by Simon Hall
‘Not that I know of. Totally unremarkable as far as we’ve managed to find out so far.’
They lapsed into silence, looked at each other. The feeling of wanting to glance over his shoulder started to nag again at Dan.
‘I’m still curious what it is you’ve got against Whiting,’ he said, trying to distract his fretful mind.
‘Another time,’ replied Adam firmly. ‘I’m far too busy to think about him at the mo. He’s never a priority. Never.’
The way his friend spat out the words made Dan even more curious. But before he could push it Adam interrupted.
‘I’d better get back to her flat to see if they’ve come up with anything. I don’t think there’s any point you staying. I’ll get one of the boys to drive you back home and do the sentry duty.’
Dan suddenly didn’t feel like going home at all. He sensed a fear of being alone he hadn’t known since childhood.
‘OK, thanks, Adam. Will you call me if anything else comes up … please?’
‘Of course. But I’ve got this feeling we’ll only have a better idea of what he’s up to when he does whatever it is he plans next. And judging by his letter I fear we won’t have long to wait.’
Back at home, Dan lay on his sofa, the stereo on, a book open in front of him, but nothing helping to calm the tumble of his thoughts. He felt his heart still racing, his mind running with it. Why me? What have I done? What does he want with me?
He knew the policeman was standing watchfully outside the door, but it didn’t stop him turning nervously at every slightest creak in the flat.
Even the pints of Old Venom weren’t helping. He’d managed to persuade his police driver to stop at the off-licence on Mutley Plain on the way home. The man seemed to understand easily the concept of needing something to calm the nerves. Normally four bottles of the strong, dark beer would have him dozing nicely, but he didn’t feel like sleeping at all. He stroked Rutherford’s head and was rewarded with a whine and yawn.
It’s ridiculous, he thought. Why should I worry? There’s a sturdy policeman on guard outside. Rutherford would kill anyone who tried to get near me. But fear isn’t rational. I’ve never had a stalker before. It’s the facelessness that’s so scary. It could be anyone, for any reason. And he could be anywhere around me. I wouldn’t know, unless he chose to reveal himself. And how would he be likely to do that? Not in any pleasant way.
Something to look forward to, he needed something to distract his spinning mind. There was Sunday and the walk with Claire, but now he wasn’t even sure if that was going to be enjoyable. She’d called earlier, just a quick chat, sounded distracted and stressed. She was busy with work too but still wanted to go for the walk, needed to, in fact. There was something they had to talk about, something important. It sounded ominous. He’d begun to convince himself he was about to be dumped.
It hadn’t bothered him so much since he’d been seeing Claire, but he could feel the swamp of the depression that had always haunted him lurking on the edge of his consciousness. It was growing, pulling harder the more the image of the severed pig’s head burned in his mind.
Enough. He’d had his fill of the world for the night. He walked out to the kitchen, resisted the temptation to again open the blind and peer out, instead grabbed the whisky bottle from the back of the cupboard, took a blanket from the spare room, lay back on the sofa and pulled it over him.
Dan took one swig, another, then another, felt its liquid fire warm him. He couldn’t face going to bed tonight. Sleep felt too vulnerable and lonely and he was frightened of his dreams.
Chapter Six
DETECTIVE SERGEANT CLAIRE REYNOLDS occasionally regretted her choice of career. When the insistent electronic bleeping of the detested alarm penetrated her consciousness at half past six on Saturday morning, she expected that familiar feeling. But it didn’t come. There was no rueing another missed chance for a Friday night out, no lamenting the loss of a day’s walking on the coast, or DIY, or just reading and relaxing in front of the TV.
Maybe the regret would grow in future years she thought, as she hauled herself out of the warm haven of her bed. At least the central-heating timer in her flat was working now, so it wasn’t such a battle to get up. And the new carpets she’d had laid made a difference too, much better than those cold wooden boards, trendy though they might be. She’d take comfort over fashion any day.
