The TV Detective (27 page)

He'll suck up the cash,

As over the papers the pictures, he'll plaster.”

‘Blimey,' Dan said. ‘Alliteration and using a word like alabaster. You surprise me.'

‘I may be sleazy mate, but I'm not stupid,' came the chirpy reply.

In the canteen, on one of his missions to fetch teas and coffees, Dan had overheard an interesting conversation. The Scoutmaster smoked, but the law forbade anyone doing so in the police cells. And so as not to breach his rights, which obviously included the important constituent of poisoning himself, the man had to be allowed outside regularly for a cigarette.

With so many criminals smoking it was a common enough problem for the police, and one which they had resolved by constructing a metal cage around the back door of the police station. It was open at the top, but the walls were high and bedecked with razor wire, quite sufficiently secure to allow a prisoner ten minutes for a smoke.

And the cage was visible from the car park.

For El, it was just a case of waiting, something he knew well how to do. He had a good idea what his target looked like from the photos of when the scoutmaster was a younger man, and a long lens, ready to shoot his snaps.

Dan's coughing fit had tipped the paparazzo off nicely, and he was now gleefully in possession of half a dozen fine photographs of his victim, which would be hawked around every paper that went to press. Christmas was traditionally a quiet time for news, so there would be no shortage of bidders. In fact, the rights to the images were likely to reach that dizzying height of the paparazzi's delight, an auction.

For El, it was a lucrative payday. And combined with the snap of the shotgun being recovered from the ditch, it had turned into a lottery winner of a week.

So great was the chubby buffoon's excitement that it took Dan a good quarter of an hour to calm El down before he could get away. The whisky he would be sampling on Christmas Day would now be the finest money could buy. Or, at least, the finest the local Plymouth supermarkets could provide, which was highly unlikely to be the same thing. But, as was often said with Christmas presents, it was the thought that counted.

Back at the flat, Dan just about found the strength to make himself some beans on toast, and sat on the great blue sofa, Rutherford at his feet, watching the rain's relentless attack on the bay window. Too tired even to get up and turn on the television, he finished the poor substitute for a meal and made the fatal mistake of laying back and closing his eyes just for a few minutes.

He woke again with a start and a cricked neck half an hour later and forced himself to get up and start getting ready for bed.

Rutherford sat in the middle of the hallway, looking pointedly at the airing cupboard where his lead was kept.

‘You dropping hints, dog?' Dan asked him. ‘I am more than a little tired, if you hadn't noticed.'

Rutherford angled his head and produced his “never been loved” look.

‘And it's raining – hard. In case you hadn't noticed that either.'

The dog pawed at the carpet.

Dan couldn't help smiling. No matter how low his mood, how leaden his body, that daft dog could always be relied upon to lift his spirits.

‘All right then, just a little run, a couple of laps around the park. I suppose it'll probably do me good too.'

The rain was pounding down, filling the air with a barrage of hurtling droplets. Dan pulled on a coat and jogged over the road to the park. The grass was soaking, churned to mud in patches, and the planned run duly became a brisk walk.

‘Health and safety, dog,' Dan explained over the din of the downpour. ‘I'm taking full advantage of one of the curses of modern life. I wouldn't want to damage myself just before Christmas.'

Rutherford never worried about the weather and went sprinting off across the park to sniff at the myriad of fascinating scents the visitors of the day had left behind. Dan strode hard, felt his heart picking up with the effort and his head clearing with the rush of pulsing blood. The wash of the rain was refreshing, even exhilarating.

The houses at the far end of the park were all bedecked with Christmas lights, each competing to outdo the others in strings and weaves of flashing colour. It was a sight to delight an electricity company shareholder and outrage an environmentalist. The roads were quiet now, only the odd bus and taxi flitting past.

A white Christmas was off the agenda, but a wet one looked likely. It was by no means as romantic, but far more British.

Dan walked automaticallyand found himself thinking through the inquiry once more. He wasn't surprised to suffer a welling disappointment. He had never considered that the first murder case he'd worked on, had become such a part of and been so fascinated by, would remain unsolved.

All that work, all that thought, and all for nothing. It was like receiving a surprise package, pawing and picking at layer upon layer of wrapping, the excitement and anticipation building, only to find there was nothing in the middle.

Still, at least there was Christmas to look forward to. He was due a few days off and would spend tomorrow evening with Kerry and much of the day itself with El. They would sip at the fine whisky he had been promised, watch old films and swap yarns.

Rutherford ran back and jumped up, prompting Dan to dodge from his filthy paws.

‘Too quick for you, my old rogue,' he said, ‘I know you far too well. Right, one more lap then and we'll get home. I could do with some good sleep.'

