Evil Valley (The TV Detective Series)

by Simon Hall

  He looked up at Adam who nodded, smiled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was around the side, making sure the gate into the stores compound was locked when I … I saw this man coming across the car park. He wasn’t running, but he was moving fast and looked like he was in a hurry. I don’t know why, but I … I watched him. There was something about him that didn’t seem right, so I … I watched him.’

  Adam nodded again. ‘Good, Ed, good. And what did he do?’

  ‘He went up to this car and unlocked it. The indicators flashed like … like they do, you know? Then he got in, started the engine and drove … drove off.’ Gibson’s voice became indignant. ‘He drove fast … much too fast for a place where there are children about.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Adam. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I … I didn’t get a good look at him. The car park’s not very well lit.’

  ‘Any information you can give us could be vital Ed. What did you see?’

  ‘Well, he was … was fairly tall. I’d say … six feet or so. And he wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t thin either, if you see what I mean? Sort of … sort of average build.’ Adam nodded encouragingly. ‘And he had dark hair. I couldn’t tell if it was black or brown or what, but it … it wasn’t blond. And he wasn’t bald either. He had normal hair.’

  ‘Style?’

  Gibson rubbed a finger against a front tooth. ‘No particular style,’ he said finally. ‘It was just … just fairly short and ordinary.’

  Adam wrote some fast notes. ‘And you said you saw his car, Ed? What can you tell us about that?’

  ‘I … I saw the car better.’ His voice sounded more confident. ‘I thought there was … was something odd about the man, so I watched him drive out carefully. I used to be in the … the army, you see, and they teach you stuff like that. They teach you to … to notice and remember. It’s all …’

  ‘The car?’ prompted Adam quickly.

  Gibson looked at him, eyes still wide. ‘It was blue. A kind of royal blue. Like your tie.’

  ‘Did you notice the make?’

  ‘I’m not … not very good with cars. But it had a kind of … kind of dancing lion on the front.’

  ‘A Peugeot,’ said Dan. ‘I’ve got one. It’s a Peugeot.’

  ‘And its size?’ asked Adam. ‘A big car? Small? Estate?’

  ‘Small. Like a … a mini kind of size.’

  Adam looked at Dan. ‘Probably a one, two or three series, like mine,’ he said.

  ‘And you remember some of the number plate, Edmund?’ prompted Adam again.

  ‘I didn’t get it all. I’m sorry … sorry … I didn’t see it all.’

  ‘That’s OK, Ed,’ Adam coaxed. ‘Tell me what you did see.’

  ‘I didn’t see it all because I was kind of … kind of side on to the car. But I got some of the end. It ended with an … an A. And it had what looked like a C … a C or an E before that. I didn’t … didn’t see the rest. I’m sorry.’

  Adam quickly got to his feet. ‘That’s OK. You did very well, Ed. Very well indeed. You’ve been immensely helpful. I’m going to take this description and give it to our officers. We’ll need to have another chat with you and get an artist to make up a picture of the man you saw, but that can wait until the morning. You can give your address to the detective here.’ Adam pointed to the man waiting by the door. ‘We’ll come round first thing, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Yes … yes.’

  Adam strode out to one of the police vans in the car park, Dan struggling to keep up.

  ‘I want this circulated and cars with these possible endings to their licence plates checked,’ he told the sergeant in the van, handing him the description.

  Adam turned to Dan, straightened his tie. ‘Well, it looks like we might not need your help after all, my friend.’ The tiredness seemed to have left his face and he looked full of energy, as if invigorated by the scent he was following.

  ‘That’s just the sort of break we needed,’ he continued. ‘We’ll be knocking on some doors tonight when the info comes back from the computer. Give me a call early tomorrow morning to see if you still need to come and join the inquiry, but I reckon we might well have it all wrapped up by tonight.’

  In the months to come, looking back on the case and the torment of the next few days, Dan would always remember those words, and how very fateful they were.

