police officers on guard opened it and they filed in. Dan noted only two wiped their boots on the mat.

‘Who’s that?’ hissed Nigel from behind the camera.

‘TAG. Tactical Aid Group. They do all the searches. They must be here to take the house apart.’

Dan picked up his mobile and called Adam.

‘I know you’re busy,’ he said, ‘but I just wanted to say thanks for the tip-off and for getting me that info for the bulletin. We got it on – just.’

‘No worries. I’ve been waiting for your call. Now I’ve got something to ask you.’

‘Really?’ said Dan, surprised. ‘What?’

‘This is going to be all over the press and some inside track on how to handle it wouldn’t go amiss. Plus the blackmailer’s apparently been talking about some Judgement Book of people’s secrets, and he seems to have set a code which we’re going to have to try to break. You cracked those others we came up against. Do you fancy pitching in with us again? It’d be the same deal as before. You only get to broadcast what I say, but you’ll have some exclusive angles on the case in return for your help.’

Dan felt a familiar, stirring excitement. A big case and the inside story – he could hardly ask for more. He’d finally managed to admit to himself how much he loved detective work, perhaps even more than being a reporter. It had changed his life, coming at a time when he’d been a journalist for almost fifteen years and was starting to grow stale, to wonder about doing something new.

Was it really only three years ago he was moved from Environment and given the Crime Correspondent job? And to think, at the time he hated the idea, felt lonely and vulnerable in the new post. Now though, he couldn’t get enough of it. It was how he’d met Claire too, and finally just about tamed the debilitating swamp of the depression that had stalked him throughout his life.

‘I think we’d be delighted to help you Adam,’ Dan replied, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.

‘Good. Because we need to get this blackmailer. Freedman was a good man. Whatever he might have done, he didn’t deserve to die like this. Come down to Charles Cross for the morning briefing tomorrow. By then I should have a good idea what the blackmailer wants, what’s in the so called Judgment Book, and what this code is.’

Dan grinned, couldn’t help himself. He was already looking forward to tomorrow immensely.

Chapter Four

D
AN WOKE EARLY, STIRRED
by the aura of spring sunlight stretching across his bedroom. He yawned, and was surprised to find himself feeling relaxed and content. He knew he’d been dreaming of Claire, but he couldn’t remember the details of the elusive, sleeping images. They flitted on the edge of his memory like smiling ghosts.

He’d have to call her later. They hadn’t had a chance to speak yesterday and they’d planned a day out tomorrow. Saturday, his favourite day of the week. A whole day off and the chance to eat and drink well and have a lie-in on Sunday. The weather forecast was benign too. Perhaps they’d go for a walk on the coast.

He swung himself out of bed, leaned down and stroked Rutherford’s head. The Alsatian sat up and stretched his mouth into a jaw-cracking yawn. Dan chuckled.

‘Classy, my faithful friend,’ he said. ‘Fancy a run?’ Rutherford’s tail thumped on the carpet at the sacred word.

They walked over to Hartley park. It was early, just before seven and there was no one else around, so Dan let Rutherford off his lead. The dog sprinted across the jewelled, dewy grass, skidded to a halt, then careered back. Dan steeled himself and broke into a jog.

‘Twenty laps of the park hound,’ he called to Rutherford, whose head was buried in a thicket of bushes.

It was a beautiful morning, a Devon speciality. There was still an edge of the night’s chill in the air, but the ascending sun was fast chasing it away. Hartley Park was one of Plymouth’s highest points, rich with fine views on a clear morning.

Dan grimaced as a stick jabbed him in the back of his legs. He stopped jogging and wrestled Rutherford for it. The dog locked his jaws, insurmountable determination in his unblinking eyes.

‘I’ll never understand why you bring me a stick, then don’t want to let go of it, stupid,’ Dan told the growling dog. ‘But I’ve got a trick for this, haven’t I?’

He let go of the branch, picked up another from the hedge and held it up like a great prize. Rutherford immediately let go of the stick he was holding and jumped for the new one. Dan threw it, the dog sprinted after it, and Dan picked up the original.

‘And I’ll never understand how you don’t get wise to that con either,’ he called.

A gang of starlings squabbled in the trees as he jogged, jostling amongst the brave new buds. The park felt awash with springtime. On the steep slope covering the underground reservoir a pair of magpies hopped and chattered. It was a morning made for contentment.

There was just the one trial to endure, and he had a strategy ready. Dan took Rutherford back to the flat, showered, and put on a clean shirt and his best jacket. His tyrannical editor could require serious manipulating and he had to get it right. He didn’t want to risk her turning down Adam’s offer to join the blackmail inquiry.

Dan walked into the newsroom just after half past eight. Lizzie was already there, and wearing low heels today, only a couple of inches. A good sign. He ticked off a line on his mental checklist. Only the bravest or most foolhardy approached Lizzie when she wore her favourite four-inch daggers. They were harbingers of peril.

