Evil Valley (The TV Detective Series)

by Simon Hall

  ‘Bollocks!’ roared Adam. ‘It’s him again. Quick, get another trace on it. Come on, man, quick!!’

  ‘Hang on,’ pleaded Zac. ‘It takes a minute to shut down one program and start up another.’

  ‘I forgot to mention something,’ continued Gibson’s voice. ‘It was to give you an idea of your deadline.’

  The line went quiet for a moment.

  ‘Come on, come on, come on!’ urged Adam.

  Zac’s fingers were a blur, flying over the keyboard. ‘Almost there,’ he gasped. ‘Just a few more secs.’

  Gibson’s voice drifted out from the speaker, but indistinct, muffled, distant from the phone. ‘Come on now … come on … do your little speech. It’s all part of the adventure. Come on.’

  There was another brief silence. Then a young girl came on the phone, shy and quiet.

  ‘Hello … hello Mummy’s friends.’ The voice was faltering but clear. ‘Hello. I’m going to get my pony now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  The line went dead. Adam turned to Zac. ‘Get it? Did you get it?’

  The technician shook his dark, shaggy hair.

  ‘Bollocks!’ bellowed Adam again, slamming a clenched fist into a desk.

  Claire hadn’t been curled up in bed as Dan had imagined. She was sitting upright, intent on the laptop on her desk, trying to get the email right. The last one had flowed easily, as if she were an actor slipping into a familiar part. But then there’d been no pressure. She was just fishing, not expecting, only chancing. Now she felt the tension of an opportunity.

  One reply to her emails, from ‘You Don’t Have To Take it’ had been exactly what she’d expected. You don’t have to tolerate it, there are support groups, refuges to help you get out, lawyers on standby to advise you. You can contact us for any advice and you’re more than welcome to do so. Here are the phone numbers. If you feel the need for anonymity, just send another email. Predictable, and nothing of interest.

  The other, from DiVorce, had been far more enticing, or at least she’d thought so at the time. Now, in the middle of the night, staring at the screen, she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she’d just wanted to read a sinister intent into it? She got up from the desk and walked into the kitchen, put the kettle on. She could do with a caffeine kick, but then she’d never get back to sleep later. She switched the kettle off, poured some apple juice from the fridge instead and sat back down.

  Claire clicked the touchpad and scrolled down to the DiVorce email.

  “We could load you down with lots of useless advice about the law and refuges and counselling, but we expect you’ve seen and heard it all before. They’re just hollow words. We appreciate it’s not that simple – if only it were. We pride ourselves on being utterly straight and honest in a way others aren’t. If you’re really desperate, it often helps to talk.

  “Would you like access to our chat room? Other women with similar problems often visit and we find the talking helps. But one word of caution before you decide to join us. As we said, we don’t pull our punches and sometimes the discussions can become very graphic and upsetting. Commonly the abuse described is horrendous, even for someone who’s experienced it. And the kind of measures fantasised about to deal with the partner can be extremely violent and shocking, however much we feel they may deserve it. Proceed only if you are prepared for this. Some find it a help, a release. Others that it’s not for them. We leave the decision to you.”

  She began typing.

  “Thank you so much for your email. It’s good to know that I’m not alone in what I’m suffering. He beat me again tonight. My hands are shaking and I can feel the bruises spreading across my ribs. I’m just about holding back the tears but they keep leaking and dripping onto the keyboard. I don’t know whether I want to cry, or scream and shout and hit out. I just don’t know what I’m going to do.

  “He’s gone to sleep after another two bottles of red wine and the kicking he’s just given me. He sounds really peaceful and content. I can hear the bastard’s snoring from here.

  “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I HATE HIM!!

  “For once I’m not thinking about the pills and whisky I’ve saved up. I don’t want to kill myself. I want to kill him. I want to kill the bastard.

  “I’ve got to go to school tomorrow. I know I won’t sleep tonight and I don’t know how I’ll get through the day. I’m sure my friends know what’s happening to me. I haven’t told anyone, but I think I can feel them talking about me. I’m sure they know.