  Chapter Ten

  IT WASN'T OFTEN HE felt good about Monday mornings Dan thought, as they jogged around HartleyPark, but this was an exception. He was joining Adam on another case, and it was fascinating, perhaps the most interesting they’d worked on together. That was saying something too. Despite the police’s efforts overnight, they hadn’t caught the man, and Adam was desperate to do so today, before he could carry out another attack.

  His legs ran without him noticing as he drifted in thoughts about the case. What kind of man left a pig’s head with one woman after breaking into her flat, a heart with another after forcing his way into her car, not attacking either, not even speaking to them, and with both stealing some apparently worthless document? And why was he so interested in Dan?

  That was the one weight on his buoyant mood, the shadow of fear for a faceless stalker. He could hardly forget it with the ominous sight of the uniformed policeman watching him from the top of the steep grass bank that covered the underground reservoir at the eastern fringe of the park. After last night’s letter, Adam had insisted the officer not only watched Dan’s flat, but stayed with him too.

  He’d told Rutherford they’d do twenty laps – which realistically still meant fifteen – and they’d almost finished, a run of a couple of miles by his calculations. It was a beautiful morning, the air crisp and clear, the grass glistening with crystal dew and the yawning sky a canvas of blue. There was an edge of chill on the breeze and both he and Rutherford left trailing clouds of ballooning breath as they ran.

  In a bare chestnut tree, undressed by the shameless autumn, a group of hopping birds squabbled happily. Dan knew he should have been able to name them from his five years covering the environment, but he didn’t have a clue. He’d never thought it would happen, had loved the job, but those days had quickly been forgotten, submerged in the exciting new world of crime.

  ‘Just a bit longer, dog,’ he called to Rutherford, who was sniffing at the black metal railings guarding the children’s play area. ‘I’ve got to be down at Charles Cross by eight thirty to meet Adam. I’m off playing detectives again. I might be late home tonight, darling.’ Rutherford’s head lifted from the fence and he came sprinting over, dancing his manic jig around Dan, his mouth hanging open in his smiling face.

  Dan slowed to a stagger as he lumbered up the slope covering the reservoir, panting heavily but enjoying the challenge. He’d almost reached the top when his foot slipped on the wet grass, his ankle turned and gave and he fell, thudding sideways into the earthy bank, then tumbling down, over and over, gathering leaves and dew as he slid, scrabbled and rolled.

  The world stopped spinning and Rutherford was by his side, panting. Dan gave the dog a reassuring pat and spat out some grass. ‘It’s OK, mate, just a little fall.’

  His heart was racing with the shock and he felt winded, but otherwise OK. He pulled himself up and noticed his ankle was aching, a dull throbbing pain. Dan poked and prodded it; tender, but it didn’t feel too bad.

  ‘Are you OK, sir?’ His policeman bodyguard had come jogging over, his face creased with concern.

  ‘Yes, fine I think. Might just have bruised an ankle, but that’s about it. Nothing broken thankfully.’

  The officer held out a hand and helped pull him up. Dan could see the relief on his face. It would be embarrassing to have to tell his commanders the idiot he was supposed to be keeping safe had got himself injured.

  The ankle was already swelling, but he could walk on it, albeit gingerly. ‘No more runs for us for a couple of days I think, dog,’ Dan told Rutherford, slipping the lead around the dog’s ne
ck. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the flat. I’ve got to get showered and dressed.’

  The criminal psychologist’s report said exactly what Adam had expected, but that didn’t make the words any easier. The doctor was known as “Sledgehammer” Stephens, because, unlike most of his kind, he didn’t care for subtleties, nuances of interpretation or shades of opinion. He thoroughly enjoyed his job – sometimes worryingly so in Adam’s view – and was also in the habit of typing some of his findings in capitals to make the points unmistakeably clear.

  “Clear and apparent PERSONALITY DISORDER … STRONG PSYCHOPATHIC TENDENCIES … obvious lust for REVENGE under guise of securing justice … DISTURBINGLY UNBALANCED … classical loner … ORGANISED AND CUNNING … grave dissociation with society … CONSIDER HIGHLY DANGEROUS!!!.”

