The TV Detective (4 page)

Instead, Dan hinted at it, reported the victim was thought to be a well-known local businessman. He used a clip of Adam Breen, saying the man had been shot at close range and that a major investigation was getting underway. The story concluded with Dan's piece to camera, telling the viewers the police wanted any witnesses to come forward.

As they checked the report back, Dan found himself wondering which of Edward Bray's many enemies had been hiding in the rain and darkness of a lay-by, waiting with a shotgun, finally resolved on a course of action and ready to end a life. The slight pressure of a finger on a trigger, an echoing blast, a flare of fire and the shock of sudden death in one short second.

It reeked of hate and loathing, a septic grudge long nurtured and an irresistible lust for revenge. It was the stuff of books.

Dan wandered slowly downstairs to his car. It took a while to notice the rain had stopped. He aimed a grateful nod at the sky and drove the half mile home.

When he got back to the flat, he let Rutherford out and watched the dog scrabble around the corner to the garden. Dan stood in the doorway and gazed up at a clearing of stars in the night sky. He didn't once think of the tablets in the bathroom cupboard, or the whisky in the kitchen, both of which he had feared would be needed to help him through the dark hours of the coming night.

He was too busy wondering what tomorrow would bring, as the hunt for the person who killed Edward Bray began.

He had an idea too. One which, if he could pull it off, would prove immensely helpful and even more fascinating.

Chapter
Three

T
HERE ARE DAYS IN
the darkest pits of December and January, the dreaded nadir of the sullen English winter, when it never truly gets light. The best you can hope is for the night to reluctantly give way to an opaque greyness at somewhere approaching nine o'clock in the morning, and for that dour, slatey state to persist until about three in the afternoon, when it simply gets dark again.

This was one of those days. But Dan hardly noticed.

He woke early, soon after six, feeling awake and refreshed, and took Rutherford for a run before getting in to the office well before eight. He didn't go into the newsroom, that would be to invite all kinds of incredulous comments, and, more importantly, distractions. Instead Dan made straight for the corner of the building that was the News Library, unheralded repository of almost fifty years of the wisdom of the South-west. Since the inception of
Wessex Tonight
no important event had unfolded in the region that wasn't recorded in pictures, interviews and commentary here.

Here too was Edward Bray, a living memory, and Dan wanted to get a better sense of the man.

He checked the computer's index, rifled through the lines of shelves of video tapes, found the ten or so which contained stories on Bray, sat at one of the players and began to watch. Dan could vaguely recall some of the reports about him, most, as El had so memorably put it last night, on the theme of Bray the Bastard, at least in subtext. But what he discovered was both a surprise and a puzzle.

The first stories fitted the stereotype. There were a couple, dating back several years. Bray was a property manwho owned scores of houses and flats in Plymouth, and a change in the law had prompted him to remove a swathe of tenants before they accrued powerful new rights over how long they could stay in their homes, and what they could demand of the landlord.

Some of the people had tried to fight, so many in fact that two days had been set aside for the dozens of hearings at Plymouth County Court.

The report started with a group of people standing outside court, chanting “Save our homes, save our families.” Some were waving placards, all bearing the words “Bray the Homebreaker”. There were men, women and children too, even a couple of babes in arms, wailing along with the cacophony.

The reporter explained the protest was to draw attention to their cause, forty families facing eviction from Bray's properties. As the day went on, family after family emerged from court, almost all in tears, all saying they had lost and would be evicted within a month. By the end of the day, even the judge had expressed sympathy with the people brought before her, but had also made it very clearthat the law was quite straightforward. If the landlord wanted the families out, then out they had to go.

The most powerful interview was with a man called Andrew Hicks. His wife stood beside him, her face hidden behind her hands, her muffled sobbing audible. He hugged her closeand told the reporter, “We've lived in that house for nine years. We moved there to care for my mum, who's been getting more and more frail. She's just over the road. We've got friends all along the street. We love it. We were going to start our own family there, when the time was right. And now he's thrown us out for no better reason than that he's worried we might make him splash out a few hundred quid on some decorating.” Hicks's voice broke, before he rallied and finished with a choking, “The man's got no heart. Bray's a bastard, pure and simple.”

