The TV Detective (29 page)

A wave of rain sprayed on the tiny barred window.

‘Unless, you talk to us, so we can tell the judge you were forced into what you did – that you went along with it because Gordon and Andrew pushed you to. And that will mean you'll get a substantially shorter sentence.'

No reaction.

‘Which will mean you do get out in a reasonable time. And you do get to see your wife and son again. And you've got some chance of a future.'

Still no response.

‘Mr Stead!' Adam barked. ‘Are you listening to me? I'm trying to help you!'

The man looked up, but only briefly. His eyesquickly slid back to the floor. And there they stayed, despite the questions, threats and cajolements Adam continued to rain down upon him, an armoury of pressure and persuasion built up over the years of the detective's experience.

The time was a quarter to eight. They had seventy-five minutes left, and so far they'd made no progress.

Nice and nasty had quickly turned to not so nice and noxious. But whatever they tried, it still wasn't working.

Stead shivered occasionally, squirmed and shifted in his seat once or twice, but stared resolutely at the floor and would not answer the questions.

‘Jonathan,' Suzanne said quietly. ‘We want to help you. But we can only do that if you talk to us.'

Then, still without lifting his head, and in a faltering voice, Stead said, ‘I have nothing to say to you until my lawyer is here.'

Suzanne and Adam exchanged glances. The words came like a schoolchild reciting something drilled into them in long and repeated lessons, learned by rote and repeated by instinct.

Adam got up and stalked out of the door.

There are different forms of silence, and in that dawn hour they heard three. Stead's was nervous and frightened, Hicks's smug and Clarke's arrogant, but all were steadfast and effective, and none of them were any use as evidence.

And they were fast running out of time.

It was half past eight and they'd trudged back upstairs to the MIR. Adam stood at the felt boards, Suzanne by a desk, Dan next to the windows. After last night's sleeplessness and the busyness of the last ten days, the tiredness had started to creep up on him. He'd tried perching on a desk, but then stood back up again. This was no time for sitting down.

He would have a rest tomorrow, Christmas Day, but not before.

‘The bastards,' Adam hissed. ‘They've planned this damn well. Not just the cunning of the bloody killing, but what to do if we got close to them. They know staying silent is the best way to frustrate us. They must have agreed beforehand and drilled it into each other, not to say a thing.'

‘Yes, sir,' Suzanne agreed. ‘I think you're right. And I don't know what we can do. We've tried just about everything. Unless you've got any other ideas?'

It was a measure of the growing desperation of the moment that she even glanced at Dan, but neither he nor Adam replied. There was nothing to say. They'd used up an hour of precious time, and had got nowhere. In perhaps a little over thirty minutes Julia Francis would arrive and fleeing quickly before her would be any hope of solving the case.

After talking to Stead – or trying to, as the case might more accurately be described– they'd had Hicks brought to the interview room. The moment he walked in the door it was apparent they would get nothing. The man was smirking.

Adam stood over him, said simply, ‘We know what you did. We know all about your switch of identities.'

‘No comment.'

‘We know about your little away day.'

‘No comment.'

‘We know about Bristol, the phones, the cashpoint, the texts, the lot.'

‘No comment.'

‘You might as well admit it. We've got you.'

And now the smirk became a smile.

‘No comment.'

‘You're going to be charged with your part in murder and you're going to prison for many long years.'

The smile grew, and the scorn in the voice with it.

‘Really? No comment.'

‘I hope you've got something more convincing than that to say when you're standing in the dock, before a jury.'

And now Adam succeeded in forcing the longest response in the series of interviews he'd carried out this morning, but it was by no means any more helpful.

‘You're not getting this, are you?' Hicks said, sarcastically. ‘Then let me spell it out for you, nice and simply. I have no comment to make. I will not be saying anything until my solicitor arrives. Is that clear enough?'

Finally they had tried Clarke, all the while aware that it was hopeless. As they were now sure, he was the ringleader, the brains behind the plan and the motivator. Of the three, he was the least likely to crack.

Still, Adam and Suzanne did their best. Not get on though they may, Dan had to admit her opening question was a stinger.

‘How does it feel to be a murderer, Mr Clarke?'

But the only reaction she got was a look of amusement.

‘Funny is it?' Adam added. ‘Killing someone? Taking their life?'

Now the look changed to contempt.

‘No comment.'

‘We know what you did. How you hid in that lay-by. How you waited for Bray to arrive. How you shot him, right in the heart, how you kicked him in the face afterwards and watched him die and how you dumped the gun in the field.'

‘No comment.'

‘How you planned the crime and how you covered it up.'

‘No comment.'