  “What am I going to do? I haven’t got anywhere else to go. If I try to escape, he’ll kill me. I can’t go on like this. I keep having this fantasy that I could sneak into the kitchen, slip a knife from the drawer, creep upstairs and stick it into his throat as he snores in bed like the animal he is. Is that a terrible thing to imagine? I just don’t know what I’m going to do.

  “I’ve got to go, I think I can hear him waking. He’ll hit me again if he finds me on the computer. Yes please, I’d like to talk to other women suffering this hell. I need to talk to them. I need to talk to someone. Please help me.”

  Claire sat back, sipped at the juice and scanned through the words. It was a bit rough, but that was how it should be, the thoughts of a desperate woman. Again she was amazed at how easily she’d slipped back into being Zoë. It came out so fast, so naturally.

  She hit the send button, shut down the computer. She needed to get some sleep. They had Nicola to find, which meant another hectic day tomorrow. DCI Breen was pushing them like he was possessed.

  Because he had a son of similar age, she wondered, and could imagine what it would be like if he were abducted? Or was it personal, because Gibson was mocking them? Or because he could have stopped the man when he did his leisure centre act? That story had gone round the station fast. Whatever the reason, it seemed more than a professional determination was driving Adam Breen.

  She calmed herself and tried some deep breathing. She had to sleep. She needed the energy for another late night tomorrow, a chance to venture into the chat room.

  To see what she would find there.

  Marcus Whiting pulled his coat tighter around his neck and wriggled his toes to see if he could feel them. His feet were freezing, despite the three pairs of socks. He fumbled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the car’s windscreen where his breath kept fogging it. His fingers found a forgotten five-pence piece and he placed it carefully alongside the rest of the change on the passenger seat. Seventy-four pence now, in an untidy pentagon of copper and silver.

  The lights were on in the downstairs windows of the house, but there was no sign of movement. There hadn’t been for more than two hours and it was now well past nine. How long would he give it? Another hour, maybe two? Surely if nothing had happened by eleven, then nothing would. Would he come back another night? He didn’t know.

  What had brought him here? Nothing concrete, nothing certain, that was for sure. Just a hunch, a hint, a tickling feeling that all was not as it seemed. It was an itch in his mind and he knew whenever that happened he had to find a way to ease it.

  Had it been something to do with that TV report? That one where Richie Hanson’s sister had cried for the camera, after the promptings of that irritating reporter. He had to admit it was powerful television and if he was honest with himself – as he always was – she was convincing.

  She’d certainly made him doubt her brother could be a wife beater. He’d seen misguided relatives before of course, unable to accept the evils of the ones they loved, defending them passionately. Denial was human nature, a reflex reaction. But she’d seemed different. Claire Reynolds had agreed after she too had interviewed the woman.

  But there was more to it than just that. No matter how much he failed to find any evidence, he simply didn’t believe in such an apparent coincidence as the one he was investigating. One police marksman didn’t kill two men in such extraordinarily similar circumstances in the space of five months. Tha
t itch in his mind told him something was wrong and he’d learned never to ignore its prompting.

  So what did he expect to find here in Saltash, at this house in Haven Close? He didn’t know, just that he’d felt a need to drive here, watch and wait. The lights were on downstairs but there was still no sign of movement. It was a cold Tuesday night in autumn, and the woman inside was probably sitting in front of the television, watching a film, or soap opera, sipping at a gin and trying to forget the guns and death of five days ago.

  He checked his watch. Half past nine now. Eleven o’ clock would be his deadline. If nothing happened by then he’d drive back to his hotel and get some sleep. He still had his report to complete.

  His fingers shifted some of the change around, forming the coins into a hexagon. A car grumbled by, indicated, the yellow lights blinking off the facades of the neat rows of houses in the cul de sac. Whiting slunk down in the seat, his eyes just above the dashboard.

  The car was parking a little way up from the house and there were plenty of spaces just outside. He felt himself relax. False alarm. But he kept watching, just in case. There was a dark figure inside the car, waiting, fiddling in the footwell, probably getting his late night shopping together, milk and cigarettes, something like that. Nothing suspicious.