The next story came from the following night. There were more protests at court, but this time the banners had changed. Andrew Hicks' emotive motif had found resonance. All read. “Bray the Bastard”. But the outcome of the day remained a familiar one. Another twenty families facing eviction.

There was no interview with Bray in either report. He'd refused to speak to any of the media. The best
Wessex Tonight
had managed was a snatched shot of him disappearing into a taxi. But even in that, Bray managed to convey his feelings. Behind his back, he flicked a V sign at the camera.

Dan tapped the desk in mock applause. The man was a pantomime villain. All he needed was a black cape, a fiendish cackle and a damsel in distress to tie to a railway line and the image was complete.

There was another report, dating from a few months later, when Bray evicted yet another swath of tenants from more of his houses. This time an MP got involved, pleading with the government for a change in the law. But the wheels of democracy never grind fast, if ever they grind at all, and the plea was briefly pontificated upon before being entirely ignored.

A year later came another story, and this time it was edged with new fury. Bray suffered days of protests outside his offices before the issue quietened. Some of the demonstrators were positively frothing and near-apoplectic. It was, Dan thought, the businessman's own daft miscalculation. This time, Bray had picked not on mere expendable humans, but instead, defenceless animals, and, even worse, that bastion of English society, most treasured and untouchable of pets, the domestic feline.

The Wessex Home for Unwanted Cats was in financial trouble and in desperate need of a saviour. A fine Georgian building, just outside the city centre, it could hardly have been more attractive to a property developer. Word went round that Bray was in talks about its future. But this rumour had a most unexpected twist; that on this occasion the secretive businessman was motivated not by money but emotion. He was, it was said, a cat man himself; he had a couple of much favoured felines of his own.

The future was purring happily.

But as so often with rumours, they were on the hopelessly wrong side of utterly misguided.

Bray bought the home, gave the staff and their beloved felines notice to quit, and with that brought down upon himself all the vitriol and venom of this cat-loving nation. It was only a quadrupling of the three-month period of notice which finally eased the protests at his doors.

Dan got up and wandered down to the canteen to get himself a coffee. He noticed he was starting to like Edward Bray. If not personally pleasant, then the man was a journalist's dream. He had as much regard for public opinion as a merchant banker, sailing away from a grinding recession on his luxury yacht, heading for sunnier climes and sipping idly at an expensive gin and tonic funded by the vast pension he had never worked at all hard to deserve in any way.

The fast beat of stilettos in the car park outside brought Dan back to the canteen. Lizzie: wearing stalactite heels early in the day. A danger sign if ever there was one. He quickly wrapped himself in a handy curtain and waited for her to pass.

The first stage of his great plan required that he had to sell her the idea. But, before that, he needed to weigh the odds in his favour, and that meant finding out more about Edward Bray. Dan peered furtively out of the door. There was no sign of his insane editor. He walked quickly back up to the library and closed the door.

Now came the surprise.

Dan had a few more Bray reports to work throughand was ready to find further tales of evictions and protests. But instead he uncovered a hitherto unsuspected heart.

The man had saved a hospice.

St Jude's was in trouble. Tempestuous economic times meant donations had dried up, and the institution was in danger of going under.
Wessex Tonight
carried a couple of stories warning the end was, if not exactly nigh, then perhaps only months away. Some of the interviews with patients were powerfully moving, one old man talking about how he would have died alone in his cold flat were it not for St Jude's. A young woman spoke about the wonderful care it gave her mother, and the precious gift of dignity it bestowed in the woman's dying days.

The hospice had a proud history of more than a hundred and twenty years of such work, thousands of grateful supporters, and the finest of reputations.

Imagine then, the shock when Edward Bray was spotted meeting its trustees at a local hotel.

St Jude's was another place over which any property developer would salivate. It was a detached and elegant Victorian building, in beautiful grounds on the cliffs overlooking the great natural harbour of Plymouth Sound and the east Cornwall coast. The views were stunning, which surely gave real comfort to the patients. But they would also give delight to the potential owners of the scores of flats into which the grand old building could be converted, and help to persuade them to part with impressively large sums of money.

The story had been covered in all the local media. Dan clicked at his computer, checking the online archives. The newspaper headlines made the simple point. “The Bastard Poised to do for the Hospice” read one, ‘Angel of Death for the Hospice” said another.