‘How you did it because you thought it gave you a chance with Eleanor Paget. So, what chance do you think you'll have with her when you're charged with murder and sitting in a cell, waiting for your trial?'

Clarke shook his head contemptuously. ‘You can try whatever you like, but I won't be saying anything until my solicitor arrives.'

And nor had he. Clarke gave a long and very pointed yawn, folded his arms on the table, rested his head on them and ignored every other question that was put to him.

The interview was finally concluded when the businessman started emitting melodramatic snores.

By this time, Adam's neck was red and throbbing, and two more conversations with the Deputy Chief Constable had only frayed his temper further. Dan too had received an unwelcome call of his own. It was Lizzie, it was Christmas Eve, there was nothing happening in the world of television and she wanted a story.

‘Every selfish sod is out having fun rather than creating news,' she said. ‘So I want a report on the Bray case, I want it exclusive, I want it good and I want it by lunchtime.'

Dan had tentatively raised the question with Adam as they walked back up the stairs and been surprised by the reaction.

‘You'll be getting a story OK,' he grunted. ‘It'll be – “pissed-off police admit defeat and give up on trying to find the killer of Edward bloody Bray”.'

The clock laboured around to twenty to nine.

‘So,' Adam said, heavily. ‘Last chance. We've got twenty minutes. Any thoughts? What do we do?'

Suzanne shook her head. ‘We've tried everything. We've got nothing left to throw at them.'

‘Dan?' Adam prompted. ‘Come on, you've come up with some decent ideas. I'll take anything at this stage.'

‘I have to say, I agree with Suzanne. I reckon we've tried everything. I thought Stead was the most likely to break, but he's been too well trained. He's been conditioned into saying nothing.'

‘So that's it? We're done? We're beaten? Is that it?'

Sometimes a silence can say much more than mere words.

The clock ticked on. A quarter to nine.

‘Let's try Stead again,' Dan heard himself say. ‘I still reckon he's the only hope. Let's give him anything we can think of. It must be worth a go.'

Adam shrugged. ‘Yeah, why not? What else have we got?'

Chapter
Twenty-four

A
MANNER OF WALKING
can give away a great deal. As they headed back down the stairs to the Interview Room, Dan thought how very different Adam's gait had become in just a couple of hours. Before the raids he was moving fast and upright, full of purpose and energy. Now he walked slowly and with a weariness befitting someone who expected only defeat.

It was as if the passage of only a short time had sapped a disproportionate degree of spirit.

A couple of young, uniformed cops bid them chirpy good mornings as they passed on the stairs, but Adam only grunted in return.

All the way down to the custody suite, Dan searched the recesses of his mind for a way to get Stead talking. Adam was convinced that if they could just get a few sentences out of the man, break through his conditioning of silence, he would open up and the case would be cracked.

There had to be a way. His was the most fragile of the defences they faced. It could be breached. It was surely only a question of how.

There was just the one possibility teasing Dan's thoughts. He let it linger and grow, then felt the weight of reality come to bear and dismissed it. It was far too ridiculous a way to try to tempt a man to admit to his role in a murder.

Anyway, it was hardly his part, at this most crucial moment of the investigation, to start chipping in with his own far-fetched ideas.

The professional detectives, Adam and Suzanne would handle the final questioning, as so they should. He would play the part he had been given from the start. He would watch and learn.

But Dan stored the thought, just in case, like a desperate gambler with a last card.

They reached the entrance to the custody suiteand were about to head for the Interview Rooms when Dan said, ‘Hold on.'

‘What?' Adam replied. ‘Come on, we don't have time to mess about.'

‘Why don't we talk to him in his cell?'

‘What? How does that help?'

‘Psychology. Let him see the reality of what he'll face in prison. Metal bars and cold brick, surrounding him.'

‘Bit wild, isn't it?'

‘I'd take any possible advantage at the moment, wouldn't you?'

Adam rolled his eyes, but headed for the cells. Suzanne, though, nodded and said, ‘Good idea.'

Dan was too surprised to reply.

They walked along the corridor, passing the steel doors, one by one, heading towards Stead's cell. The hard soles of Adam's shoes beat harsh and loud in the narrow space. From behind one door came the sound of a man being violently sick.

It was ten to nine.

One of the lights towards the end of the corridor was fading and flickering. The smell of strong disinfectant lingered in the still air.

The shadow of a mouse slipped around a corner.

They reached Stead's cell.

Adam hesitated, then opened it.

The man was still sitting on that thin blue mattress, staring at the floor. In his face, as he looked up, there was an expression of hope.

Adam saw it and leapt upon it. ‘No such luck I'm afraid. No one's come to free you. And no one will be coming. You'll be spending a very long time in prison, unless you start talking to us.'

