Evil Valley (The TV Detective Series)

by Simon Hall

  There was a pair of police vans and four cars outside the house, uniformed officers jogging up and down the street, a group of neighbours watching. Some looked like students, others older people, a couple of children too. Typical of the area. It used to be popular with families who liked the big town houses, but with the expansion of the university many became flats and bedsits for the students. A sweet smell drifted in the air, the unmistakeable hint of cannabis.

  Someone’s panicking at this moment, Dan thought, imagining them flushing a stash down a toilet at the sight of all these police officers. He tried to smile, but the expression wouldn’t grow. He itched tetchily at his back and attempted to calm a welling concern. Adam had never sent him an escort before.

  The car parked and the driver got out and walked with him over to the house, politely insisted on it, despite Dan’s protests. Adam was waiting, pacing back and forth along the pavement.

  ‘We can’t go in, the scene’s been secured and we’re checking for evidence.’

  And good evening to you, thought Dan, but didn’t say so. His friend didn’t sound in the mood for humour.

  A couple of white-overalled figures were crouching on the path, looking for footprints. Dan knew more would be inside, checking every corner of the flat. The sound of detectives carrying out door-to-door inquiries slipped across from the neighbouring houses, soothing but insistent voices intermingled with alarmed and excited residents.

  ‘I’ve had a look around and that’s all I need for now,’ continued Adam. ‘The more people who go inside the flat, the more difficult it becomes. We’d have to take a sample of your hair and shoe and finger prints and all that stuff if you go any further. I’ve got a copy of what was written on the envelope and the letter inside. They’re the only bits you need to see.’

  Adam put on his teacher’s voice, the way he’d come to differentiate between their private and professional discussions. Dan wondered whether he was aware of it.

  ‘Can I emphasise that you’re here as a witness?’ said the detective. ‘None of this is for broadcasting, OK? It could prejudice my inquiry.’

  ‘Sure, but your inquiry? What about the shooting?’

  ‘The High Honchos don’t like the look of this one so they’ve put me on it. I’ve done about all I needed to on the shooting anyway. Suzanne and Claire have taken over helping Whiting. It’s more routine now and doesn’t need such a senior officer as me. They can handle it.’

  That explains the lack of a reply from Claire, thought Dan. So I probably don’t need to worry that she’s playing it cool for some fearful reason. But it would be good to hear from her. Dan knew it was just her way not to reply to texts quickly, particularly when she was busy. But it didn’t stop it from playing on his mind. He always replied to her as soon as he could.

  Dan forced his attention back to the street. ‘You don’t look entirely distraught at being off the shooting inquiry.’

  ‘Our previous discussions on that matter still stand,’ replied Adam coolly. ‘Now come and sit in the van and have a look at this letter. That’s more important.’

  Adam hopped up the van’s step, pushed past a uniformed sergeant blowing on a steaming cup of tea and pulled a small table down from the inside wall. He took a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Mr Daniel Groves,

  Wessex Tonight,

  Crime Correspondent,

  And Pig Lover.”

  Dan stared at it. The feeling of disquiet was growing. ‘Well … I’ve had more pleasant introductions. What … what do you make of it?’

  ‘The first thing is – why the hell is this guy leaving a note for you at all? And then, why address it so formally and politely, up until that last line? Why not just Dan Groves, or Dan Groves, TV reporter, or something like that, or just something more abusive?’

  ‘And pig lover? I like a bit of bacon in a sandwich, but I’m not noted for being a lover of pigs.’

  ‘That, I think, refers to us, the police. It ties in with the severed pig’s head. Read on to the letter. It’s bizarre.’

  Adam turned the sheet over.

  “Dear Mr Groves,

  You’ll no doubt be wondering why I’m writing to you. Well, let me tell you that straight away. It’s because I think you may understand what I’m doing and why.

  “Allow me to take a step back before I go on. I’ve seen you on the television of course, but what marked you out as distinctive in my mind was when you solved the riddle of the Death Pictures. Do you remember all those articles the newspapers ran on you, and the wonderful pictures of you and Rutherford? It was then I began to think you might understand me. Anyone who is a dog lover must be a good person, I thought.

  “But I have to confess I’m disappointed in you. You haven’t just been reporting on crimes, as your job dictates, have you? You’ve been solving them – not only the Death Pictures but also the Edward Bray murder. You seem to have become very close to the police, very close indeed. And I don’t think that’s wise.

  “Apologies, I digress. This is what is important. After today, you and I are both set on the path that I have chosen for us. The other players we shall require in our drama are merely the supporting cast, although it may not always seem so. There is only one question that remains to be answered, and that is how exactly this will end.

  “In fact, that’s a little misleading. It implies you have a power over a larger part of the action than is actually the case. Only the very last act in our drama remains unresolved. All else is set. And it is the last act, which will be determined by you, your bravery and intellect. My only regret is that I will not be there to see how it is played out.

  “My intentions will become clear over the next few days. Then you will inevitably begin to ask yourself – am I evil? That is a good question, and I think, as so often, the answer depends upon your viewpoint. But whatever, the issue of ‘evil’ is at the very centre of our dance. I’ll leave you to think about that. I’ll be in touch again soon.