There were interviews aplenty with fearful residents and their relatives, some even pleading with Bray not to close the place they had come to so depend upon.

‘Fat chance,' Dan muttered to himself. ‘The milkman of human kindness has hardly been a regular caller at his door.'

But then came the surprise. Or perhaps shock might have been a better word. To put it mildly.

Edward Bray had saved St Jude's.

Even the tone of the
Wessex Tonight
report was incredulous. The hospice had released a statement saying that a “very sizeable” donation from Bray meant its future was secured for many long years to come. There were no ifs and buts, no caveats, no provisos or conditions. It was a simple gift, an act of pure generosity and humanity.

Dan choked and nearly spat out his coffee. He had to rewind the tape to check what he'd just seen.

By request of Mr Bray, no one from the hospice would be giving interviews, and nor would the man himself. And there the story more or less rested. Many had made attempts to find out what was behind the donation, but with little success. The nearest any of the journalists came was an unsubstantiated suspicion that Bray's mother had been a patient at St Jude's before her death eight years ago.

Dan scribbled a couple of notes on his pad, sat back and stared at the screen, the fleeting image of Bray getting into a taxi captured on it. A chunky man, with short, fair hair and a ruddy complexion. In his early thirties in that image, he would have been pushing forty when he was killed by a shotgun blast in a dark and lonely lay-by.

‘Who the hell are you then?' Dan muttered. ‘Come on, make up your mind. Is it philanthropist, or just a bastard businessman? And who, of that very respectable list of enemies you managed to make, wanted you dead so badly as to go ahead and do it?'

He picked up his satcheland headed for the newsroom.

It was time for the next phase of the plan to get underway.

Lizzie was sitting at her desk, a whimsical smile on her face. She was one of those rare people whom smiling just didn't suit. Her lips were too thin for the expression to work, made it look more like a warrior's satisfaction at the death of a bitter foe than any form of human pleasure. It was as effective as painting a little grinning face on a hand grenade.

A Lizzie smile could also indicate trouble in exactly the same way as did the height of her shoes.

Dan approached with due caution.

‘Ah,' she said, spotting him instantly. ‘Just the person I was looking for. Our new crime correspondent. And with a corker of a maiden story to launch his new career. Good to see that you're in early to work on it.'

‘Extra early in fact.'

‘Oh?'

Dan explained about his hour in the libraryand what he had found. Before she could interject, he added, ‘I think we have to get into the case in depth. We need to find out who Bray really was and why he did the things he did.'

‘And how do you propose to do that? We haven't managed to crack it before. And he's not exactly likely to talk now, is he?'

Dan put on a good-natured smile for his editor's idea of wit. ‘No, but the police are going to have to go into his life in detail to try to find out who it was that killed him.'

‘Granted. And?'

‘And getting into all the minutiae of their investigation is what we need to make stories for us.'

She looked more interested. ‘So how do you plan to go about that?'

‘You sit on those police liaison meetings, don't you? You're friendly with the senior officers.'

‘Yeah, dull but necessary. Come on, get to the point. What're you thinking?'

‘How about getting me in to shadow the Bray investigation? It could be good for us and the cops. They get to put out a positive message about the progress they're making. I get the inside track on the inquiry, and more importantly I get a crash course in detective work. I'm going to need it for the new job.'

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Not a bad idea. There's something else we could use too.'

‘What?'

‘There's an election due soon and we've got some key marginal seats in the region. The Home Office would love a bit of good news on the law and order front. If I have a word with a couple of local MPs too they could help pave the way. Right, I'll do it later. But first …'

There was always a but with Lizzie, and usually more than one. Her mind was a fruitful breeding ground for caveats.

‘Yes?' Dan said, trying not to sound wary.

‘One of the researchers knows Bray's dad. He wants to speak out about his son being killed. Get to it. I want a report for the lunchtime news. I want poignancy and emotion. I want – “He may have been a bastard, but he didn't deserve to die.” I want a live broadcast too. I want the works and I want it good. Go on then, what are you waiting for?'

Dan wasn't waiting. He was heading for the door. As he was about to leave, she called, ‘Do I get the feeling you're starting to get into this new job?'

‘I'm reserving judgement,' he replied.