Stead returned to his study of the ground. They edged into the cell, fanned out around him, Dan and Suzanne to each side of Adam. They were packed together, side to side. The tiny space now felt chokingly claustrophobic.

‘This is your last chance, Mr Stead,' Adam said. ‘If you don't talk to us now, I'll have no choice but to charge you with murder. I know you didn't do the actual killing, but I'll have no evidence to prove it wasn't you. And that means a long time in prison.' He waited, then spelled out the words again.

‘A – very – long – time – in – prison.'

Stead was shaking his head, slowly, but still he didn't speak.

‘This is what you'll have to get used to,' Adam continued, gesturing to the confines of the cell. ‘A tiny little, cold, miserable home. In fact, even that's not the truth of it. This is luxury compared to what'll happen to you. Prisons are dreadfully overcrowded these days. You'll be sharing a cell this size with a couple of other men. You'll hardly have the room to breathe. And they're unlikely to be the sort of people you'd want to share a country with, let alone a little cell. Hardened criminals … gangsters … murderers … rapists …'

The detective waited, then his voice changed, became more chirpy. ‘Mind you, they do let you out of the cells occasionally. I suppose that's something to look forward to. You'll probably get – I don't know, say … maybe half an hour a day for a little walk around the prison yard.'

As a note of optimism, it was beautifully and effectively discordant.

‘And there's something else I should mention,' Adam went on. ‘You're probably imagining that you'll be in a prison somewhere near here, so whatever's left of your family – whoever still wants to know you, if that's anyone at all – can come and visit. Well, I'm sorry to have to say, that's not going to happen either. We don't have any prisons fit for newly convicted killers anywhere close to Devon. Most murderers get taken to a jail miles up north. You'll be lucky to see a friendly face twice a year.'

And now another change of tone, more sympathetic. ‘I don't envy you for what you're having to cope with, I can certainly tell you that. All this – and at Christmas too. When the rest of us are looking forward to going home and being with our families and having some good food and drink and enjoying ourselves, and you'll be sitting in the cells. Your so-called mates Gordon and Andrew have really dumped you in it, haven't they?'

Stead raised his hands, clamped them over his ears. Adam leaned forwards, so his mouth was just a few inches from the side of the man's head and said, ‘Still, let's look on the bright side. At least it'll give you time to get used to how the next fifteen years of your life are going to be, eh?'

He took a step backwards, into the doorway of the cell.

‘Last chance, Mr Stead. If you talk to us now, I promise you I'll tell the judge it wasn't your idea to kill Edward Bray and that you were dragged along by the other two. And that'll mean you'll get out of prison much more quickly. Your – choice …'

Adam waited expectantly, his eyes fixed on the thin, hunched figure sitting in the miserable cell. But Stead didn't move, didn't even react. And now Suzanne stepped forwards and sat gently next to him, her voice that of a kindly and favourite aunt.

‘We can help you, Jonathan. Let us help you.'

Stead flinched, shifted a little away from her, but on the tiny bed there was nowhere to go.

‘Let us help you,' she repeated, kindly. ‘And perhaps more importantly, let us help your family. That poor wife of yours, imagine how she'll feel when you're locked up for life. How's she going to cope? And what about your son? It's poor Joseph I feel for the most in all this. He's going to grow up without a dad. What's your wife going to say when he starts asking questions about where you are?'

‘I couldn't imagine not seeing my son growing up,' Adam added from the door. ‘Every day is a joy. That's the point of fatherhood, isn't it? You'll miss out on all that. Bizarrely enough, knowing what little I do of you, I think you might have made a good father. And of course, when he gets a little older, he's going to need his dad, to help him through the troubles of adolescence. And where will you be? In a prison cell, rotting away.'

‘So,' Suzanne said. ‘Let us help you. None of that needs to happen. If you just talk to us.'

Stead pushed himself further against the cold bricks of the unyielding wall and clamped his hands harder over his ears. They were white with the pressure. He was muttering to himself, repeating, ‘No, no, no, no,' over and over again.

Adam and Suzanne exchanged looks, nodded to each other. The tiredness had left Adam's face. He looked keen, alert, his eyes bright.

There was a crack in the fortress. They were close to the breakthrough.

But it was five to nine.

‘Come on, Jonathan,' Suzanne said. ‘Just talk to us. It wasn't your idea, any of this, was it? It was Gordon's. Andrew got caught up in it and pulled you along too. I know you think they're your friends, but look what they've got you into. You don't owe them a thing. They told you that you couldn't possibly get caught, didn't they? And now look what's happened.'