  Whiting glanced over to the house. A downstairs curtain twitched. He stiffened, sat up a little.

  The dark figure climbed quickly and quietly out of the car, didn’t slam the door but pushed it gently closed, walked fast down the street. The door of the house slid open and he was inside.

  Whiting sat, waiting, his breath shallow. It could be nothing of course, entirely innocent, a concerned friend or relative checking in. There was one way to find out.

  He waited, toying with the pile of change, changing it back into a pentagon, then a hexagon, then a heptagon.

  Ten minutes later, a dull light appeared behind the curtains of an upstairs bedroom.

  Marcus Whiting allowed himself a rare indulgence. He smiled.

  Zac pointed at the screen. ‘He’s in Devon and in the south-west of the county. That’s all I can tell you. He didn’t give us long enough to narrow it down any further.’

  ‘And from that second call nothing at all?’ asked Adam.

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t have time to set the trace programme going.’

  ‘He knew, didn’t he?’ Adam snarled. ‘He knew we’d be looking at what we’d just got from his call and wouldn’t be able to trace the second one. And he put Nicola on to taunt us. The bastard is way ahead of us and it’s about time we caught up. There’ll be no sleep for anyone tonight. We don’t have the time. From what he got Nicola to say, I reckon tomorrow is our deadline. Tomorrow … her birthday. That’s about as low as the bastard could go. I suppose I should have guessed. Her birthday is our deadline to find her safely. What do you lot think?’

  There was some nodding, but no one said a word. Dan could see it in their eyes. They were thinking about what might be happening to Nicola.

  ‘Eleanor and Michael, you start working on what he said about the clues, see if you can pick up anything from it,’ said Adam. ‘Anything at all. What the hell did that thing about the band of gold mean? We’re at the stage where I’m willing to try anything. Dan, come and have a look at the map with me.’

  There was a large map of the south-west peninsula on the newsroom wall, filled with the red and green veins of roads and grey blemishes of the region’s cities, towns and villages. Dan hobbled over. The pain in his ankle had eased with the rest of sitting and waiting for Gibson’s call, but now it jarred sharply back into life.

  ‘Last seen here at the airport,’ said Adam, pointing to the north of Plymouth. ‘And he’s got a radius of half an hour or so to move. I reckon that’s about 15 to 20 miles at most, given the roads aren’t good. And he’s in Devon.’

  He drew a rough circle around Plymouth with his finger. ‘That leaves us with a fair chunk of Dartmoor, going down into the countryside of the South Hams. It’s narrowed it down a bit, but not enough. I need more.’

  Adam stared at the map, then quickly turned, strode over to Eleanor. He was moving automatically, Dan thought, robotically. ‘Any ideas about the clues he gave? I need to narrow the search area further, as much as I can.’

  ‘That band of gold thing I have no idea about,’ said Eleanor. ‘Except that it’s obviously a term for a wedding ring, but I don’t see how that helps. And I don’t know what he means by the elements within it. Gold obviously, but what else? Does he mean like those rings that have platinum, or white gold in them too? I really don’t know. But it’s obviously important. Do you have any thoughts Michael?’

  He shook his head and she turned to her computer, began typing. ‘I’ll start looking band of gold up on the internet and see what references there are that might help.’

  ‘What about the name thing he was on about again?’ asked Adam.

  ‘I still think he’s talking about the Chief Constable’s name,’ said Dan. ‘Which I reckon means he’s on a hill somewhere.’

  Adam paced back over to the map, ran a hand through his hair. Dan’s ankle throbbed angrily as he limped to join him. A weight of tiredness was suddenly pulling at him and he began to imagine the warmth and safe oblivion of his bed.