Next, some flattery to oil the approach. ‘Morning. I have to say, you’re looking good today. Is that a new hair-do?’

A momentary suspicion he thought, but she seemed pleased, tossed her dark bob. ‘No, I’ve just styled it. That’s all.’

Dan had learnt early in life that asking a woman if she’d had her hair done was a strategy which couldn’t lose. If she had, she was flattered. Ditto if she hadn’t. The real risk was saying nothing.

Next on the list, some self-promotion. ‘Good story that last night, I thought,’ he said, trying not to sound sly.

She nodded. ‘It was acceptable.’

‘Obviously as I was out covering it – out late that is – and in my own time, of course – I didn’t get to see the opposition’s bulletin. Did they have the story?’

‘No.’

‘So it was our exclusive.’

‘Yep.’

‘On a huge story.’

‘Yep.’

‘Could be an award-winner, that one.’

‘Yep.’

An eyebrow arched. Another good sign. He was making headway, albeit slowly. As with so many of Dan’s conversations with his editor, it felt like being on board an ice-breaker, the ship trying to make its way through the Arctic Ocean in the middle of a frozen winter.

They held a look. Lizzie narrowed her eyes and raised a finger from the desk. Long experience had taught Dan that she found unqualified praise impossible. He sensed one of her familiar “Not rest on our laurels” speeches coming, the kind which she used every time Wessex Tonight scored a success. Complacency was never an option with Lizzie.

Dan took a gamble, got his spin in first. ‘Well, I don’t want to rest on my laurels, naturally. It’s too big a story.’

She nodded again and Dan sensed the final target on his range was within sight.

‘It’s so good for the ratings,’ he added. ‘I bet people are turning to us in their thousands for the latest on what’s going on with Freedman and this blackmail plot.’

Lizzie nodded dreamily. The ratings were her church. Every morning she’d sit in her office for half an hour, scouring scores of statistics from last night’s programme for clues as to the viewers’ current likes and dislikes.

‘Well, that’s why I’ve lined us up a follow-up story for today,’ Dan continued. ‘And I reckon we’ve got a great chance for some more corking exclusives.’

He outlined Adam’s offer of joining the inquiry, then quietened, waited for the reaction. A perfectly manicured fingernail tapped on the desk.

‘What are you up to?’ she asked eventually.

‘Nothing.’ Dan tried for a hurt expression, but he’d never got the hang of them. ‘I’m just trying to do my best for you and the programme – as always.’

She laced her look with acid suspicion, as only Lizzie could.

‘Done,’ she said finally. ‘But on one condition. I want wall-to-wall coverage. You got that? Wall-to-wall, then floor-to-floor, then back to wall-to-wall again. Oh, and ceiling-to-ceiling too. I want the lot, I want it first and I want it exclusive to us. And I don’t want you disappearing into the investigation like you have before. You’re a hack, remember, not a detective. This is a fantastic story and the viewers will be hooked.’ She stood up and wagged the fingernail at him. ‘You got that?’

‘Yes boss,’ Dan replied meekly.

He’d have been disappointed with anything less.

Dan walked into the Major Incident Room, or MIR, just before nine o’clock. Heads turned with the curiosity of a bunch of detectives and he looked away to hide a smile. He’d laid two bets with himself as he drove down to Charles Cross Police Station. That Adam would be wearing his best suit in expectation of a television interview, and that the detective’s beloved green boards would have been retrieved from storage.

Dan sometimes wondered if the world of the media and television had beguiled his friend as much as he himself had fallen for the realm of the detective.

Adam stood at the front of the room, dressed in an immaculate navy suit, white shirt and blue-and-white diagonally striped tie. Always a handsome man, with his dark and rugged looks, today he could have passed as prepared for a modelling shoot. Four green felt boards stood on their chipped wooden legs beside him.

It was one of the first things Adam had said to Dan when they’d met, and even now he could remember it, almost word for word. He’d been nervous, new to the Crime Correspondent job, an eager amateur, and Adam had taken it upon himself to impart some wisdom.

The detective had straightened his tie, that odd quirk of his when he felt life was running his way, and launched into his little speech, the justification for the anachronism of his boards.

‘Computers are vital in modern policing, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes, to crack a case, you have to see the web of links between people set out in front of you. Too many detectives mistake computers for brains. Crimes are committed by humans, not machines, and only people can solve them. Computers are tools to help, but they can’t see the invisible threads that connect people and events, which in one lightning strike of realisation give you the key to the crime.’

It had become a familiar oration.

The room was filled with about thirty people, mostly detectives in well-worn suits, but there was also a sprinkling of uniformed officers at the front. A rumble of expectant conversation resonated. It felt like a tribal gathering, the excitement of the meet before the hunt.

