The TV Detective

by Simon Hall

  Spearing won. At the time, the analysts said he had paid a great deal of money, but, if his plans worked out, and if the property market held up, he could still make a decent profit.

  It was one if too many.

  The housing market faltered and failed. Prices started to fall, first a couple of per cent, then more, finally gaining momentum to savage losses. Flats were hit even worse. There was a flood of supply and a desert of demand.

  Spearing just about managed to keep his business afloat, but he had to sell a large proportion of his properties. He went from being a very rich man to the owner of just another struggling business. It was touch and go whether it would survive.

  And, naturally, Spearing could never accept he might just have written the script for his own tragedy. As people do in times of adversity, he looked around for someone else to blame.

  And there was Edward Bray.

  He had sent threatening letters, and on the occasion of a business trip to Plymouth made a point of going to Bray’s offices to make his feelings clear.

  On the basis of all that alone Spearing would have been someone the police, in their euphemistic language, would quickly have spoken to “in order to eliminate him from our inquiries”. He would have been phoned, an appointment made, detectives from Brighton sent, not the officer in charge of the case, all the way from Plymouth, and with no warning.

  But two other factors came into play. Firstly, Spearing had what Adam contentedly referred to as “form”. And not just any form. As a horse in a steeplechase must enjoy fences and ditches, and an athlete in a marathon must be au fait with endurance, so a potential killer must have a taste for violence.

  And Spearing did. He had been convicted of two counts of assault against his tenants, one leaving a woman with minor injuries, the other, a young man, with a broken nose.

  He had served six months in prison, and came out a reformed man.

  Or so he said.

  Because then came the second factor.

  Alex Spearing lived in Brighton. The great majority of his business was in and around Brighton. His friends were in Brighton.

  But on the afternoon and evening of Monday, December 14th, Alex Spearing was in Plymouth.

  They made a brief stop in the city centre, then drove to Spearing’s office. Where once he’d had an impressive building at the heart of the commercial quarter, now the company had moved to a few rooms in a run-down terrace. There were plenty of parking spaces available along the street, always a sure sign of an absence of affluence.

  ‘Right,’ Adam said, as he got out of the car. ‘Just another friendly word. This could easily become a nasty confrontation, but, whatever, it’s a key interview, probably the most important so far, so if you could keep quiet I’d be grateful.’

  Dan noticed his throat was feeling dry and his back had begun to sweat. Memories of the hunt for the man who attacked the prostitutes flitted through his mind, the knowledge that at any second he could be facing someone armed and desperate to escape.

  ‘OK,’ was all he managed to say.

  Adam checked his reflection in the car’s windowand strode into the office. A young woman was squatting down, filing some papers. Beyond her was another door, a little ajar. Adam pushed past and into the room at the back.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, cheerily.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ replied the man sitting behind the desk.

  Spearing turned out to be surprisingly affable, ostensibly at least. When Adam had explained what he wanted, the businessman visibly relaxed.

  ‘I thought you were the bailiffs,’ he said. ‘Come to take what little I’ve got left. The bastards.’

  He spat the words with a sting of bile. It could hardly have been clearer his business was on the cliff edge, and the land beneath eroding rapidly.

  Adam went through a string of questions about Spearing’s dealings with Edward Bray. Dan noticed the technique was exactly the same as his own when interviewing. First, the gentle warm up questions to establish a relationship, get the person talking, then hit them with what you really wanted to ask.

  There was the hint of an odd smell in the room, which Dan couldn’t place, but which he knew he’d met before somewhere. He sniffed hard, but couldn’t bring the memory home. Under the desk, out of sight of Spearing, Adam’s foot tapped against Dan’s ankle. He took the hint, sat still and breathed easily.

  The room was tatty, and apart from a board covered in letters and memos, many of them ringed with redborders, no attempt had been made to make it look more businesslike. Dan wondered how much fight Spearing had left to keep his company going. Everyone, however tough, has their threshold of surrender.

  He was a tubby manwho looked pasty, tired, and drawn. His appearance was nigh the opposite of the photograph Adam had in his file. In that, Spearing was much thinner, dressed in a well-cut suit, had a tan and looked strong and healthy. Now the man’s hair was too long and straggled over his ears, and there were a couple of stains on his jacket.

  ‘I should have asked,’ he said. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  Adam declined the offer. ‘Then do you mind if I pop to the loo?’ Spearing asked.

  The detective nodded and Spearing got up, walked out of the door and down a corridor, towards the back of the building. A door crashed open and through the window they could see Spearing lumbering fast towards a gate in the back garden.

  It had surprised Dan that, in contrast to the police dramas he’d seen so often on the television, his experience of the investigation so far had revealed very little swearing. But now, for the first time in their acquaintance, Adam found a profanity.

  ‘Arsehole,’ he said, but didn’t get up from his chair.

  Spearing was wrestling with the gate, tugging at it, but it refused to give. He glanced over his shoulder, stood backand gave it a mighty kick, then another.

  Still Adam didn’t move.

  ‘Do you think we should do something?’ Dan asked mildly.

  ‘We have done something,’ Adam replied. ‘Remember the little stop in town?’