Dan pulled the hood of his coat tighterand walked on, blinking hard against a swirl of wind and rain. Across the park he noticed another figure, bent beneath a large umbrella, also accompanied by a dog. So, he wasn't the only idiot sufficiently devoted to his canine friend to bring him out on a night more resembling a mid-Atlantic squall.

Dan squinted through the gloom. It looked like Jim, a man who lived a little further along Hartley Avenue, and who walked his Labrador, Firkin, around the park. The dog was one of Rutherford's few friendsand would often join him in running laps together.

But this time Rutherford had begun barking and snarling.

‘Hey, idiot, what're you doing?' Dan called to him. ‘Calm it down, it's only Firkin.'

The other dog ran overand started barking back. The two animals circled each other, both growling and baring their teeth.

Dan stumbled into a run. A dog fight, an injured Rutherford for Christmas and some expensive vet's bills he could well do without.

‘Rutherford!' he yelled. ‘Heel! Come away! Now!'

The dog ignored him. The other figure was hurrying over too. Dan grabbed for Rutherford's collar, missed, tried again and this time caught itand pulled him back.

‘Hey, Jim, what's the matter with Firkin?' he said. ‘I've never seen these two behave like that …'

He stopped suddenly. Staring at him wasn't Jim, but a middle-aged woman with a face as furrowed as a pickled walnut.

‘Oh, sorry,' Dan muttered. ‘With the rain and your big coat and umbrella I thought you were someone else.'

‘So I see,' she said sniffily. ‘Come along now Beatrix,' she told the dog. ‘Let's leave this nasty rough beast and be getting home.'

Dan scowledand was about to find a suitably sharp rejoinder when the beautiful moment came. Its power rendered any speech impossible. In just an instant the park, the beating rain, the cold, the blackness of the winter night, all rushed away, receded in his mind. He stood, soaking, just staring.

The only thing Dan could see was Edward Bray, climbing out of his jeep, a dark figure waiting, hidden in the gloom, levelling the barrels of a shotgun and squeezing the trigger.

And now he knew just who that person was, and how the crime had been committed.

Chapter
Twenty-two

D
AN STUMBLED BACK HOME
, his mind a spin of thoughts. A taxi blared its horn as he wandered across the road, hardly even seeing the speeding headlights. The wash from a long puddle drenched him further, but Dan didn't notice. At the flat, as he fumbled the key into the lock, he reached for his mobile, then, with an afterthought, hesitated.

It was coming around to midnight. Not perhaps the ideal time to make a phone call.

Dan forced himself to wait and think. He grabbed an old towel, dried Rutherford, then patted some of the rain off his own face and hair. He didn't even comprehend that he was using the same towel.

All he could see was that evening, ten days ago, what he was now certain had happened then, and in the hours and days leading up to the moment of murder.

He filled the kettle, made himself a cup of coffee and wrapped his hands around the mug, only then realising he was cold. Dan dumped his wet clothes on the bathroom floor, turned on the shower, stood in its pummelling heat and let his mind ricochet through the case.

If he was right, there was only one way to solve it, and just one opportunity. It would have to be done tomorrow, and before nine o'clock in the morning.

There was no choice. He'd have to talk to Adam now.

He sipped at the coffee and flinched. He'd forgotten to put in either milk or sugar.

Dan wrapped himself in a towel and made the call.

Adam answered within three rings.

‘I'm sorry if I woke you,' Dan began.

‘You didn't. I was sitting up. Thinking.'

‘About the case?'

‘Yep.'

‘Get anywhere?'

‘No.'

Dan hesitated at the absurdity of what he was about to say. He was a television reporter, with a grand total of ten days experience of police investigations, and he was about to attempt to tell a Detective Chief Inspector how he thought a murder had been committed and then covered up.

‘Get on with it,' Adam prompted.

‘What?'

‘As it's almost midnight, I suspect it wouldn't be my most brilliant deduction to assume you haven't just rung for a friendly chat. I can hear the excitement in your voice. In fact, it sounds like you're being strangled. So come on, out with it.'

‘Well, now I'm talking to you it feels daft …'

‘Just get on and try me.'

Dan swallowed hard and did, blurted it all out in a rush of thought. He hardly took a breath in the whole monologue.

There was a silence on the end of the line.

‘Hmm,' came the eventual reply.

‘Hmm?'

‘Hmm.'

Rutherford nosed his way into Dan's legs, bit and tugged at the towel, but he eased the dog away. This was no time for games.

‘It could certainly explain much of the case,' Adam said at last.

‘Much?' Dan ventured mildly.

‘Well, most.'

‘All, even?'

‘Possibly.'

