The Shadows of Justice (8 page)

He was still there. Silent and unmoving, but she could sense him.

A black shape in the tarry darkness of this eternal night.

Watching her. As he had from the start. And would until the end.

And that moment was coming. It was in the air, all around her.

But no easy ending. Just an inescapable agony.

The smell. So ordinarily everyday, but here and now so fearful, so heavy with fate. In her nose and ears. Her eyes and mouth. Unmistakable, unavoidable, no matter how she turned her head to try to escape.

Petrol. Volatile, vicious petrol.

And the sound. The easy innocence of a soft rustling. Like the English countryside on many a summer’s day. From the walks she had taken with Dad, through fields and over stiles, on their weekend outings from the city.

The dry sound of golden straw.

And one more noise to reinforce her certainty. To know what surrounded her, and the end which awaited.

Newspaper. Ripped into strips. And crumpled into balls.

Rolled, shifted and positioned. With exacting certainty. To encircle her helpless body.

Ready to feed the flames of the pyre.

Annette tried to gulp, but the gag allowed no respite. She could see nothing and say nothing. She would die blind, mute and immobile.

Able only to wait for the fire. And helpless, feel her skin bubble, blister and burn.

She had expected the end so many times. In the van, when she was sick. When the cloth was pulled from her mouth. She was ready for the knotted knuckles of a flying fist.

A lesson. A beating. A punishment. Blood flowing and teeth breaking. The blows growing more frenzied, the pain whitening until the grateful release.

Never to come around.

But there was only the thrust of a rag. The sickness wiped away. And the sudden shock of a cold cascade of water.

How she gulped it down. Chewed it from the air, each sluice, every drop.

Until the binding gag was restored.

Then once more readying for the end. When the rumbling slowed and quietened, and the doors opened.

The breeze on her face, the hands pulling her, the arms lifting her, carrying her through sightless space. The sound of seagulls in the sky.

She had expected to fly. Soar from the clifftop, at last unbound, until the killing impact. Twisted and broken, her forsaken body claimed by the gentle undertaker of the creeping tide.

No headstone here. No loving memorial to young Annette Newman. No forever remembered and always missed. No last resting place recorded, no black-clad mourners to lament her passing.

But she had found only cold, hard floor. And distant noises.

The creak of a stair. Whispers in the darkness. Perhaps a plane flying by. Maybe a bird’s cheerful song.

A secluded door closing. The muted burble of a quiet radio.

And always the sound of time passing. The blasting silence of the indistinct, immeasurable, hours.

She was cold now. Shivered, twitched to shift her weight. Her flank was numbed, lying on this slab of a floor. But she was trussed too tight to move.

A trickle of blood ran down her ankle.

Dust was starting to settle in her nose, mixing with the petrol, forming the paste of the coming death.

She would smell herself burn.

Annette tried to imagine. To find a refuge in her mind.

James, that night on the beach.

Anywhere. Any escape. Anything.

But the darkness was too filled with the dancing terrors of her taunting thoughts.

They ran for the back door. Dan had been expecting a rapid clambering up to the MIR, but Adam headed downwards, towards the basement.

These corridors of the police station were much less trodden than others. There was no banter, none of the continual sound of feet which characterised other floors. It was quieter, darker, had the air of a lair.

The catacombs of Charles Cross
, Dan thought, with a reporter’s whim.

In the car park, Adam had cornered the sergeant who was attempting to organise the melee. “How long?”

“Five minutes, maybe ten.”

The detective didn’t reply, instead turned and set off, Claire, Katrina and Dan following.

“What’re we doing?” Dan asked. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Adam passed the entrance to the control room. They turned a corner. Now they were approaching the end of the corridor. Ahead was a fire exit and next to it another door, a little smaller. It was plain and bore no sign to betray its purpose, but was strong and well-secured.

