by Simon Hall
Start with your best bet, your most indiscreet and trusted source. A senior detective who’d be happy to answer any questions after the time they’d spent together investigating the murder of the notorious businessman Edward Bray, the hunt for the serial rapist stalking Plymouth and their efforts to crack the riddle of the Death Pictures. They’d become good friends, not that anyone else knew that. It wouldn’t help either of their careers. Dan fished his mobile out of his pocket.
‘Evening, Dan.’ Detective Chief Inspector Adam Breen sounded unruffled by the late-night call. ‘I was expecting to hear from you. Before you ask, yes I am the duty detective, and yes, I am working on the shooting. But there’s not much I can tell you.’
‘Hang on,’ Dan replied, wedging the mobile under his chin and trying to write some notes with his other hand. He stood back from where a pack of journalists was starting to gather, wanted to keep any juicy details to himself. ‘Go ahead.’
‘This didn’t come from me, of course.’
‘Naturally.’
‘We got a 999 call here earlier this evening, about nine o’clock. It sounded like a nasty assault, possibly involving a weapon, so we scrambled an armed response vehicle. The marksmen had to kick down the door to get in. Following that a man was shot dead. I can’t give you any more details because I’m just here holding the fort. As it’s a fatal shooting by the police the Independent Police Complaints Authority are coming in to investigate.’
‘Great, that’s really helpful Adam, thanks. At least I’ve got enough to put something sensible in my report.’
‘One more thing you should know Dan. The man the IPCA are sending is notorious in police circles. We call him the Smiling Assassin. Be wary.’
He cut the call before Dan could ask anything else. Who the hell was the Smiling Assassin? It sounded like something from a film. And Adam’s voice when he said it, those words spat out as if he’d tasted something rank.
He rang the London newsroom and passed on the information. As Dan had suspected, it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near. They demanded a report, right now, on the phone. The pressure to be first with any breaking news was intense. They’d use a photo of Dan and a map of where the shooting had happened to cover his words.
‘With you in two mins,’ came a voice. ‘After this package on NHS reform.’
Dan scanned around him, tried to work out something sensible to say. When you didn’t have any pictures to show the viewers a TV reporter had to think like his radio colleagues and create the images with words.
‘One minute, standby.’
Dan scribbled a couple of notes on his pad. Even with Adam’s information, he knew very little. Some padding was called for, and a little drama.
‘Breaking news now,’ came the presenter’s voice down the phone. She sounded animated. Breaking stories were the very soul of the 24-hour news channels.
‘A man’s been shot dead by the police in Cornwall. Our reporter Dan Groves joins us live from the scene, in the town of Saltash.’
‘Cue!’ came the director’s voice.
‘Around me here is a scene of intense police activity,’ Dan began. ‘The house where the shooting happened is in a quiet residential neighbourhood of the small Cornish riverside town of Saltash. Tonight, its usual tranquillity has very much been banished. There are scores of police officers here, and the scene has been cordoned off while forensics tests are carried out. Armed police were called here at around nine o’clock this evening after reports of an assault in a house, probably involving a weapon. A senior police source tells me the marksmen were denied entry to the house and had to kick in the door. Following that the man was shot dead, but the circumstances of that shooting are not clear. An independent investigation is already getting underway.’
Dan was thanked and the bulletin was on to the next story, something about a hunt for whales in the Far East. They would have recorded his report as it went out, could replay it for the next few hours. That would keep them off his back for a while. Precious time to get on with the story.
The press pack was gathering, a couple of newspaper reporters, some photographers, a TV crew and a radio reporter, fiddling with her microphone. Dan tugged Nigel away and they walked over to the onlookers to do a couple of vox pop interviews.
They gathered wherever there was trouble. Sightseeing ghouls, human vultures unable to resist the sweet lure of death. Their replies were always the same, ‘Oh, it’s terrible … shocking … who’d have thought it … in such a lovely quiet area as this too …’ But they could never quite disguise their enjoyment. Still, their interviews added useful colour to pad out his report.