  Adam noted that even capitals hadn’t been sufficient for Stephens’s conclusion, and that underlining and exclamation marks had been deemed more appropriate.

  To decorate his desk further, the night’s inquiries had already prompted two complaints and several more were promised, according to a note. Adam glanced quickly at one of the emails.

  “It was outrageous, the police waking us up at that time of the night. I nearly had a seizure. We thought something had happened to our son, or there was some kind of crazed terrorist on the loose. It is entirely unacceptable behaviour. All our lives we have been law-abiding citizens who go out of our ways to help the police, but now …”

  He didn’t bother checking the name and address. They were always retired lieutenant colonels, or senior civil servants, always keen for you to be aware of that, always paid their taxes for his services and always outraged. One day he’d like to ask them if they thought policing should be a nine to five job.

  Adam dropped the pieces of paper back on the desk, resisted the temptation to slide them off into the bin. He looked out of the window to the ruined church at the heart of the awakening city. It was a beautiful morning, but he felt shaky and ragged. Two hours sleep was all he’d managed last night, and that in the spare room on its hard single bed.

  Annie had pointedly left a note saying she didn’t want to be disturbed. That had kept him awake for another hour, despite his tiredness. He hoped so hard that she wasn’t regretting the decision for them to get back together. He’d promised to spend more time with her and Tom and for a while it had worked. But then another big case surfaced and here he was again, in the Major Incident Room, just after dawn, no time for anything except trying to catch their man. But what else could he do?

  He would have to try to spend more time with them this week. The memory jabbed; that cold one-bedroom flat where he’d spent six months alone after Annie’s patience finally fractured. He remembered it as being like a prison sentence. He couldn’t live like that again. If he could manage to find the time to be with them then, to find a reconciliation, he could do it again now. But it was always the way, wasn’t it? When you didn’t have what you wanted, you worked hard to get it. Once there, you eased up on trying.

  It wasn’t that he’d eased up though, was it? It was the worry. More than that, it was fear, of what this man would do if he wasn’t quickly caught.

  The psychologist certainly agreed. Adam scanned the pages, turned to the summary.

  Stephens had concluded the man was clever, ruthless and calculating. Probably an obsessive, suffering a persecution complex and advanced paranoia. Most likely had invented for himself a mission, which he would now carry out with messianic zeal. Filled with delusions he was some form of omnipotent Angel of Justice. Had lost touch with society and so was capable of just about anything. In brief, a psychopath, someone living in an alternate reality, unstable and extremely dangerous.

  Adam rubbed his aching temples, noticed a familiar figure and its upright walk heading along the pavement into the station, the sun glinting from the bald strip on his head. Whiting was always in early as well. He watched the man step precisely up the concrete steps and slide into the automatic doors.

  He turned away, didn’t need any more irritations at the start of his day. It didn’t help having him around, taking valuable staff for his inquiry, preaching the demands of duty to anyone who questioned him. As if he knew what duty really was.

  It was a reminder of Chris too. What would he have been now if he hadn’t retired? – been forced to retire to be more accurate. A Chief Constable? He knew Chris would never have been interested in such a rank, would have called it Chief Paper Pusher. But a Detective Chief Superintendent certainly, leading the big investigations, tracking down the villains. He missed Chris. A couple of calls a year was about all they managed now since his move to New Zealand.

  Enough of that. Perhaps he’d book a table for a family meal at the weekend, take Tom to the football on Saturday. A walk on Sunday somewhere? Annie loved it when they all went out together as a family. Some flowers to take home tonight would be a good start. He’d get them later and not just from a petrol station either, fresh ones from a florist. Along with a packet of tablets for his pounding head.

  Almost a hundred checks they’d managed last night before he called a halt. No success, not even a hint of anything suspicious in anyone they’d talked to. The teams had to have time to rest, would be needed again this morning. Tiredness caused errors, he’d learnt that early. And in this job a small mistake could be fatal. His feeling that their man was planning something much worse than leaving pig organs and silently stealing documents had been forcefully enhanced by the psychologist’s report.