Only one of the strip lights was working, and it grumbled with a low buzz. Daylight was a stranger to this part of the station. The corridor was tainted with dust and smelt musty. Many of the floor tiles were cracked and chipped. The gossamer patterns of a spider’s web stretched from the top of the door.

“What’s going on?” Dan asked. “I didn’t even know this place existed.”

“Quite,” Adam replied.

He fumbled in his pocket, found a fob of keys and picked one out. It was fatter than the rest, shinier and looked little-used.

With a begrudging clunk, the door opened.

***

Around the walls were propped signs, an unofficial history of concerns long-forgotten. Several appealed for witnesses to road crashes,
others muggings and one a robbery. Most carried the everyday warnings of the business of policing: the risks of ice, pickpockets operating in the area and the ever-present danger of leaving valuables in your car.

In the corner was a ramshackle stack of old desks and chairs. There were a few abandoned computers too, some which harked back to the days of the ZX Spectrum. Dan reached out to touch one. It was like laying a finger on his past.

The teenage Dan had bought an early model, second hand, with the money he’d saved from a Saturday job picking tomatoes on a fruit farm. The lasting memory was of more crashes than a banger racing weekend, and a keyboard which resembled long-dead flesh.

A couple of stacks of traffic cones teetered by the door, their hoops smeared with dirt. Guarding them was the incongruity of a line of gnomes. A note attached to the hat of the tallest read,
Nicked by students, owner to collect next week
.
It was dated nine years ago.

At the far end of the room was a metal filing cabinet, and it was to here that Adam stepped his careful way.

Dan found Claire by his side. “The twilight files,” she whispered.

Adam was delving hard into the cabinet. Wisps of dust took to the air. Katrina began coughing.

Claire’s radio crackled.

Two minutes to the off
.

Adam was still bent double. It was as if the cabinet was making an attempt to swallow him.

The click, click, click of turning metal filled the little room.

Finally, the detective stood up. He was holding a stained manila folder.

“Got it,” he said.

***

Katrina took the wheel, but in a manner that was both unexpected and a little alarming. She worked the gears like a racing driver who’s trailing the pack. The car hugged corners and cut a straight line across bends. They had to wait a couple of times for the rest of the convoy to catch up.

“Where did you learn all this?” Dan asked, in a voice which he hoped disguised his qualms.

“Advanced driver training. If you need to speed it pays to know how.”

“Is that how you got down to Devon so fast?”

“Not entirely. I caught the train. It’s better for thinking through a case. Besides, it’s only about three hours from London to Plymouth.” She glanced over, her face unreadable. “Very easy to pop back and forth.”

Dan thought he heard Claire make a kind of strangled noise, but it might have been the percussion of another of Katrina’s gear changes.

She’d insisted on driving. It made sense, she told Adam. He was the officer in charge of the case. He needed to be free to make phone calls. He could also read out the contents of the file, tell them about the two people who were suspected of kidnapping Annette.

As his deputy Claire should sit alongside. Which left Dan in the front, next to her.

The logic was incontestable. Yet Claire appeared unimpressed, her face flinty. It was most unlike her, a woman with a natural warmth for the world, even on the most difficult of days. Dan wondered if she wasn’t feeling well. She was wearing more make-up than usual. Perhaps it was to cover for the effects of some bug.

The convoy left the police station, crossed the bridge over the River Plym and headed into the open countryside of the South Hams. Adam was about to start reading the file when Dan saw his moment and interrupted.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Why does that make me worry?” Adam replied.

“Call it a way to make up for my stupid clumsiness.”

As they jogged out of the police station to rejoin the convoy, Dan spotted an officer carrying a video camera. In the blindness of his preoccupation with the case, he collided with the man, knocking the camera to the floor. Bumped off balance, Dan had also trodden on it, breaking the lens. It was all down to the rush; he apologised repeatedly and perhaps over-effusively.
Wessex Tonight
would pay for the repair, or a replacement.