Maybe if she’d started to feel that need to have kids, but not fulfilled it, not even met a man capable of doing so, maybe then she’d start to feel some regret. Maybe if she had met that man, did have those kids but never saw them. Maybe if she’d made all those sacrifices, but wasn’t a Detective Chief Inspector by then, or a Detective Superintendent.
She flicked on the electric toothbrush and checked the mirror. Hair everywhere, as ever, but that would only take some gel and a few minutes work. No spots, good. Even now, at 30, she was still susceptible to the odd spot and it was embarrassing. The boys in the office teased her about them, but then they teased anybody about anything. It was the CID way.
It’d be so good to see Dan tomorrow. No matter how hard the week, what horrors of death or disaster she’d had to investigate, he could always find a smile somewhere within her. And he had that hidden vulnerability she couldn’t help but find attractive. It hadn’t taken long to realise she was building a relationship with two people. The public Dan, confident and assured, and the private man, such a contradiction, so oddly full of sadness and uncertainty.
They hadn’t spent enough time together lately, even if there was that difficult talk to have. She’d have to be careful how she broached it. But it was necessary if they were to carry on seeing each other and she wanted to. She was sure of that. There were those three words she’d been waiting to say to him, waiting and wanting, but just hadn’t had the chance – or maybe not found the courage?
One night, lying in bed together, him snoring gently at her side, Claire thought she’d worked out why. Each major boyfriend in her past – there had only been three, she tended to the longer-term relationships – had said them to her first. She had never been the one to take the biggest emotional risk, expose her heart. But now she had to. She’d whispered the words to Dan as he slept, had to resist a searing temptation to push him awake to hear them.
Claire finished brushing her teeth, reached for the mouthwash. Was he husband and father material? Yes … she hoped. Probably … she thought. Maybe … she feared. They hadn’t spent enough time together to be sure yet.
She stepped into the steaming shower, enjoying its pummelling heat. She’d done her training, her two years on the beat – even those were strangely enjoyable, seeing a very different side to life to her public-school upbringing – then straight into CID. 30 years old and a Detective Sergeant now, life was going exactly to plan. No one had seen it and no one would, that little piece of paper containing her vision.
She’d written it just after she joined Greater Wessex Police and it was there, in the drawer, to be retrieved and checked occasionally. DS by 30, tick. Detective Inspector by 34. Detective Chief Inspector by 38. Detective Superintendent by 42/44. They all had a space by their sides, ready for a tick. She still wasn’t quite sure why she’d added that leeway to the last rank.
Anyway, even if she didn’t make it that far so quickly, she had no regrets. It was an extraordinary life. She’d never believed the old saying about the truth being stranger than fiction until she joined CID. Every day brought a new surprise and she loved it.
And this case had been another weird one. A police marksman under investigation for murder? She turned off the shower and grabbed a pure white bath sheet. She’d have to take her own to Dan’s flat sometime, his were so murky and grey and hardly absorbed the water. That was, if she was planning on spending more time there.
She smiled. Enough of that for now. Concentrate on today first, and the big interview with Crouch. They had a good picture of what went on in the house, had interviewed the other marksma
n and the partner of the dead man, had done all the ballistics and forensics tests. They’d gone through Crouch’s background too; a big surprise there, something they had to ask him about and that strange password at his house as well.
Some of it looked suspicious, didn’t it? But it could be entirely innocent of course. Well, they’d find out. For all his oddities, his lack of any grace, Whiting wasn’t renowned as a man who gave up without finding the answers. And she wouldn’t either. Claire was surprised to find herself thinking they might make a strangely effective team.
She chose one of her standard black trouser suits from the wardrobe. A woman could never have too many of those, clothes for all occasions, even CID work. Comfortable, hard-wearing and smart. It would be a fascinating day. Another fascinating day.
Adam pushed open the door of Tom’s bedroom, trod softly over the green-and-white Plymouth Argyle carpet and looked down at his sleeping son. His face was soft with a serene dream.