‘What next then?’ asked Nigel. ‘I’ve got as many pictures of the area as you’ll need.’
‘We wait,’ said Dan. ‘At some point, someone official will have to come out and give us a statement. When we’ve got that, we’ll have enough to fill a report for tomorrow’s breakfast bulletins. Then we can go home and get some rest, though it’ll be back here early for more of the same.’
Dan kicked at a stone, thought his way through the story. People and pictures were the golden keys to TV news. Their interviews with the onlookers would do for the human element. Officialdom would comment when it finally deigned so to do, as was its way. They had plenty of shots of police activity, but needed to see the house where the shooting happened. That was the next priority. But how?
A chubby face, wild hair, a looming grin and an enormous telephoto lens suggested there may be an answer. Dirty El, shameless paparazzo, was heading over and he looked pleased with himself.
‘Hi Dan! You’re late. I was wondering when you’d get here.’
‘Ah, El. I should have known you’d be here first. One of your seedy little contacts tip you off, did they?’
El wasn’t at all abashed. ‘It’s a profitable investment, making sure some hard-working officers of the law receive the golden bottles of single malt Christmas gifts they so richly deserve.’
‘Get anything good? The police aren’t letting us near the house and we need to get some shots of it.’
El’s grin widened and he hopped from foot to foot. Dan sensed one of the photographer’s dreadful rhymes was about to be born. He wasn’t disappointed.
‘If poor El can’t fly,
But he yearns for the sky,
He must try out a spoof,
To get him up on the roof,
And pep up his cash flow to high!’
Dan sighed. ‘Translation?’
‘They wouldn’t let poor El through the cordon either. But I have the advantage of this beautiful long lens,’ he giggled, stroking it lovingly, ‘and the old El charm and guile of course.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Nigel. El’s creativity in pursuit of a lucrative picture was legendary.
‘See that house over there?’ The photographer pointed to a semi-detached, modern building across the road. ‘Notice anything useful about it?’
Dan studied the house. It looked absolutely average, except for the roof.
‘Have you been up in that skylight?’
‘Bingo!’ cried El, his grin widening. ‘Full house for the man on the TV. Got a lovely shot down the street to the house where the shooting happened. Lots of cops and forensics people outside too. I reckon I’m the only snapper with it. Should be worth a few quid to the papers.’
‘How did you get them to let you use the roof?’
‘Never underestimate the old El charm.’
‘Details?’
‘Well, the guy wasn’t too keen at first. But then I saw he had a For Sale sign up. The house had been on the market for a few months and there hadn’t been much interest, so I said – how about some professionally done photos, perhaps with a nice warm tint from one of my clever filters? I humbly suggested they’d make the place look a whole lot better in a brochure. He nearly bit my arm off.’
‘El, you’re a filthy genius,’ said Dan, with a sly glance at Nigel. The cameraman pursed his lips. He knew exactly what his frien
d was thinking.
‘I don’t suppose you could introduce us to the guy, could you?’
‘You are being a pain today,’ said Nigel, as they thanked their host, and walked back over to the cordon. ‘First guns, now heights. And you know I hate them. But you were right, the pictures were good. Right on the limit of what I could get with the zoom, but lots of activity, white-suited forensics people coming and going, and a few cops hanging about too.’
‘Good stuff,’ mumbled Dan who was chewing a ham sandwich he’d charmed from the man’s teenage daughter with the promise of a day’s work experience. He’d forgotten he was hungry until they were standing in the attic and he had a moment to think.
One of the policemen on the cordon beckoned to the pack. They moved fast, some jogging over, some striding. Positioning was all in an ad hoc press conference. You needed to be close to the speaker to be sure of getting good shots and sound quality.
‘The Independent Police Complaints Authority Commissioner has just arrived,’ the officer said. ‘He’ll make a brief statement for you lot in a few minutes.’