“That’s not the bloody point,” the officer remonstrated. “It’s the only one we’ve got.”

Adam was eyeing Dan with his special detective’s look. It was loaded with all the suspicion of more than twenty years as a policeman, a generation’s experience of deception.

“Get on with it,” he said. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“It’s just – video can be such powerful evidence.”

“Really? Thanks, I’d never have thought of that. It is why we bring a camera along – or try to, anyway,” he added, pointedly. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. Only that – maybe I can help.”

“Let me guess. By getting Nigel along to film?”

“Oh! What a brilliant idea. Just to help you out, of course. To make up for my little accident.”

“In return for which, you get exclusive pictures?”

“Well, I never imagined it like that. My only thought was for the interests of justice. But since you come to mention it…”

Adam clicked his tongue. “What do you think, Katrina?”

She accelerated the car around a bend, generating g-forces akin to a roller-coaster. “Dan is right, a recording could be useful.”

“All right,” Adam said, when the offending reporter had finished his performance. “Now, if you’re quite done with your devious little manoeuvers, would you like to hear who we’re up against?”

A cinema of the mind formed within the car, as the detective narrator began chronicling a criminal CV.

“The story of Brian and Martha Edwards,” Adam recounted. “An extraordinary and I suppose sad one, too – if it wasn’t for the way it turned out.”

Even the drive through the marvels of the Devon springtime didn’t distract from the story. The trees were lit with candle buds and rained blossom. In the fields, cows and horses watched the wailing convoy pass with that magnificent detachment of the animal world. The meadows and pastures were full of the colours of the warming land, prompted from hibernation by days once more blessed with light.

The Edwards were born in Plymouth and remained in the city for their growing years. Both were educated – if that wasn’t too optimistic a word – at Eddystone Comprehensive, the same school Roger Newman attended.

“Interesting,” Katrina noted.

Their criminal careers began modestly. It was clear from the notes that, initially, they were considered relatively small time. They were assessed as not violent, nor a significant danger to the public.

One remark from the first of the cases, written by a junior detective, said,
All this was about was taking the piss
.

“Hang on,” Dan objected. “What’s that kind of comment doing on an investigation report?”

“Because,” Adam replied emphatically, “none of this exists. Our little storage room is there for a reason. It’s off computers, off the books and beyond the reach of Freedom of Information and Data Protection laws. And particularly journalists. Ok?”

“Well, I—”

“That’s only if you want to hear more. I could just stop.”

“Ok,” Dan submitted, a little peevishly.

“In which case, do you want to know the remarkable thing about the Edwards?”

“What?”

“We think they’ve committed plenty of crimes,” Claire replied. “But guess how many convictions we’ve managed to get?”

“How many?”

“It’s a round number,” Adam said. “Very round, in fact.”

“That bad?”

“Yep.”

“How come?”

“If you let me finish the briefing, you’ll find out.”

Puerile as it may be, sometimes the infantile pleasure of the sticking out of the tongue is hard to resist. Dan contented himself with a shake of the head, but deigned to be silent.

Martha was 22 years old and had just completed a three-year course in Forensic Science and Computing. She graduated with a third class degree.

“Not exactly a criminal mastermind,” Katrina observed.

“So you might think,” Adam replied. “But after a few crimes which we thought could be down to the Edwards, a detective went to talk to her old tutors. Their view was unanimous. She was by far the brightest and most talented student in her year, and one of the best they’d ever seen.”

“She flunked the exams?”

“She certainly did. But as to why – we think it was deliberate. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself with a shining academic record.”

They passed a farmyard, a couple of men working on a tractor, a sheep dog skipping around their feet. At this speed, East Prawle lay twenty minutes to the south-east. There, on the outskirts of the village, the convoy would draw up and the strategy for the assault be formulated.

Adam returned to his notes. The Edwards’ first suspected crime involved housing benefit fraud, but with a twist.