Imagining a win for Argyle today? Or that girl in his class he was working on the geography project with – was it Helen? – the one he’d so shyly spoken about at the only family dinner he’d managed to get to that week. He was nine now, reaching that age when girls stopped being repugnant and took on an unexpected and incomprehensible allure. Adam grinned at the thought of what that would mean in the times to come.
Tom’s dark hair was tousled, stuck up and springy over his pillow. He was his father’s son, all right. Adam ran a hand through his own hair. It could take ten minutes work in the morning to make it presentable. And when Tom started shaving, he’d no doubt suffer his father’s fate as well, the shadow of a beard by midday at the latest.
Adam reached out and gently pushed at Tom’s shoulder until the boy’s eyes blinked open. He watched the passing seconds in the reflections as his son made sense of the world.
‘Good morning, young sleep monster.’
‘Hi, Dad. Is it football time?’
‘Yes, football in a minute. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to Bristol, so we’ve got time for some breakfast first.’
Tom struggled upright. ‘And a kick-about before we go?’
Adam had been hoping he’d ask. ‘I should think so. We’ve got to practise some of the moves Argyle might try this afternoon, haven’t we? It’s a big match. A local derby. Your first … an important moment in a young man’s life, eh? Like working on a project with a pretty young lady called Helen?’
Adam ducked the pillow that came flying towards him.
Claire and Detective Sergeant Suzanne Stewart sat next to each other on the plastic chairs, Whiting on the other side of his desk. Claire thought the pile of change was smaller today. Perhaps he’d bought himself a coffee? If so, there was no evidence of it and he hadn’t offered to get one for them. The man didn’t seem to enjoy any little human comforts. Despite her best efforts not to, in her mind she’d started to characterise him as a machine, an automaton.
Claire caught a hint of Suzanne’s perfume, noted her new-looking navy jacket, smiled to herself. This was the woman Dan had described as “your classic dumpy and dowdy plodder of a plod” when telling the story of how he’d first met her and Adam Breen on the Edward Bray murder case. The two of them had never got on, Suzanne believing Dan had no place in a police investigation, Dan saying she was nothing more than an average, unimaginative cop, always playing it safe, filling out the paperwork, following the time-honoured routines and correct procedures in a way he never would.
They’d never even warmed to each other, but one night, after a couple of bottles of wine, Claire had finally got Dan to admit a reluctant respect for Suzanne, and an understanding that police work needed both their approaches. He went for the show business style, the wild leaps of careering imagination, the instinctive insights that explained people’s actions. The sacred epiphany moments as he called them, which solved the crime in an instant of vivid realisation. She preferred to build a case slowly and methodically, on the traditional foundations of solid evidence.
Suzanne had changed over the last couple of years. She didn’t talk about it, kept her private life very separate, but it didn’t take a master detective to sense the influence of a man. Fashionable clothes, a trimmer figure, perfume, a hint of make-up, and, most tellingly of all, the occasional sight of a genuine smile. A new reason to live.
Whiting cleared his throat noisily. ‘I wanted to get together so we can have a discussion before we conduct the interview with PC Crouch,’ he said, giving them his unfeeling smile and exposing the tiny teeth. ‘It is the key moment of the case. Let’s take a moment to go through the statements of PC Andy Gardener, the other marksman he was working with on the night, and Ms Chanter, the partner of the dead man.’
Whiting produced a pile of papers from his briefcase and placed them carefully on the desk. They were neatly divided by a red, plastic partition. He pushed a half towards Claire, the other half to Suzanne.
‘Let’s examine PC Gardener’s first,’ he said. They began reading.
“PC Crouch knocked on the door. There was no answer”, Gardener had said. “We could hear screaming from within, so he knocked again, much harder. There was some light in the house, though at the back, not the front where we were. I believe I saw the shape of a person moving fast, perhaps running past the window in the lounge although I could not tell if it was male or female. I may have seen another person’s shape following it, but I cannot be sure as my attention was back on the door. PC Crouch was knocking hard and shouting through the letterbox. He said ‘Police! Open up please.’ There was still no reply, and I heard more screaming and what I believed to be thudding and banging coming from inside the house.