The line clicked and buzzed.

‘If your theory is correct,' Adam said slowly, ‘And I say– if, then there's still one big problem. The same one we hit earlier. The one I suspect we're always going to come up against.'

‘Proof?'

‘Yep.'

‘Well, I think the answer is still the same as earlier. If we can't find the evidence we need, then it'll have to be a confession.'

‘Yep. And in order to have any chance of that …'

‘We'll have to act now. Or first thing in the morning, at least.'

‘Yes,' Adam said thoughtfully. ‘And if that's to be the case, it'll take me a few hours to organise what we'll need.'

‘So – what do we do?'

‘We get organising. Or, at least, I do. You get some rest, tomorrow looks like being quite a day. Set your alarm for five a.m. I'll call you then with the details.'

Dan noticed his voice was suddenly unsteady. ‘OK.'

‘See you in a few hours then.' Adam paused, and then added, ‘Oh, and Dan?'

‘Yes.'

‘Bloody good thinking.'

Sometimes, sleeping is simply impossible. Whether it's as a child on Christmas Eve, or an adult the night before a big job interview, driving test, wedding or whatever, the excitement and nerves can never free your mind and leave the blissful space for delicious release.

Before the epiphany moment in the rain and wind and darkness of Hartley Park, Dan had felt tired. But no longer. He tried lying in bed, breathing deeply, imagining relaxing visions of long summer walks across Dartmoor with Rutherford, or paddling in secluded sun-blessed bays on the Cornwall coast.

But try as he might, he couldn't rest.

He looked for another distraction, began to work on Bonham's riddle again, screwed his eyes closed and imagined the characters floating in the darkness.

992 619U

And now something came. A vague thought at first, but fast building momentum. A dusty memory from college days. Of a lecture theatre, overly warm and dimly lit, rows of hundreds of baffled young faces. An exposition of organic chemistry, an aged professor extolling the virtues of carbon.

‘This element ahead of all others we should hold high,' the rather eccentric man had extolled, waving a ferrule like a wand. ‘For without it, you, me and all around us would not be here. Behold the mighty Carbon, sacred number six in the atomic scale!'

Dan tumbled out of bed. He strode into the lounge, flicked on the light, squinted at the bookcase and grabbed an old chemistry text book from one of the shelves. Rutherford padded in to see what the fuss was about.

Fast the pages turned. Dan flicked to the back of the book and found the chart he was looking for. It was the foundation stone of so much of science, the familiar shape of the twin columns at each end, the lines of boxes arrayed between them. After some scrabbling Dan found a piece of paper and a pen on the dining table in the bay window. He traced his way along the block of tiny rectangles and wrote down the letters which corresponded to the numbers.

And there, staring at him in smudgy blue ink, was the answer to Bonham's riddle.

So simple, and yet so smart.

And so offensive.

What an extraordinary night it was turning out to be. One of revelation upon realisation.

Dan's first thought was to find his phone and call Adamagain. But this was hardly the time. Plus, the detective would be far from impressed with the solution.

Rutherford yawned, turned, and headed back for the bedroom. Dan took the hint, placed the book back on the shelf and followed.

He tried once more to sleep, but of that there was now no hope whatsoever. The thought about what could come to pass in the next few hours in the Bray inquiry, along with finally finding the answer to Bonham's riddle meant sweet unconsciousness was a hopeless prospect.

At around half past two he admitted defeat. Dan got up, and sat on the great blue sofa, the duvet wrapped around him, listened to the late night radio and tried to read a book.

And as is often the way with sleep, the moment you start ignoring it, it takes offence and decides to come calling. Dan must have dozed off, because he was startled awake at just after five by the ringing of his mobile.

It was Adam, telling him to be at Charles Cross by six.

The preparations were laid. The plan was in place.

The car park of the police station was as busy as Dan had seen it. There were two large police vans, teams of officers milling around, chatting as they strapped on their protective gear. Four police cars were also lined up and ready to go, their headlights on, directed to illuminate the vans. The relentless rain drifted in the white beams and long shadows shifted across the tarmac as the men and women prepared for the raids.

A Tactical Aid Sergeant was giving a briefing, but it was short and less than informative.

‘As you know, we've had no time to do any reconnaissance or intelligence work on these houses, so we can't give you much idea of what you'll be up against. These are ordinary members of the public you're grabbing, so we don't expect too much trouble, but bear in mind this.'

The rumble of conversation died, and the man waited until he was sure he had everyone's attention, then added, ‘You're dealing with people who may have committed murder, and while we think it's unlikely there will be weapons in the houses, be ready for anything. Good luck.'