They had invented scores of people and bank accounts into which the money could be paid. The fraud lasted for just a few months and was closed down before the council became aware of it. Only following an audit later in the year was the alarm raised. Tens of thousands of pounds were stolen.

“Pretty mundane stuff,” Dan commented. “Housing benefit fraud is hardly new or particularly clever.”

“That’s true,” Adam replied. “But – the Edwards chose a council which had just been involved in a child abuse scandal. Its social workers failed to prevent the deaths of a couple of kids.”

“You think the council was deliberately targeted?” Katrina asked.

“We’re sure it was. Because of the money the Edwards stole, we reckon they only kept half. Our investigations didn’t get very far, but there was one thing we did establish. The Edwards made a big donation to some children’s charities. The amount was about half the total estimated to have been stolen.”

The next case was an attack on some large insurance companies.
A couple of towns in the Midlands had suffered flooding after torrential rain. Hundreds of residents were forced to leave their homes. The repair bill would run into many millions of pounds.

As people began to make claims, there came a development which will surprise nobody who has ever tried to scale the edifice of an insurer to retrieve some of the money they had spent years paying in. The firms started to spin, wheedle and squirm.

Spokesmen claimed there were exemptions. Some acts of god – or at least a peculiar type of deity who looked kindly upon insurance companies – were not covered. Excesses on a scale sufficient to pay a premiership footballer applied. Climate change was a specific area which could not be covered. Homeowners should have had the foresight to fit flood defences. The list went on and on, and then on some more.

The Edwards took advantage of the companies’ preoccupation with repelling the selfish hordes who had the audacity to expect assistance. Quietly, they began to build up a series of motoring claims. They were relatively small and so were hardly checked. But the quantities involved made for significant sums.

Once more, the result was the Edwards keeping half the money, the rest going to a fund set up to help the flood victims.

***

The convoy was approaching the village of Churchstow. Signs pleaded for careful driving. Katrina slowed the car and switched off the sirens. Even those from outside the two fair counties instinctively understand it is a rule of Devon and Cornwall life, that the sacred peace of a small community must not be disturbed.

In the field beside a school a group of children halted their kick about to watch the cars, vans and motorbikes. This was a place that very rarely saw a police officer, let alone a convoy.

Sunshine flared inside the car. Dan rolled down a window, Adam doing the same.

***

Now came a sense the crimes were growing bolder. The Edwards moved on to target banks.

It was a time when the titans of finance had been trying to persuade customers to make greater use of the internet. It was quicker and more convenient the banks proclaimed, omitting to mention it was also much cheaper to administer. As for concerns about security, they could be happily dismissed with the airy wave of a banker’s trustworthy hand. The systems were invulnerable.

Such a claim is a temptation too far for any hacker that has ever set finger on a keyboard. The Edwards were amongst them. This time, it was mortgage fraud. A series of online applications were made for relatively small amounts, which attracted less scrutiny. Again, many thousands of pounds were stolen.

When finally one of the grand repositories of the land noticed, Greater Wessex Police were called in. But so sure were the banks of their impregnability, it was difficult to convince them they had been conned. And when, at last, the arrogance faltered and they accepted the inevitable, the matter was hushed up. The men in bespoke pinstripe suits decreed that no further proceedings were required. It would be too damaging for the sacred share price.

There were a couple more notes on the case. The banks targeted had been identified as the worst for customer service, whilst still managing to pay staff the kind of bonuses which could fill a calculator’s screen. This time, it was estimated the Edwards took only 15 per cent of their haul, the rest going to a range of charities.

A note from one of the investigating officers read,
15 per cent, a standard agent’s fee. So, make of that what you will. On this one, I can’t find myself too bothered we’re not trying to bring charges
.

***

Adam checked his watch. East Prawle is Devon’s most southerly village, just inland of the heady cliffs of Prawle Point and the vista of the English Channel. They were fifteen minutes away. The car bumped as it crossed a bridge over a muddy tidal inlet.