  “Forgive me for not signing this. You will know my name quickly enough, I promise, but not just yet. It would inconvenience my plans.”

  A silence as both men stared at the paper.

  ‘Whew,’ whistled Dan finally, for once not knowing what else to say. He looked over his shoulder, out of the police van, tried to quell the sudden fear that someone was watching him. There was no one there.

  ‘Sounds like … well … a real weirdo,’ he said slowly. ‘But a weirdo who knows a bit too much about me for my liking.’

  Adam studied him. ‘Yep,’ he replied. ‘And he also sounds like a clever and calculating weirdo, who’s got some kind of plan. And it looks like you’re at the centre of it.’

  Dan tried to keep his voice calm, wondered why he felt a sudden urge to look over his shoulder again. ‘You’re not making me feel any better, mate.’

  ‘Don’t think I’m trying to alarm you,’ continued Adam, looking him in the eye. ‘But I’d like to put a police guard on your flat tonight.’

  ‘What?’ Dan leaned back against the wall of the van, suddenly felt shaky. ‘What? Really? I mean … he’s just a nutter isn’t he? Just a harmless nutter who’s all talk? Isn’t he?’

  ‘Harmless nutters don’t tend to have guns and a severed pig’s head, and leave detailed and lucid letters in women’s flats. You’re right, he could be harmless. But then again, he might not be. He might have been watching you and knows where you live. I don’t want to take that risk.’

  Dan struggled to speak. His back suddenly felt damp again. ‘Hell, you … you’re serious aren’t you?’

  Adam didn’t need to reply, just held Dan’s look.

  ‘OK then,’ he said, noticing how thin his voice sounded. ‘If you … you really think it’s necessary, I’ll have a cop on my door. The poor neighbours will think I’ve become the Prime Minister or something.’

  Adam managed a serious smile. ‘I think it’s the right thing to do. It’s only a precaution. Just for a few
days, until we catch this guy.’

  ‘A few days? Days?!’

  ‘If that.’

  Dan breathed deeply, couldn’t ease the twitch that made him want to keep looking over his shoulder.

  ‘OK then … OK. Look, I take it I’m safe here at the moment?’ Adam nodded. ‘Then take me through the letter and tell me what you make of it. I might at least know something about my stalker.’

  Claire checked her reflection in the glass of the door, straightened her jacket and knocked.

  ‘Come in.’

  Whiting didn’t get up, just motioned her to sit on one of the two plastic chairs. He was scribbling some note with black, spidery writing, his head bowed, the light shining off the smooth strip of pink skin running over his crown.

  There was a small pile of coins on the desk too, pennies, five pences, tens and twenties, that peculiarity of his. Every time he sat down he would empty the change from his pocket. She’d heard about it, but this was the first time she’d seen it. She’d heard plenty about Whiting. The station was full of gossip and she didn’t believe most of it, but if this was true, what about the rest?

  ‘Sorry to keep you,’ he said finally. ‘Just something occurred to me that I shouldn’t forget.’

  ‘That’s fine, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘It is.’

  Claire said nothing, kept her face blank. The gossips were certainly right about what the modern world would call Whiting’s interpersonal skills. Humanity might be another way of putting it. DCI Breen wouldn’t talk about him and what had happened between them, but other officers did, and the word loathing was everywhere. But that was the past, she reminded herself. He was her boss, for now at least. That meant respect and discipline and no difference in her professional approach or attitude to her work.

  ‘I’ve called you in, Claire, because I needed to have a word with you in private. I need to know you can be …’ he paused, flicked his eyes over her ‘… relied upon.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘As you know, Detective Chief Inspector Breen has been moved to another case, and so you and Sergeant Stewart will be in charge of helping me with the remainder of my inquiries.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Fine, sir. We have a job to do. You can rely on me to do it.’

  ‘It’s not an easy job though, is it? Investigating your own?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It can make you unpopular.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And that doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘If I’d wanted to be popular, sir, I wouldn’t have joined the police.’

  He smiled that cold, unfeeling look, those small teeth showing under his thin lips.

  ‘Indeed. So I can rely on you … one hundred per cent?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Claire.’ He nodded. ‘I know this will be a difficult investigation. I know that some of your fellow officers consider those who volunteer to carry firearms to be very brave. I know some believe we are persecuting them for simply doing their job. I understand that. But I can assure you, as I have them, that we are not. To anyone who questions you, you are simply doing your job too. More, in fact. You are doing your duty. If there is wrongdoing, we will expose it. If not, we will exonerate. It is simply that – a matter of duty.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Claire.’ He scribbled another spidery note on his paper.

  ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Claire.’

  She got up to go, but the feeling lingered that Whiting still hadn’t finished. Her hand reached for the door.

  ‘Oh, Claire, one final thing.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ The punch line, she knew it.

  ‘All that we’re doing has quite understandably aroused considerable interest in the media.’

