Evil Valley (The TV Detective Series)

by Simon Hall

  Craig thanked him, and re-introduced the original programme. Dan found himself leaning heavily against a cold brick wall, listening to tips on making the most of the space in a small kitchen.

  ‘Dan! Dan!’ Adam was shaking him.

  ‘Err, sorry. Just … err … recovering …’

  ‘You did good. Thanks. That should help. Right, come on, let’s get going. We’ve got to get this bastard.’

  Adam started jogging down the stairs. Dan followed, couldn’t help overhearing the quick call his friend made. It was to Tom’s school to check he was safely in lessons. The boy was nine years old, almost exactly the same age as Nicola.

  The big white outside-broadcast van with Wessex Tonight emblazoned on its side was manoeuvring to park as they arrived. The street was packed with police cars and vans, officers striding and jogging back and forth. Nigel was trying to guide Loud into a space without denting a new Volvo. Uniformed police with clipboards knocked at doors and stopped passers-by to talk to them. The police helicopter buzzed overhead.

  ‘Good,’ said Adam, taking in the scene. ‘I asked for the works and the High Honchos have given them to me – for once. I’m going to go sort out the inquiry. I’ll do a press conference when the hacks have all gathered. Is there anything else you want for now?’

  ‘We’ll need a picture of Nicola,’ said Dan.

  ‘It’s being done.’

  ‘And a word with her parents? That’s the most important thing. If you really want to make an impact and get people to take notice, we need to hear from the parents about their turmoil and anguish’

  ‘There’s only a mum. She’s distraught at the mo, but we’ll ask her later.’

  ‘Can I do a live interview with you for the news at 1.30?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll come back here to your OB truck.’

  Loud had managed to park halfway up the kerb but Dan didn’t think anyone would mind today. He grabbed Nigel and they went filming, leaving Loud to set up the satellite link. ‘Do you think I should change the shirt?’ he’d asked as they left. ‘Given the story, you know?’

  Today’s outfit boasted a glowing rainbow, with white birds flying above and green towering trees and golden sand below. ‘Yes,’ said Dan firmly. Loud’s beard twitched, but he didn’t argue.

  They filmed a couple of policemen knocking on doors and talking to the people who answered. Then they followed another couple walking down the street, stopping people and asking for their help. Dan interviewed some of the locals, got the usual stuff about it being shocking, who’d have thought it would happen here, what kind of a world is it we live in? It was useful colour for his report but what they really needed was that picture of Nicola and an interview with her mum. People and pictures, always the key to a TV story.

  The pack was gathering fast: newspaper reporters from the Wessex Standard and, Western Daily News, a couple of freelance news agencies. Universal TV had arrived too, and a gaggle of photographers, Dirty El amongst them. They managed a brief chat.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘On what?’ asked El, his sleazy grin saying he knew full well.

  ‘Your little mission.’

  ‘It’s proceeding smoothly. Haven’t hit the jackpot yet, but the groundwork is complete and I’m confident of a favourable outcome.’

  ‘Well, let me know, I’d be very interested. Aside from work, we must have another beer sometime, mate.’

  ‘Can’t at the mo. This little part-time job I’ve got is taking up all my evenings.’

  ‘What part-time job? That doesn’t sound like you. What’s that about?’

  El’s grin grew wider and he warbled a few tuneless bars of a song. Dan sensed a painful rhyme approaching, and was quickly proved right.

  ‘She’d disapprove would his mother,

  Of El undercover,

  But a police mark-s-man,

  He must snap how he can,

  ‘Coz for a pic all the tabloids will love ya!’