  ‘Oh yes. Sorry. In all the anticipation and excitement, I forgot.’

  Still the gate wouldn’t move. Spearing took another run up, slammed himself into it, then yanked hard at the handle. This time it flew open.

  He pulled himself upand lurched towards the opening, straight into the arms of the two waiting police officers.

  ‘Right then, let’s try again,’ Adam said, when Spearing had been escorted back to his seat. ‘And this time, if you could bear in mind that you’re a suspect for murder and that I’ve had a little rummage through your desk.’

  The man’s mouth fell open, although it wasn’t clear which of the points Adam had raised was bothering him the most. It was cold in the room, but despite that Spearing was sweating.

  While he was outside, Adam had opened a couple of drawers in the desk and found a clear packet containing a white powder. He dipped in a fingertip, tasted itand nodded to himself.

  ‘Cocaine?’ Dan asked. ‘I think I recognised the smell from the toilets of the odd shady nightclub I’ve visited.’

  ‘Yep. You did your best to give us away by gulping at the air like a dying fish, but it’ll be a useful bit of leverage.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m doing my best, but I don’t think I’ve quite got the hang of police work yet.’

  Adam didn’t reply, just waited for Spearing to return.

  ‘Right then, about the murder of Edward Bray.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘You didn’t like him.’

  ‘I bloody hated him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I stand corrected. You hated him and you were in Plymouth on Monday evening when he was killed.’

  Spearing visibly recoiled. ‘I wasn’t.’

  Adam sighed and folded his arms. ‘I don’t know why we have to go through these routines. You people always leg it when we come calling, so we always put cops round the back. We get some important information, you deny it. It’
s like a bad comedy. So, as I was saying, you were in Plymouth on Monday evening.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Right, if I could just remind you about the little packet of special recreational powder in your desk drawer.’

  The businessman looked away. Finally, he said, ‘It’s only a little bit. And just for me. Times have been difficult lately. It helps me get by.’

  ‘And it’s not particularly what I’m interested in. Now, about Plymouth on Monday?’

  ‘Yeah, all right, I was there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘The usual. Looking at places. I wondered if there might be some bargains to be had in the housing. Property going cheap. I’m stuffed here. It’s all too expensive. No one wants to know me. I was hoping there might be something to help me get back on my feet.’

  ‘Who did you meet?’

  ‘No one. I just went to look around.’

  The disbelief was as subtle as a drunken proposition. ‘You just went to look around?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You drove all that way, hundreds of miles, to look around?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You didn’t meet anyone who can confirm what you were doing and when?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you just walked around all day, looking at properties?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In the pouring rain?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Adam sat back on his chair. ‘This is going to come as a terrible shock to you, Mr Spearing, but I’m afraid I don’t believe you.’

  The businessman looked entirely unsurprised. ‘No.’

  ‘OK then, let’s try this one more time. Either you start telling me the truth, or you’re under arrest on suspicion of murder and for possessing Class A drugs.’

  Spearing laid his head down on his hands. ‘Shit,’ he moaned.

  ‘Which I would say just about sums up your position,’ Adam replied. ‘Now then, last chance. What were you doing in Plymouth on Monday?’

  Spearing raised his head. ‘If I tell you the truth, it doesn’t go any further, OK?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to barter. Just tell me what you were doing and we’ll take it from there.’

  And, slowly, Alex Spearing did.

  Chapter Twelve

  THEY LEFT SPEARING IN the tender care of the two large Sussex Police constables while they went to get some lunch.

  ‘We can’t do anything for an hour or two, while Suzanne checks out his story, so we might as well,’ Adam said. ‘Plus, it’ll give him time to stew, and might make him more inclined to talk.’

  They walked for a few minutes to the Lanes, a maze of shops, restaurants, arcades and boutiques, just outside the main shopping centre.

  The sun was high in the sky now, and the day almost warm for an English winter. A few people sat outside the cafes, the insulation of coats and scarves well tucked around them. All the shop windows were full of tinsel and glitter, and suggestions for last minute Christmas presents. They passed a baker’s, the air rich with the smell of mince pies. Seagulls wheeled, screeching in the air, circling a row of rubbish bins, looking for their cuisine of choice.

  ‘It’s just like being back in Plymouth,’ Dan mused.

  He stopped at a second-hand jeweller’s and scanned the gold and silver in the display. They had a fine selection of watches, particularly Rolex. “Best prices in town”, read a sign.

  ‘My last watch packed up a few weeks ago,’ Dan said. ‘I’ve always wanted to get myself a decent one.’

  ‘How about a decent lunch first?’ Adam replied.

  There were so many restaurants it was difficult to choose. All were boasting special offers, fixed price menus, the familiar two-for-one deals. They looked at the menu of a Chinese buffet, a quaint Italian place, then a French bistro.

  Adam’s phone rang, he picked it out of his pocket, went to answerand then stopped when he saw the name on the display. Something in his face changed. With a policeman’s way, he held up a peremptory hand to Dan, as if to say wait, and stalked around the corner.