Dan weaved his way to his customary position at the back of the room and propped himself up against the window ledge. No matter how many times he was invited to join an inquiry, he’d never got over the feeling of being an interloper. He was always more comfortable secreting himself at the back, knew many around him felt he had no place here. A couple of detectives nodded a half hearted greeting, others whispered hostility or shook their heads contemptuously. Most just seemed to regard him as a curiosity.

Claire stood at the front, to Adam’s side. She was wearing her standard black trouser-suit, looked professional, authoritative, and simply beautiful. They exchanged a brief glance. They’d agreed to be discreet about their relationship when working, even though everyone else knew. You couldn’t keep a secret from detectives.

‘OK, everyone, let’s make a start,’ Adam said, and the room quietened. ‘This is going to be quick, as we have to get out there and get the inquiry running. We need some momentum to carry us to our killer. And that’s what we’re looking for. We’re hunting a killer – not perhaps with a knife or a gun like we’re used to, but a killer nonetheless. Someone who drives people to their death.’

He paused, looked around the room, eye contact for every officer. It was Adam’s way at the start of a case, to energise his team with a vision, make them feel they had a righteous mission to pursue. The nods and mutters of agreement indicated the words had done their work.

Adam pointed to a photo stuck to the centre of the middle board. ‘Will Freedman, MP. Killed himself yesterday at his home. Two key points to start with.’

Another pause, letting the words settle. ‘First, his family,’ Adam went on, pointing to two more pictures next to Freedman’s. ‘Wife Yvonne and daughter Alex. They were downstairs when he killed himself. Was he getting at them in some way? Why choose the house, when it could have been a cliff, or railway line? He could have spared them that distress, couldn’t he? Or was it just that he wanted to be in his own home when he died?’

A few of the younger detectives took notes. Most just listened. The room was silent, rapt.

‘I had a chance to speak briefly with Yvonne and Alex last night,’ Adam continued. ‘They were upset, of course. But with Alex, it was more than that. She was scathing about her Dad. So what’s that about then? Is it just the shock and upset of her father’s death? Or something more sinister?’

No one spoke. Outside, a plane droned by. Adam watched it thoughtfully for a few seconds, then continued.

‘Right then, let’s start thinking. I want ideas how we find our killer. First, let’s have a look at the letter the blackmailer sent Freedman. The TAG teams found it a couple of hours ago. It was well hidden, stuck between some constituency research papers inside a folder in his study.’

Claire passed around a sheaf of papers. Dan took one of the last copies and began reading. He knew from the hisses of breath from the detectives around him that what he was about to see was shocking.

Dear Mr Freedman,

You are a despicable man. Like many of your kind, you pretend to be one thing in public, when the private reality is very different.

You are an adulterer, a frequenter of prostitutes, a liar and a hypocrite. All that, despite your fine talk of family values. You are utterly odious.

I know what happened in Blackpool. A nineteen-year-old prostitute, dressed as a schoolgirl. How will you explain that to your fourteen-year-old daughter? Let alone your loving and devoted wife?

It was a nice trick, using a different – and sleazy – hotel to the one you were staying in to meet her. Paying for the room in cash was a wise precaution. The false glasses and the hat were pretty touches too. But still I know what you did.

I’m surprised you only managed to have sex with her twice. That’s not exactly great value for money – as I believe you Traditionalists espouse – when you’ve paid five hundred pounds for her services, is it? Particularly not given how excited you were. The fulfilment of a long-cherished fantasy, wasn’t that how you thought of sex with a schoolgirl?

I can’t bring myself to pass any comment on the extra fifty pounds you paid to spank her.

So, Mr Freedman, we have established you are a thoroughly despicable man. The question is, what do I intend to do about it?

You’ll be expecting me to ask for cash. Wrong, totally wrong. I don’t want your filthy money. My only interest is in exposing you. You and your rotten kind.

Will it be any comfort to know you are not alone, Mr Freedman? Your sordid secrets fill my beautiful Judgement Book. But there are others there too. Others of your kind. You are the first, but you will not be the last. I’ve chosen four others to share your fate. Is that any comfort?

You don’t deserve this, but I will give you one chance to save yourself. The following riddle, if solved, will give you a word. It’s a classic game. If you can break it, use that word to begin your speech to the Plymouth Traditionalist Association on Thursday night. If I do not hear it, news of your little indiscretion will be spread far and wide.

61, 43, 21, 51

For your information, and for the police who will no doubt eventually come to see this note, I add this. The solution to the riddle, and those which I will set for the other four chose ones, will take you to the hiding place of the Judgement Book.

Good luck.

Dan breathed out heavily and looked up from the photocopied sheet. Some of the detectives were still reading, others staring sightlessly ahead, lost in their thoughts. A series of gasps and low whistles punctuated the silence of the room. It took something extraordinary to surprise such experienced officers, but Dan could tell from their reactions they’d never seen anything like this before.