  Dan was about to ask another question when he was interrupted by Adam striding towards them. Cameras rose and microphones appeared as the pack arranged themselves in a semi-circle, Nigel in the middle as ever. A couple of flashes flared. Adam handed around a clutch of photocopied sheets. A colour picture of Nicola and a description of her, Gibson and his car. Excellent.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, as polite as ever, even under such pressure. ‘This will have to be brief as I’ve got a lot to do, but I do appreciate your help. It’s important to us. I can’t emphasise enough, public help is vital here. Can everyone who reads, or sees, or hears this please look out for Nicola, or this man, or the car we believe they were in. Each passing moment is vital in trying to find Nicola alive. Please help by looking out for her. So far we have no leads as to where she might be. I desperately need information that can help us. That’s it for now, but I’ll update you again this afternoon. Nicola’s mum is also preparing a statement for you.’

  * * *

  Claire grabbed her coat and followed Suzanne out of the CID office. Whiting hadn’t hesitated when the call came through. ‘Go,’ he’d hissed. ‘A live child takes priority over an investigation into two dead men. We can reconvene when the child has been found. Go.’

  She’d just about finished her emails anyway. She hadn’t told Whiting what she was doing, just that she was going through some of the interviews and trying to work out if there might be a pattern. He’d accepted it, if with one of those questioning looks of his. It wasn’t as though they had much else to work on. Suspicion, that was still just about it. Suspicion and the possibility of a motive, but no evidence, just the persistent question of what that password they’d found in Crouch’s house could mean.

  There were computers at all the homes. One in Bodmin, one in Saltash and Crouch had one. Could that be the connection? It fitted with the password. But then, what home didn’t have a computer nowadays? It wasn’t a great lead but it was all they had. It had to be worth investigating.

  She wondered if she’d see Dan at the abduction scene. He was bound to be there. A story like that, he’d be sent straight away. It would be the first time they’d met on a job. She still didn’t want other police officers to know they were seeing each other, but it was impossible to keep quiet. They went out for a drink, they saw someone she knew, suddenly the word was around the force. Whiting certainly seemed to know, and if he did then everyone did.

  Well, whatever, it was up to her what she did with her private life. There was just that question of the effect on her career, how other officers might treat her, whether the High Honchos could worry about trusting her. Suspicion was ingrained in the police. It was their world. She’d just have to face it and, if she were asked, she’d tell them what she and Dan had agreed. They’d discussed it and they’d resolved it, and that was that. If her bosses trusted Dan, of course.

  He’d been helpful in her inquiry too, putting her on to Richie Hanson’s sister. That was one thing she still couldn’t understand. The woman had been adamant her brother was incapable of violence, and despite years of being lied to in interviews Claire had believed her. But how could that evidence fit with the medical reports, about the bruises on Jo Chanter’s body and the statements from her and Crouch that Hanson was threatening her with a knife when he was shot? They had Hanson’s fingerprints on the knife too. Something was wrong there, she sensed it, but couldn’t quite see what. She’d do some more work on it. First, the search for Nicola. That was most important now.

  If she saw Dan there, it would have to be polite and professional. He’d understand. They both had jobs to do and couldn’t afford to be distracted, not on a case like this. She could text him later to apologise. Claire couldn’t show it – knew he didn’t like a fuss – but she’d surprised herself with how worried she was about him. What was he getting into, with this madman they were hunting sending him letters? Whatever he might say about doing his job, he wasn’t like her and Suzanne and Adam Breen, not paid to take risks and not experienced i
n it. For all his bravado, she knew how vulnerable he could be.

  Claire jumped as she nearly walked into a cleaner crouching beside one of the swing doors, emptying a bin. She mumbled an apology and told herself to get her mind back on the case.

  Two hours now Nicola had been missing. Charles Cross was the emptiest she’d ever seen it, none of the usual banter in the corridors, babble from the offices or continual hum of the lift. Everyone was out looking for her. Everyone doing the best they could, but always with that unspoken fear. Who would find the corpse? That was the merciless truth of the statistics. If you don’t find the child quickly, you don’t find them alive.

  What about her case? Was this computer idea really worth following up, or was she chasing a whim? The trouble was, the computer at the house of the first shooting in Bodmin had gone, been given to some charity shop, untraceable, a new one bought. Was that important? It hadn’t been checked at the time because back then there were no grounds for suspicion. It was only after the Saltash shooting the High Honchos got worried. The computer there had been checked, but nothing found. And Crouch’s own computer was clean too, not a hint of anything amiss. Still, it was a potential lead and they weren’t exactly overwhelmed with them. It had to be worth a try.