  Dan used the time to ring the newsroom. He’d turned his phone to silent for the interview with Spearing and hadn’t been in the least surprised to find four missed calls, but just a single message. That could mean only one thing. It was the tempest known as Lizzie, and as surprising as the sun rising, or rain in the summertime, she wanted a story.

  ‘You’re where?’ came the incredulous reaction, her voice hitting a note of which an irascible toddler would have been proud.

  ‘Brighton.’

  ‘I’m sure this is my omission, but I don’t remember Brighton being in our patch.’

  ‘Technically, it isn’t. But there’s a hot lead here, the possibility of a big story for us, so I thought I’d better come.’

  ‘The possibility?’

  ‘There might be an arrest – the first one – of a prime suspect for the Bray murder.’

  ‘Might be? Might be doesn’t make stories. Might be doesn’t fill the programme! Might be doesn’t fascinate the viewers.’

  Dan sensed the rocket was on the launch pad, and the countdown was nearing its climax. He held the phone a little way from his ear. Lizzie in full flow could be painfully loud.

  ‘I want news! I want reports! I want developments! I want them now! Get back to me when you’ve got a story happening, not when something “might be”.’

  Dan pulled a face at the phoneand returned to studying the menu. French food had never been his favourite. Too fiddly, and rarely coming in sufficient quantities for the demands of his rapacious stomach.

  Adam skulked back around the corner. His face was like a storm cloud over the hills.

  ‘I can’t do lunch,’ he snapped. ‘I’m going to have to nip off. Meet me back at Spearing’s place in an hour.’

  ‘Are you OK? Is it work?’

  ‘No, it’s not work and yes, I’m fine.’

  His hand was gripping his mobile so hard the skin had turned white. Seldom could someone have sounded less fine. Adam turned and walked quickly away.

  * * *

  Dan bought himself a newspaper, walked back to the Italian and enjoyed an excellent lunch of fresh pasta in a tomato and bacon sauce. Like a good parent, he slipped out of the restaurant for a few moments and rang his downstairs neighbour who reassured him that Rutherford was fine, had been taken out for a walk and was currently chewing happily at his own lunch.

  Dan tried not to be disappointed about not eating with Adam, but mostly failed. He wanted to talk through the case, particularly what the detective thought of Spearing. The businessman had eventually, and with great reluctance, volunteered the information about what he was doing in Plymouth. It involved a woman, he said, someone with whom he had been having an on-off affair for quite a while. She was married, so he had booked a hotel and they had spent much of the evening together before she returned home.

  When Adam asked, with genuine sensitivity Dan thought, if it wasn’t a long way to go for a tryst, Spearing said, ‘You probably won’t believe this, but I didn’t see it as just a night’s fun. She’s very special to me. I hardly even noticed the drive. Things are bad for me at the moment. I was feeling low. I just needed to see her and hold her.’

  Adam nodded, but insisted on taking the woman’s contact details, reassuring Spearing that she would be spoken to discreetly. His story would also be checked with the hotel.

  It had felt like a turning point in the interview. Whereas before Adam was pointed and probing, even occasionally hostile, now he became more sympathetic.

  Dan wondered if he might be beginning to understand the boundary lines between the personal and professional Adam Breen.

  Suzanne and another detective were checking Spearing’s story. They would have an answer as to whether he could have been the killer of Edward Bray within a couple of hours.

  Dan paid the bill, and with a nod to the
season left a generous tip. Sitting in the restaurant, on his own, he’d begun to feel lonely. He was a long way from home and Christmas was coming. Just as it had been for as long as Dan cared to remember he’d be spending much of it in the flat, with Rutherford, opening the presents he’d bought the dog, then the ones he’d bought for himself.

  The Swamp sucked hard at the edge of his mind.

  In afatal instant of reflection the eternal foe was back.

  It was there, lurking in the dark shadows at the gates of his mind. The enemy he carried everywhereand which would never quite leave him, no matter for how long he ran or how hard he battled.

  It was the perfect prison. The jail inside yourself.

  The Swamp of the depression that had stalked Dan for all his days.

  With its darkness and dankness. Its cloying, sticky, fetid and apathetic air. Its unconquerable mountains. Its greyness and its vastness, and the unshakeable certainty that it could never be escaped.

  Dan tried to cheer himself, thinking of the coming weekend and his plans for a day out with Kerry. It was time to tell her his idea. He sent a text and got one back as quickly as a top tennis player returning a serve.

  “That’d be lovely! What a great idea! Look forward to it! x”

  She was certainly a woman who liked her exclamation marks. Only the kiss had survived the scattergun of punctuation. But the message revived his spirits and he smiled.

  Dan ignored the warning voice at the back of his mind, telling him of the danger of mood swings. They had always been an omen of the Swamp gathering its strength.

  Well, it could naff off, for now at least. Dan had promised himself the tablets would stay in the bathroom cupboard, and he was holding to that. He wasn’t resorting to them again.

  The problem was in his head. As must be the solution.

  The false hope of the little bottle of pills could stay hidden. Let them gather dust. He could carry the fight himself. And he would .

  Dan was going to cheer himself up further. It was time to not so much splash, but more deluge, out on some naughty Christmas shopping, all entirely for him.