The teams continued donning their clothing, heavy boots, shin and knee pads, stab resistant and bullet-proof vests and helmets. A woman was checking the equipment in the back of a van. A small red battering ram with the words, “The Enforcer” handwritten on it in white paint, which she patted affectionately. Metal bars, mini fire extinguishers – which one officer had explained were used to calm angry dogs – and taser electric stun guns.

Dan caught a sight of Claire, bunching up her bob of hair, ready for the raid. Her figure was backlit by a headlamp, empasising the silhouette of her lips.

His long and lascivious stare was only broken by a heavy hand on his shoulder. Adam.

‘Impressive, eh?' he said. ‘Without being overly melodramatic, I always think of it as like the troops getting ready for battle.'

Dan nodded, but didn't speak. Adam peered at him. ‘This your first time on a raid?'

‘Yes,' Dan managed, his voice thin.

Adam gave him a look. ‘Without being rude, given my experience of you over the last ten days, I wouldn't say you're the bravest of men – are you?'

Dan shook his headand opened his mouth to speak, but words were proving elusive.

‘Well, don't worry,' the detective continued. ‘We'll ride with the troops, but they're going in first. We'll just watch and wait until it's all sorted. OK?'

Another nod.

‘Look, are you sure you want to come along?' Adam asked.

Dan hesitated, but then nodded once more.

‘You'd better,' Adam said. ‘Because all this is down to you and your little moment of inspiration. I just hope it's right.'

It was only a short drive from Charles Cross, no more than ten minutes or so. Dan sat right at the back of the van, squeezed between the wall and a police officer who was large in both height and girth.

The man kept clicking his knuckles in a less than reassuring way.

The banter which had flowed on the first part of the journey faded as they neared the target. The expressions of the men and women changed, grew implacable, focused. The windows of the van began to steam up with their steady breath.

Adam sat in the front, giving directions to the driver. The van lurched around one more corner and pulled up in the shadow between two streetlights. A police car drew up behind.

A glowing clock on the dashboard said the time was 6.15.

‘Right,' the sergeant whispered. ‘Final time checks. We hit at 6.20 precisely.'

There were two entry teams, Adam had explained earlier, one for each house. The raids would be carried out simultaneously, to eliminate any chance of either of their two targets being able to call the other.

Because, as they now understood, it was a conspiracy they were trying to crack.

The clock turned.

6.16.

The teams would smash their way through the front doors and rush into the house. They would flood each room until they found the people they were looking for. They would be arrested on suspicion of murder, given a few moments to dress if they were still in bed, then taken straight to Charles Cross for interview.

Time was vital. They had only until nine o'clock, perhaps a few minutes more if they were lucky, but not many. Nine was the deadline they had to work to.

The digits of the clock flickered and changed.

6.17.

Dan noticed his chest felt tight. He tried to breathe easily, think about what he and Kerry would do tonight. They could go out for a drink, but all the pubs would be packed with Christmas revellers and he wasn't sure he would be up to it after the lack of sleep and what might come to be an extraordinary day.

The day the Edward Bray murder case was solved.

Much of it down to him.

Or so he hoped.

What a ridiculous way to spend Christmas Eve.

6.18.

Adam had made his calls as soon as he and Dan had finished their midnight conversation. First, to the Deputy Chief Constable, who agreed the raids may be a little excessive, but given that they could serve to frighten and intimidate their suspects, and perhaps help to make them talk …

No further discussion was needed. The decision was made.

Then it was to a magistrate, for a warrant, or three warrants in fact. The woman had been unphased at the awakening call, listened carefully to the evidence and duly granted the police permission for their raids.

‘Three warrants?' Dan asked, surprised. ‘Surely just two.'

‘No,' Adam replied, enigmatically and annoyingly. ‘Three. I'm a detective too, remember? I've been working on a little idea of my own about what might lie behind the murder of Edward Bray. And funnily enough, I think it could just fit in with your inspiration about how the killing was carried out.'

Dan persisted in trying to find out what Adam was talking about, but he would say no more except that all would become clear later in the day.

The final task on the detective's list was to ring the Tactical Aid Group, to alert them to what would be required. They were entirely used to such calls and the arrangements were duly and quickly made.

Then, it was a few hours restless sleep.

Which brought them to now.

6.19.

The officers began climbing out of the van.

A woman took the lead. They jogged after her, two abreast, at the front the men carrying the “The Enforcer”, Dan and Adam at the back.

The street was classic suburbia, a line of neat terraced houses and parked cars, the streetlights on, the pavement shining with the rain. They passed a postbox, a bicycle propped against it, a couple of puddles splashing with their footfall. A white van rumbled past, trailing diesel fumes to taint the freshness of the early morning air.