  Just how much did Crouch know about computers, anyway? He must be competent with them to have one. It was something they’d have to put to him in the next interview, whenever that might be. The Police Federation, the officers’ union, were weighing in on his side now, so they’d have to take it gently. There had even been talk of victimisation of an officer for simply doing his job, discussion too of some officers refusing to carry guns if the inquiry went on.

  It had happened before, in London, over an investigation into two firearms officers. She’d seen the looks she’d got from a couple of colleagues, the way some glanced over when she was in the canteen. Whiting was certainly right about one thing. This inquiry could make you unpopular.

  Still, she would do her job. She was pleased with the online personality she’d created, if a little surprised – perhaps even shocked? – at how easily it had come.

  “Please help me! Please!” Claire had typed.

  “I wasn’t sure whether I should give you my name, but I’m so desperate, I just don’t care. I’m Zoë, I’m 29, and a teaching assistant. I’ve been married to Phil for the last five years, and to start with it was all perfect. But now … well, it’s hell. I can’t think of any other word to describe it.

  “I’m sorry if I pour all this out, but no one else knows and it seems to be helping, just getting if off my mind and out in the open.

  “It was all so beautiful at the start, just perfect. The wedding was a dream, in a lovely little Cornish church. It was such a happy day, all our family and friends looking on, all a blaze of beaming smiles. We bought a house in Liskeard, not a huge place but plenty enough for us, a friendly modern estate on the edge of the town. It was just … well, idyllic, all that I’d imagined in a marriage. We were happy, so happy. But now…

  “It started to go wrong when Phil lost his job. The call-centre in Plymouth closed. The business was being moved to India, the wages are much cheaper there. He looked for other work, but nothing was so well paid, the only possibilities dirty, hard physical labour. He tried it for a while, but couldn’t keep up with the stronger men. A couple of glasses of wine in the evening became a bottle, then another, then a few bottles. I guess it was his way of coping. He’d go quiet, become withdrawn, then turn on me. At first it was shouting and screaming, and that was bad enough. But then one night – one terrible night – he slapped me.

  “I remember that moment so well. Afterwards, he stood still, staring at his hand as if it was a stranger’s, not a part of him. He looked at me, head bowed, sobbing and burst into tears. We hugged and cuddled and made up. But the next night it happened again, and the next, and this time it was a punch.”

  Claire paused, leaned back from her computer, let out a low whistle. She didn’t want to think about where the words were coming from. She got up, made herself a strong coffee, continued typing.

  “It’s been going on for months now. You know what? I can’t say how many exactly. The days just pass in a haze of misery. And it’s got worse – if that was possible. He’s become cunning. He hits me in the body and legs where the cuts and bruises won’t show.

  “I’ve tried everything to get through, talk to him, try to get him to counselling, but nothing’s worked. He’s become impenetrable. He sits silently, drinks the red wine, then attacks.

  “I wasn’t going to say this, but I will. I’m losing hope. I haven’t told anyone, not family, not friends. You’re the first to know. I’ve … I’ve thought about suicide – in fact, I’ve already started collecting packets of tablets from the supermarket. They’re hidden away in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, along with the cheap bottle of whisky. Some days it seems the only way out. I open the cupboard door and stare at the pills and the lovely glow of the whisky. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like just to swallow and drift away, never to have to come back to this hell.

  “Then I saw a poster on the supermarket notice board. It advertised a support group, but said anyone who couldn’t come along could always make contact online, so I looked up Domestic Violence on the net. You know what? Finding out how many other women were also suffering was a shock, but it gave me strength too. For once, I felt I wasn’t alone.

  “I’ve got to go now, he’ll be home in a minute. So … can anyone help? Please! You might just save my life.”

  Claire noticed her hands were shaking as she finished typing. She had to go for a long walk over the cliffs around the Hoe to calm herself. But, even then, Zoë was with her still.