  She felt herself stiffen, kept her face neutral as it was probed by those flicking eyes. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I think it’s time we got on with our investigation in peace now, out of the glare of publicity. I know I can rely on you to keep our work confidential, no matter who might ask about it, or what your relationship with them might be.’

  Adam loosened the knot on his tie and held up the piece of paper.

  ‘I’m not exactly sure what I do make of it. My hope is it’s just a weirdo and we can dismiss it but I just don’t think it is. It’s too well planned. Too … I don’t know, purposeful, I suppose.’

  Dan was feeling shakier, kept wanting to get back to his flat, lock the door, sink some beers, have the faithful and protective Rutherford next to him. He couldn’t imagine a policeman standing outside, guarding him. Who could possibly want to harm him? He was a reporter with a small regional TV station, not some big-time celebrity. He couldn’t believe it, but Adam’s face was anything but joking.

  ‘Let’s start with the crime then,’ the detective continued. ‘Come on, you’ve got a good mind for stuff like this. We’ve got a description, but it’s basically meaningless. He’s about five feet 10, fairly slim and has an athletic build, wore trainers, jeans and a black jumper. That’s it. The forensics and fingerprints boys are all over the flat, but so far they’ve found nothing. It looks like he wore gloves and the stocking will have stopped him shedding any hair. Door to door inquiries have come up with nothing yet either. So let’s look at the peculiarities of the crime and try to think through it.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ muttered Dan, trying to force himself to concentrate. His back was still damp with a nervous sweat.

  ‘First, he didn’t speak. That raises two possibilities. One, that he can’t speak, that he has a condition which has harmed his voice. We can check that out with the local doctors and hospitals. Two is that he couldn’t risk speaking, because he has a very distinctive voice, perhaps a lisp or something like that, or that he knows the victim and she may recognise it. We can go through that with her when she’s up to being interviewed, but it won’t be for a few hours. She’s in a right state.’

  ‘OK,’ replied Dan, who was beginning to feel better at having the distraction of something else to think about. ‘That all sounds fair enough. What about the pig’s head?’

  ‘It’s going to the labs. They can tell me if it was professionally severed by a butcher, how long it’s been dead for, if there are any fibres or marks on it, where it might have come from, anything like that.’

  ‘Sure. But given the lack of forensics at the flat, I bet they don’t find much. He’d know you’d examine the head. I reckon we’d be better off thinking about its meaning.’

  Adam nodded. ‘OK. And your guess is?’

  ‘It’s a jibe, isn’t it? It fits in with the address to me as ‘pig lover’. Someone wants to have a go at the police for whatever reason. And I’m a nice high-profile way of doing it. Maybe the guy thinks if he targets me, he’s bound to get TV coverage and that’s exactly what he wants. A public way of getting at the police. I bet that’s why he smashed the TV too, to have a go at me and the police together.’

  Adam tapped at his teeth with his pen. ‘Good thought. But if we’re looking for people with a grudge against the police …’

  ‘That’s just about everyone who’s ever been arrested, let alone convicted. And plenty more besides probably. So it doesn’t help much. Can we narrow it down a bit? Are there any more potential clues in the letter?’

  He scanned the words. ‘There, look. He talks about Rutherford. Could it be an animal lover who dislikes the police for some reason? Like … one of those animal rights protesters who picket research labs. Maybe he thinks the police are protecting the people inside too much?’

  ‘A bit hypothetical isn’t it? Besides, we haven’t got any animal research labs in Devon and Cornwall. And animal lovers are hardly likely to cut off a pig’s head to make a point. We’d better stick to what we know, or can have decent suspicions about for now.’

  ‘OK, fair enough. I was just thinking aloud. So, what
about the gun? They’re not common in crimes here.’

  ‘Sure. That’s worth trying. I can get the team to lean on their informants to see if anyone’s bought one in the underworld lately.’

  Dan thought for a moment. ‘He’s obviously got some plan that he thinks he needs a gun for, hasn’t he? The letter’s full of it. According to him, it’s all worked out and proceeding smoothly. The only trouble is, we don’t have a clue what it is. Except that it involves me.’

  They looked at each other. ‘You’re right. So we’d better concentrate on what we do know,’ said Adam thoughtfully. ‘That brings us to the last obvious clue. What he stole. A passport.’

  ‘Something to establish a false identity with?’

  ‘Possible, but unlikely. If so, why not take the driving licence and birth certificate and utility bills too, all that sort of thing? They’d be useful to him and they were all there in the drawers. It was only the passport he wanted.’

  ‘To sell on to criminals to use for a fake passport?’

  ‘Doesn’t fit, does it? Yes, maybe if this was an ordinary burglary. But not when you’ve got a man who leaves a severed pig head and a letter behind. The passport would have to have been taken for some specific reason … something symbolic.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Adam shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The woman who was attacked. Her name? And what’s she like?’

  ‘Not for broadcast? I’ve got to protect her.’

  ‘No, not for broadcast, I promise.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Her name’s Sarah Croft. She’s in her mid 50s, small and slight. Divorcee, works in a local chemist.’

  ‘Anything important in that? Is she famous in any way? Could that be what he wanted with her passport?’