  Adam stabbed at the board with his finger. ‘Hills,’ he muttered. ‘Hills. Well there aren’t any big hills marked in the South Hams. But on Dartmoor …’

  ‘The moor’s all hills,’ said Dan. ‘It’s full of them. And it’s quiet, just like in the background of both calls. I didn’t say at the time because it was just a thought, nothing to back it up, but when we were at the airport I got the feeling he was on Dartmoor. There are plenty of places to hide. It’s not too far from the airport. And with his call … Nicola mentioned a pony, and it’s tenuous, but that might be a clue. The Dartmoor pony’s the symbol of the moor.’

  Adam stared at the map. ‘Dartmoor it is then,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s our best guess and I’ll take it. We don’t have anything else. I’ll get the helicopter up first thing in the morning. It’ll pick up traces of anyone up on the moor and the TAG teams can follow up the sightings. We’ll get the armed response units out too. I don’t like the thought of what Gibson could do if he’s cornered. We’ll go through the villages and see if anyone’s seen anything suspicious.’

  Adam clenched and unclenched his fists again, his face ruddy and strained.

  ‘We’ll get this bastard,’ he growled. ‘We’ll get Nicola back to her mum for her birthday.’

  She was such a pretty girl he thought, as he watched her get up from the sleeping bag. Her hair reminded him of … who was it now? He followed the memory back through his mind. That was it, Laura, the babysitter who used to come and look after him, when Dad was briefly home from whatever particular posting it was this time, and he and Mum went out for an evening to celebrate.

  Laura had that long, golden hair, sometimes tied up in a ponytail, sometimes flowing free. He always used to guess which it would be before she came round. He liked it best when it was free so he could help her to brush it.

  ‘Do I need to take my bag, Ed?’ Nicola was holding out her little satchel to him, the pink pony stencilled on the front.

  ‘What did Mum tell you about your satchel?’ he asked, his voice kind.

  ‘She said I should always take it with me wherever I went.’

  ‘Then you’d better take it now. We’ll be seeing Mum soon. But first we’ve got to find you a pony.’

  Her little face beamed with that gappy smile. ‘I knew I was right. I knew that as soon as it was midnight you’d have to tell me, because then it was my birthday. On my birthday Mummy always tells me I was nearly born on a different day. It was half past twelve in the morning I was born.’ She nodded hard to emphasise the point, the tail of blonde hair swinging behind her. ‘She says I kept her waiting and waiting and waiting, and she even had to miss Eastenders for me, because I just wouldn’t pop out! I took hours!�
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  She paused, looked up at him and asked slowly, ‘Is it a Dartmoor pony, Ed?’

  ‘I promised it would be, didn’t I? It’s your birthday so you can have anything you want today. But have you decided what colour yet? And what you’re going to call it?’

  Her face creased back into a frown and she held her head on its side. ‘I still can’t decide, Ed. I think it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. But I think I shall know when I see him.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Now we’re almost at the end of our adventure. We’re off outside and we’ll be walking for a few minutes, so we’d better wrap you up warm.’

  She pulled on the grey duffle coat, fumbling at its shiny toggles. The smile was back, the gap between her front teeth seemed to grow wider with each grin. ‘I think I probably want a black and white pony, but I’m still not quite sure.’

  ‘Then we’ll have a look at a few and see which one you like the most. That’s the best thing. Are you ready to go?’

  She raised her arms so he could see her coat was fastened. He pointed to her legs and she looked down, pulled a drooping sock up to her knee. ‘I’m ready to go, Ed!’ she chirped, marching towards him, swinging her satchel. ‘I’m so excited. I don’t know when I’ve ever been so excited.’

  ‘Is that because it’s your birthday or because of our adventure, or because of the pony?’ he asked, taking her hand. It was so tiny and smooth. He tried not to think what he was about to do with her, where she was going.

  ‘Everything!’ she squeaked.

  In the shed he pulled the rucksack from the back of the quad bike and slung it over his shoulders. Then he fumbled in his jacket and stuck the tiny note carefully to the handlebars.

  ‘What’s that for Ed?’ she asked.

  ‘That is a letter to our friends, telling them where to find us. And this,’ he said, shrugging the rucksack up his back, ‘has got a tent in.’ He took her hand again. ‘A tent and some food. After our adventure, I’m going to do a bit of camping.’