  The trouble was there were so many cars that fitted that description and number plate in and around Plymouth. They’d got a list of those owned by men in the right sort of age range, but there were hundreds. And what if the car wasn’t his? What if it was a partner’s, or friend’s? Or came from outside of the area? Or what if the description or number plate was wrong? That security guard hadn’t been a convincing witness.

  Whatever, it was their best lead at the moment and they had to follow it. There was no talk about anyone buying a gun from the area’s underworld. Checks with the local doctors hadn’t revealed anyone with a speech impediment who might be committing the crimes. He did have the list of their usual suspects, the career criminals who fitted the description, but he couldn’t imagine it being one of those. This was no mundane criminal. Dan was right. He wasn’t playing his little game to make money. It was something far more sinister.

  Dan would be here in a while. Adam had been surprised to realise how pleased he was about that. He had an insight into police work and people too, could often see those shady little connections that explained someone’s actions. And if this man had a grudge against him, far better to have him safely inside the investigation.

  He wouldn’t tell Dan about the psychologist’s conclusions. He was jittery enough at the thought of having a stalker. And now it looked as if he might be in real danger. Better for him not to know, at least for now.

  Claire was woken early by the seagulls’ exuberant cries in the sunshine outside her window. She waited for a moment before opening her eyes. Her head was a little sore and there was the hint of a gentle thumping, but not too bad. It was only after getting through three quarters of the bottle and starting to feel tipsy that she’d checked its alcohol content. Fourteen and a half per cent. Wines were getting stronger, particularly the New World reds she liked. She’d made a mental note to be more wary in future.

  Still, it had been a productive evening. She’d worked through a comprehensive list of inquiries on all the internet search engines she could think of using all the possible permutations of words. She’d found thousands of sites devoted to domestic violence, so many it took her by surprise. She’d expected dozens of course, but never this many. It was an unsettling insight into the reality of many women’s lives.

  Once she’d discounted the pornographic sites set up to titillate – a shocking number of those alone – she’d come down to a few dozen covering Britain. Then it was a question of refining the searche
s; to Devon and Cornwall, Bodmin, Saltash, Plymouth, Truro, Exeter, Barnstaple, anything that might throw up a dedicated site for victims of domestic violence anywhere in the south-west of England.

  Eventually she’d narrowed it down to a couple. You Don’t Have To Take It and DiVorce, the D and V highlighted to emphasise Domestic Violence.

  Both sounded hopeful. She still didn’t quite know what she was doing, but Chief Inspector Breen had told her, told all of them, to always follow a hunch. She’d read through the sites and seen some agonising stories. Perhaps that was why she’d drunk the wine so fast. There was also advice and help on offer, as well as discussion groups. But first you had to register and tell a little of your own story, in confidence of course.

  This was the point at which she hesitated. If all this got to trial, what would the defence barrister boom across the courtroom?

  “Entrapment, Your Honour … this alleged officer of the law did not just break the law, she shattered it …”

  What was she thinking about – if it got to trial? She was playing a hunch, nothing more. They were nowhere near an arrest, let alone a charge. If … if she made any progress, then she would worry about the law. Claire closed her eyes, imagined who she was, what had just been inflicted on her, and began typing.

  “I’m so desperate. Please, please help me. He’s given me such a hiding tonight. I’m so scared, I’m shaking, I’m bleeding. It was the belt again, he whipped me with the leather belt. THE BELT! My back’s covered with scars. I don’t know how much more I can take. If it goes on like this, I think he’s going to kill me. HELP ME!!”

  Claire stopped, a little shocked at herself. She poured another glass of wine, let her hand linger over the keyboard, then submitted the form. She got up, changed the CD, chose a compilation of the Rolling Stones. It was their earlier stuff, around the time of ‘Paint It Black’. Dan had introduced them to her collection, played the song to make a joke of telling her about the swamp of the depression that he suffered.