The pack formed a semi-circle in front of the police tape. Nigel and the other cameraman were in the middle with their reporters beside them, holding the fluffy, gun-shaped microphones. Next to them were the radio reporters, two now, and then the photographers and newspaper journalists. There was the usual pushing and shoving as hacks jockeyed for position. It was often called a media scrum, but was sometimes more like a ruck.
‘All right, calm down,’ called the policeman. ‘I’d rather be doing crowds at football matches than trying to keep an eye on you lot.’
Some of the hacks were stamping their feet to keep warm, others rubbing their hands. They sky was still clear and the temperature falling fast. Dan’s back was aching from the earlier enforced captivity behind the garden wall. He massaged it with a fist.
A man strode around the corner of the road, smartly suited. He was tall, about six feet, and wiry, but seemed powerful with it. A bald strip ran over his crown, the remaining hair surrounding it cut so short it was almost invisible. His lips were pursed but his face was set in a semi-smile, making him look smug. The Smiling Assassin, it had to be. A cluster of microphones was thrust under his nose and he surveyed the crowd.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, and his voice was high and sibilant, making Dan think of how talking snakes were portrayed in children’s books. His teeth were oddly small too, like a child’s. ‘Thank you for coming here tonight. I’m Marcus Whiting, the Independent Police Complaints Authority Commissioner for the south-west of England. I will be carrying out the investigation into what happened here.’
A newspaper reporter’s mobile phone started ringing and Whiting’s eyes flicked to him. ‘Phones off while I’m speaking,’ he hissed. ‘That’s one of the rules of the game.’ The man glared, but fumbled in his jacket and the noise stopped. Whiting watched, then continued.
‘You’ll want whatever information I can give you, but please remember, it’s very early in our investigation so there’s a limit to what I can say. Two police officers arrived here at just after nine o’clock this evening following an emergency call. They are members of the Greater Wessex Police Armed Response Team. They forced their way into the property. Exactly what happened then is currently being examined, but I can tell you that one of the officers fired two shots and the male resident of the house was killed. A female was also in the house. She is unharmed, but very distressed.’
He paused deliberately, waited for the hacks to stop scribbling. ‘I am in charge here, but will be assisted in my inquiry by a team of detectives which Greater Wessex Police have been asked to provide. It is my duty to establish exactly what happened in the run-up to the shooting and when and why the fatal shots were fired. My report will go to the Crown Prosecution Service for them to consider whether any charges should be brought as a result of what happened here tonight.’ His eyes again flicked over the pack. ‘I would stress that is standard procedure, and does not it any way imply any wrongdoing by the officers involved. Any reporting which omits to mention that would be highly misleading. I hope you are clear on that point, as it is a very important one.’
There was a mumbling of ‘Yes’ from the reporters, and the woman to Dan’s side started to ask a question, but Whiting cut in.
‘I will not be taking any questions tonight and this is all the information I will be releasing for now. There will be an update here tomorrow morning.’ His eyes flicked over the journalists again, paused, seemed to consider what he was about to say next.
‘There is, however, one more thing to add,’ he hissed finally. ‘We at the IPCA are committed to going about our investigation as openly as possible. So, I have one further piece of information to impart tonight. And it is another important one.’
Behind him, Dan heard a reporter mutter, ‘Spare us the bloody lecture, mate, and get on with it.’
Whiting lowered his voice, making the whole pack lean forward to catch his words.
‘You will no doubt be aware another man was shot dead by Greater Wessex Police almost exactly five months ago. Again, I stress this information does not imply any wrongdoing and I must tell you the officer’s name will not be released to you.’
He paused again, straightened a cufflink, knew he had the journalists waiting, exactly where he wanted them.
‘But I can disclose to you this,’ Whiting hissed. ‘The marksman who shot dead the man tonight is the same one who fired the fatal shots five months ago.’
It was just after midnight when Dan finally got home. He slid the key into the lock, softly opened the door and just managed to get his hands around Rutherford’s snout before the dog could start barking out his welcoming delight. The neighbours wouldn’t appreciate that, it was bad enough the antisocial hours he kept himself. He patted and stroked the Alsatian as he whirled mute around him, then pushed him off and watched him scrabble around the corner of the flat and down the concrete steps to the back garden.