“PC Crouch and I had a brief conversation. We agreed there was reason to believe a crime was being committed and we feared for the safety of at least one of the people in the house, as there was evidence a weapon may have been involved. We would normally wait and follow the standard procedure of contain and negotiate, but we believed there was an imminent risk to life in the house, and so we had to go in. We briefly discussed our tactics. We agreed we could not use baton guns due to the confined space. The Taser electric stun gun is currently banned from use due to its potential contribution to the death of a woman in the Midlands. Thus we decided pistols would be the most appropriate weapons and we drew them. PC Crouch would move in first. I would follow, covering him. This was our standard way of working. He always liked to go first.
“PC Crouch kicked down the door and we moved slowly into a hallway. It was dark. The only light was coming from the far end of the house, and we continued slowly towards it. The screaming had stopped when we entered the house, but then resumed. It was clear it was coming from the rear, and what looked like the kitchen area. We continued forwards. Ahead, PC Crouch rounded a corner in the hallway and I saw him then raise his gun and shout the standard challenge, ‘Armed police, put your hands up! Armed police, put your hands where I can see them!’ I remember this warning clearly. Following that, PC Crouch discharged two shots and moved on into the kitchen. The corner in the hallway and its narrowness meant I did not see the actual firing.
“After the shots, I pushed my way forward and saw PC Crouch standing over a man who was lying prone on the floor. He was not moving. A woman was sitting on the floor alongside him crying. She appeared to be injured. A kitchen knife was by the man’s body on the floor. I immediately radioed for back-up and an ambulance. We checked the man for signs of life but it was apparent he was dead and attempts at resuscitation would be futile. Other officers arrived at the scene within about eight minutes of my call. Nothing was touched in the kitchen during that time, although the woman was leaned against the sink unit to support her.”
Whiting’s eyes flicked over them. ‘All clear?’
‘Yes sir,’ they both replied.
‘Are there any particular points we need to bring out?’
‘The fact that Gardener didn’t see the actual shooting,’ said Suzanne. ‘
And particularly why Crouch went first into the house.’ She checked the statement again, following the lines with a finger. ‘Gardener says he always liked to go first. We’ll want to know why that is.’
‘Precisely,’ hissed the Assassin. ‘We must remember we may be investigating not just a possible murder, but also what could turn out to be manslaughter. There may have been no plot to kill, no premeditation. But there may have been recklessness, over-zealous behaviour, or even enjoyment of being in the position of having a gun. Could PC Crouch have been too keen to use it? Wanted to use it?’
Suzanne and Claire both nodded. ‘Sir?’ asked Claire.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve never been firearms trained. I think I’m clear about how marksmen operate, but given the gravity of this case, can you remind me of the rules they work under? I need to be absolutely clear when we interview Crouch.’
Whiting studied the sheet in front of him before continuing. ‘In essence, the rules are these. The first principle is to contain and negotiate. That’s why sieges are so common in these cases. Officers would first usually surround a house to make sure the incident could not spread and there was no danger to the public. Then they would attempt to negotiate with the aggressor.’
‘But in this case – and the one in Bodmin – it didn’t get as far as negotiations?’
‘No. If a situation is changing rapidly, or there’s an immediate threat to a member of the public or a police officer, then force can be used immediately.’
‘And what are the rules then, sir?’
‘The force used must be proportionate, so an officer can shoot if he believes the person he’s dealing with is posing a threat to the public or to the officer himself. It’s simplest to think of it in terms of the marksman’s priorities. His first is to protect the public. His second is to protect himself. His third is to protect the suspect. So, if the marksman has a legitimate and honest belief that members of the public are, or he himself is, in danger, he can fire. The suspect does not need to have a gun, simply some way of being a threat. In relation to this case, a knife is of course sufficient if the suspect is in close proximity to a member of the public or the officers.’