  This evening she would see whether she’d got any replies. She still wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, just that she was following a hunch. For now though, there were far more urgent matters. She climbed into the car, Suzanne started the engine and they drove fast out of Charles Cross, past the ruined church and towards Peverell.

  A cold drizzle had begun drifting from the darkening sky. It made Dan’s ankle throb with a renewed ache and he trod carefully on the slippery paving slabs. He exchanged glances with Nigel. Neither of them liked working in the rain.

  ‘Have we got enough pictures?’

  Nigel nodded. ‘Plenty for lunch. I’ll do some more if we need them, but it’ll just be the same stuff, cops wandering around talking to people.’

  ‘I’ll start editing then. You stand by and keep an eye out for any more action.’

  He slid into the OB van alongside Loud. The engineer had changed into a plain navy shirt. Dan had to look twice to make sure it was him. ‘Just in case the kid turns up dead,’ Loud explained. ‘How touchingly considerate,’ Dan thought, but didn’t say.

  He began the report with the picture of Nicola, the most important part of the story, talking about her being on the way to school that morning when she was abducted. Then they edited in the shots of policemen knocking on doors, talking to local people, while Dan spoke of all available officers being scrambled to join the hunt, the police helicopter brought in too. They used a couple of bits of interview of people talking about their shock, then finished with the descriptions of Nicola, Gibson and the car. They didn’t edit any pictures over that part, the graphics would be dropped in when they sent the story back to the studios.

  Adam arrived at 1.20. ‘Any news?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Not a bloody thing. No sightings at all.’

  ‘Any guesses?’

  ‘None. He could be anywhere. He had an hour’s head start on us, at least. That’s time enough for him to be 70 miles away if he hit the motorway. It’s clear he had some plan, so I’m sure he’s not just running. He’s up to something, but what it is I don’t know.’

  ‘Nicola’s probably safe though, isn’t she?’ said Dan, without much belief. ‘He said he didn’t want to hurt anyone.’

  Adam shook his head. ‘I hope you�
��re right, mate, I really do. But remember we’re dealing with a madman here. He could do anything.’

  Dan eased himself gently down from the van, protecting his ankle. He slipped into his ear the moulded plastic tube that would link him to the studio. Nigel has set up the camera facing the mobile incident vans. The drizzle was still drifting steadily down.

  ‘What do you want to say in the interview?’ Dan asked.

  ‘I don’t want to go into anything about Gibson. If he sees it, it might panic him. We’ll leave that for now. I just want to appeal for public help really, that’s the important thing. I’ve got a favour to ask too, but we can talk about that after the broadcast.’

  Something in Adam’s voice sounded ominous, but Dan didn’t have time to ask.

  ‘Fine. OK, stand by,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a studio link, then I’ll pick up and set the scene. Then my report will play. It’s a minute and a half and features the picture of Nicola and the descriptions you gave us. Then I’ll interview you.’

  Adam straightened his tie and checked his reflection in a car window. ‘Sure.’

  The opening titles of the lunchtime news rumbled in Dan’s ear.

  ‘A major police hunt is under way this lunchtime,’ said Craig, sounding more animated than his usual relaxed self, ‘after an eight-year-old girl was abducted in Plymouth. Hundreds of officers are scouring the city for signs of Nicola Reece, but so far nothing has been found. Our Crime Correspondent Dan Groves can tell us more …’

  ‘Craig, I’m in the Peverell area of the city where the hunt for Nicola is being coordinated,’ Dan picked up, gesturing to the police vans behind him. ‘And the police are asking for urgent public help in finding her. They say every passing second could be vital.’

  His report played. ‘With me now is Detective Chief Inspector Adam Breen who’s leading the hunt for Nicola,’ he said. ‘Mr Breen, how can the public help you?’

  ‘We need their eyes,’ began Adam, and Dan could tell he’d been rehearsing his sound bites. Short, sharp and memorable, straight from the ‘How to be on TV’ handbook.