He’d left a tape at the studios with the pictures they’d shot in Saltash, along with a voice track and script for the TV breakfast bulletins. Even now, back at home, he still couldn’t chase from his head what had happened. A great story was unfolding. Perhaps even a scandal. It’d certainly keep him busy for a few days.
Dan knew he was tired, but didn’t feel it. He’d have to be up early tomorrow, to get into the office to look up their coverage of the last shooting before setting off for Saltash and whatever developments the day would bring. He had to get some sleep, but there was little hope with these thoughts buzzing in his mind. They were giving him a false energy. He needed to release them.
Rutherford scrabbled back up the steps. ‘Fancy a quick run, dog?’ Dan whispered to the Alsatian, grabbing him around the neck. He threw his shirt and suit on the bed in the spare room, donned his trainers, rummaged in the hallway cupboard for Rutherford’s lead and they walked over the road to HartleyPark.
He released the dog and watched him sprint off along the line of lime and oak trees, then turn and dash back. Dan started jogging, Rutherford cantering beside him, stopping occasionally to sniff out a scent in the hedgerow. ‘Ten laps will do us,’ he called to the dog. ‘We’ve got to get some decent sleep tonight.’
By the end of the first circuit, he knew their midnight run was a good idea, could feel the tension leaving him, the thoughts quietening as he went through them.
So … a police marksman had shot dead two people in five months. It could be a coincidence of course, just a man doing his job. But experience had taught him not to believe in coincidence. The police were certainly suspicious, or why bring in the IPCA so quickly to investigate tonight’s shooting?
He’d managed a quick chat with Adam as he drove back to the office. ‘I can’t say anything, Dan, it’s an IPCA investigation. But, if I could … well, you can see what the talk in the force is, can’t you? There’s real concern at the highest level. Maybe a rogue officer got through th
e firearms selection. Maybe he’s just a little too keen on that gun he’s been given.’
El was relishing the story. Dan had left him fondly imagining ‘Police Killer’ headlines, with the pictures he’d taken splashed over the front pages.
‘Of course, what we really need to find out is the marksman’s name,’ Dan had said, trying not to make it sound like the suggestion he shouldn’t be making. ‘That, and get a picture of him. Then we could find out about his past and talk to people who know him, get them to tell us what he’s like. It’d be incredibly lucrative … if someone could get a picture of him.’
The photographer smiled in that sleazy way and stroked the long lens of his camera.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ he sighed. ‘I think El has an important mission to undertake, one that may require some deep undercover work. It’ll be a tough one to crack, but El’s got a few ideas.’
By his fifth lap, Dan was feeling relaxed and ready to go home, shower and slump into bed. He knew he wouldn’t manage ten circuits; he never quite hit the targets he set himself. But then, why set them otherwise?
It was a beautiful time, of both year and day, the still city on a mellow autumn night. A few clouds drifted overhead, their edges polished silver by a sliver of moon. A patina of stars sparkled around them, the Plough, the only constellation Dan knew, hanging low in the northern sky. There were a couple of planets glittering there too. He remembered from some astronomy lecture at university that you could tell them apart from stars as they had a brighter and steadier light. He wondered which they were.
It was a romantic sight and Dan thought of Claire, what Nigel had said in the pub. Yes, he liked her, very much and she seemed to feel the same about him, as far as he could tell. They hadn’t got to the big ‘love’ word yet, but he’d felt it coming on a couple of occasions, lying in bed together or walking over Dartmoor, his stupid, beloved dog gambolling around them like a pantomime fool.
He’d almost said it, wondered if she’d been feeling the same, but it had never quite happened. And Nigel was right, they were getting to that time in a relationship where it could go on, probably for years, when they’d move in together, maybe even the marriage thing that he’d avoided for so long. That, or the other route, missing the narrow moment and slipping into the slow descent of yet another tearful and tortuous break-up.