‘You're sitting in a police cell,' Adam continued. ‘On Christmas Eve, when you should be with your family. And you're looking at a life sentence for murder.'

Stead was rocking now, just a little, back and forth, his hands still clamped to his ears, his lips mouthing unintelligible words. He'd shrunk into himself, as if to try to escape this place of torment.

‘So talk to us, Jonathan,' Suzanne said. ‘And we'll look after you.'

Adam glanced at his watch. It was almost nine o'clock. They had minutes, if that. Julia Francis and the other solicitors could be on their way here, even at the police station's front desk, demanding to see their clients.

Suzanne was leaning forwards, had laced an arm around Stead's shoulders. He didn't react, didn't even seem to notice. Adam was staring intently, his fists in tight knots.

They were so close.

The scales were balanced. Just another little ounce of pressure would do it.

Dan nudged Adam. The detective's head snapped round. Dan leaned over, whispered a couple of words in his ear. Adam's brow furrowed. The disbelief was clear. But then came a slight nod.

Stead let out a low whine, his feet twisting on the cold concrete floor.

Dan swallowed hard, found his voice. It felt breathless and hollow and he had to concentrate hard to form the words.

‘You know what I'd miss most about being locked up for so long, Jonathan?' he said. ‘I think it'd be my hobby. Every man needs his little passion, something to get lost in and love. I'd be desperate without mine. I go walking with my idiot of a dog. We hike across the moors, around the coasts, anywhere really. I love the sense of space and nature and escape from the everyday world. I suppose, in a way, yours gives you the same sort of thing. With you it's fishing, isn't it?'

Stead's feet stopped their continual shifting. Dan could have sworn the man's hands lost some of their pasty whiteness as they released a little of the pressure on his ears.

So often in life, words don't come remotely close to being able to describe a feeling. They can be as solid as clouds. And to Dan, this was just such a moment. Absurd, idiotic, ridiculous, any one of a range of similar descriptions didn't have a hope of doing it justice.

He was trying to trap a man into confessing to his part in a murder by talking about fishing.

But Stead was listening. He was sure of it.

And so he went on. There was nowhere else to go.

‘I used to go fishing,' Dan continued. ‘When I was a kid. Freshwater fishing, not in the sea like you. I loved those summer days when the sun beat down and the river just slipped by and occasionally you'd get a bite. I think it was the excitement of not knowing what it was you were about to reel in. That's the fun of it, isn't it? Knowing that at any moment the big one could bite.'

Stead straightened a little, his eyes flashing up from the floor.

It was working. Dan had no idea how or why, he just knew the words were having an effect. Perhaps it was because his was a different voice, not the stern and intimidating sound of the law that was Adam, or the false friendliness of Suzanne, but someone else. Someone who was not a part of this new hell into which Jonathan Stead's life had been transported.

Or perhaps it was the vision of a favourite escape, a treasured pastime, a way to be free from the confines of the cell and the threat of many more years of incarceration to come.

But whatever, it was working.

Adam was nodding hard.

But the clock was ticking ever on. It was now a couple of minutes past nine.

The tannoy crackled and boomed.

‘Mr Breen, you have a visitor in reception. Urgent.'

Adam's eyes widened. Francis was here. Their time was almost up.

He nudged Dan with a sharp elbow.

‘You know,' Dan said, wondering what else to say, but just aware that he should keep going, ‘I used to like doing fishing stories. When I covered the environment I did quite a few, it's such a popular hobby. I used to like going out and talking to anglers and reporting on what they were up to. I suppose it took me back to my childhood. Mind you, that was before my job got changed. I do miss it sometimes.'

Stead had raised his head, was almost looking up. His eyes were unfocused, as if he was lost in his imagination.

The tannoy boomed again, the voice more insistent now.

‘Mr Breen, you have an urgent call to reception. Please respond.'

Adam stretched out a foot and eased the cell door closed.

‘You fish in the Sound, don't you?' Dan continued. ‘I did a story there last year, about how the water company kept releasing polluted …'

‘I know.'

The words were only thin and soft, but they stopped Dan in a second. Stead was looking up at him, nodding gently. Adam, Suzanne, both were frozen, as if frightened to break the moment.

‘You gave us the news,' Stead said softly. ‘You told us. They tried to keep it quiet, but you told us.'

Dan nodded, but found he hardly knew what to say. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. I thought you deserved to know. Is – is the Sound your favourite place to fish?'

‘No. I like the river, but Andrew...'

Stead stopped. Something unpleasant had intruded on the vision.

And Dan saw the opportunity.

‘You don't like him, do you?'

Stead raised a hand, bit at a fingernail.

‘No. I used to, but …'