“There’s another note below that last one,” Adam said. “‘We
will
be pursuing the Edwards, make no mistake. Because once they get a taste for crime, we don’t know where it could lead.’”

The detective stared out of the window, before adding quietly,
“I was the senior officer reviewing the case. I wrote that. And it turned out to be bloody portentous.”

All in the car was silent as they waited for an explanation. But Adam said only, “There are a couple more bits I want to read you, while we’ve got the time. They should make clear what I’m talking about.”

The Department of Health was the next target. A controversy blew up about the amount of money being paid to top civil servants when NHS services were struggling with cutbacks. The predictable denials were issued. But the mandarins’ salaries would not be revealed, a clipped spokesman announced. They were strictly confidential.

The next week they were published on a website, much to the frothing glee of the media.

Another note commented –
What investigative journalists couldn’t manage, I reckon the Edwards did in an afternoon’s hacking
.

“We’re getting towards the end of this part,” Adam said. “But there’s one thing to note here – the shift to a focus on health issues.”

The media live for a row, and the next case concerned some large pharmaceutical companies. They were accused of being
merciless and pitiless
, for not allowing a range of expensive products to be sold at cost price in developing countries. Thousands of lives could be saved, campaigners protested.

A barrage of expensive spin was thrown up to counter the claim. Developing the drugs was hugely expensive. Money had to be made so profits could be reinvested in the next generation of medicines. But, in fairness, a concession was offered, however much it may have been a single grain of sand on a mighty beach.

The drugs could
perhaps
be sold at a small discount, the announcement ran. But of less prominence in the proclamation was how that might be achieved. It could only follow the report of a focus group, a working party, a committee, a sub-committee, a commission of inquiry and the executive board, and all after a series of fact-finding trips and a good lunch or two.

With the prospect of progress a galaxy away, the controversy dimmed. That was until the following month when a new website was launched. It listed some of the products in development. Many were highly lucrative. The companies’ futures looked prosperous.

But the site had a sting. It detailed confidential information on how the trials were progressing, picking out the problems which made the release of many of the products years away.

Share prices slumped. Billions were wiped off corporate values.

The authors of the website were never traced, despite the best efforts of the fuming companies. But the Eggheads were of the view the scandal fitted with the way the Edwards liked to work.

The final case Adam had to relate was a simple act of mockery. A tsunami caused widespread destruction in the Far East, with the loss of thousands of lives. Even more were left homeless. The British government was criticised for failing to offer sufficient help.

A week later, a mysterious glitch in the centralised supply system saw hundreds of government offices going without supplies of toilet roll.

***

The convoy entered a green tunnel, sweeping through the interwoven branches of the bowing trees. Blue lights smeared the new leaves.

“I’m starting to like the Edwards,” Dan grinned.

“Are you now?” Adam replied, and there was something in his voice. It was like the way the air changes before a storm, a perceptible shift in the pressure.

Dan found himself faltering. “Well, yeah, I mean—”

“Because they’re Robin Hood types, aren’t they?” the detective continued, with that unsettling, constrained anger. “They’re lovable rogues. Robbing from the rich to give to the poor in just the way you reporters think is great.”

“Well, given some of what they did, you can’t deny—”

“And what about kidnapping a 17-year-old girl? Terrifying her and tormenting her dad?”

“Ok, that’s out of place, but—”

“I bet you think she’ll be safe in their hands? These Edwards wouldn’t hurt a fly, eh? It’s all just a harmless little game?”

The menace in Adam’s voice was overwhelming. It left Dan speechless and looking to Katrina for help.

“That’s what you think, isn’t it?” the detective powered on. “But you’re wrong – very wrong – because it always ends up the same.”

And perhaps to save Dan from any more discomfort, or simply to hear the conclusion of a story which had been stoked with such a build-up, Katrina cut in, “Adam, maybe you should just tell us what you’re trying to say.”