by Simon Hall
The daytime Adam was back, committed investigator, orator and leader, not to mention something of a grouch. It was such a contrast to the more subdued and emotional model of Friday night. There was another oddity about the man today, too. For once, he hadn’t shaved well, the shadow of his beard was patchy, he looked tired, and his shirt was – remarkably– not impeccably ironed.
Adam pointed to a couple of new boards which had been added to the MIR. They were filled with the names of the suspects.
‘Study them,’ he said. ‘Take it all in. Then we’ll have a chat about what you think we should do next. I’m going to get a coffee. You’ve got ten minutes.’ He tapped his watch. ‘That’s ten minutes exactly .’
The first name on the boards was that of Arthur Bray. He had no mobile phone, so there was no opportunity to trace his movements a week ago, when his son was murdered. He claimed to have been at home at the time of the killing, but there was no one to verify that. He had the means to kill Edward, with his cabinet of shotguns, and possibly the motive, with their festering disagreement, the “divorce”, as he had described it.
So, Arthur Bray remained a suspect.
Eleanor Paget’s claim to be out jogging at the time of the shooting had been verified, but only to an extent. Dan’s experience of interviewing eyewitnesses had taught him early that five different people who all saw the same event could give five very different accounts of what had happened. Thus it was with police work.
Sally, the guest at the hospice who Paget said saw her jogging had been spoken to, and thought she could remember it. But she was an older lady, almost eighty, and taking some powerful painkillers, which made her recollection hazy. No, she couldn’t be certain it was Eleanor Paget she saw. The rain was heavy and visibility poor. And as for timings, she thought it was sometime before six o’clock, but couldn’t be sure.
It was only a fifteen-minute drive from the hospice to the lay-by. Paget could have made it, carried out the killing and got back without anyone noticing. She had the motive, those rows with Bray, and possibly the means if she had got hold of a shotgun. But she would have needed an accomplice, if that call telling the police about Bray’s body had indeed been made by someone involved in the murder.
A footnote, in Adam’s handwriting, added that this was thought probable, but by no means certain. It could, as Dan had said, have been made by a man who witnessed what happened, but didn’t want to get involved, for whatever shady reason.
Paget did own a mobile phone, but analysis indicated it had been at the hospice at the time of Bray’s murder. That though meant nothing. She could have left it in her office as she jogged, or as she went to carry out the killing.
The summary of all the information about Eleanor Paget ended with the conclusion that she had by no means been eliminated from the inquiry.
Adam had added another interesting note, saying “I’m sure I know her from somewhere, not certain where, maybe some connection with a case ages ago – must check this.”
Next came Hicks and Stead, grouped together as their alibis depended upon each other. Both had clear motives, and could have obtained a shotgun without great difficulty. They claimed to have been in the shop by the river around the time Bray was killed, and the lady who ran it had been interviewed.
There were no CCTV cameras in the store. They had been tried, years ago, but proved too expensive and too fiddly, she said, but she did recall the men coming in, and for two reasons. They were heavily wrapped up in their waterproofs, a colourful yellow, and one – probably Hicks from the description she gave – had broken a bottle of milk. He’d been a gentleman about it she said, so rare these days, and insisted on paying for it and helping to clean up the mess.
As for the all important issue of timing, she couldn’t be quite sure, although she thought it was sometime after half past five. But the shop was on the embankment, only five minutes or so drive from the lay-by, so that didn’t help rule out Hicks and Stead.
Both had mobiles and they had duly been traced. The records showed the phones at the river until just after half past five, then moving to the shop, finally travelling to the men’s respective homes, just a couple of hundred yards from each other. Crucially, both phones were on the move, and almost at the houses, at the time Bray was killed.
Another note warned that the movement of a phone did not, of course, guarantee it was with its owner. It also said the lady in the shop was at the rump end of middle age, her eyesight was far from sharp, and her description of the two men was poor, relying mostly on their build. But the conclusion at the end of the details of the inquiries into Hicks and Stead was that, on balance, they had become considerably less prominent as suspects for the killing.
It was the classic police cliché of “keeping an open mind”, although by no means expressed as concisely.
Gordon Clarke’s alibi had also been thoroughly checked. His mobile phone trace led to Bristol, just as he had said, and it was on the train on the way home when Bray was killed. Clarke’s bank card had been used to withdraw some money in Bristol city centre. His secretary. Ellie, had been interviewed, and said she had received several texts from him during the day about ongoing business matters.
That was perfectly normal. Text was often his preferred method of communication she said, particularly when travelling on a train as he preferred to sit in the quiet carriage, where mobile conversations were banned. Ellie had deleted the messages, but was absolutely certain they came from Clarke as they contained details about current business matters which only he could know.
The bottom of Clarke’s entry on the board read, “She could be lying to cover for her boss, but there’s no apparent motive, and no suggestion that’s the case. From this, despite him having a clear and powerful motive and the potential to obtain a shotgun, we have to conclude Gordon Clarke has also become less prominent as a suspect.”
Finally came the details of the inquiries into Penelope Ramsden. She described herself as an old-fashioned woman who had no mobile phone, and her claim to have been at the office when Bray was killed could not be verified by anyone. The last couple of members of staff had left the building at half past five sharp and she was still there then, but the drive to the lay-by was only ten to fifteen minutes. She could have made it in time to kill Bray. There was no obvious motive, but, as Adam had said, they didn’t know what might have happened between her and Bray which could have led to her wanting to kill him, perhaps in a jealous rage.
She remained a suspect.
With all the possible killers, inquiries had revealed no reason for any to be forced to cancel an appointment on the Monday before Bray was killed. It was a fine day, and Arthur Bray had been playing golf, verified by a couple of friends and the club itself. Eleanor Paget was at work, as normal, also confirmed by several staff. Hicks and Stead were fishing and seen by several other anglers who had also turned out on the river to take advantage of the good weather. Gordon Clarke was in a series of business meetings and had a range of impeccable witnesses to prove that. Penelope Ramsden had been at work, for much of the day with her late boss, verified by dozens of other staff.
The vital clue as to why the murder was apparently deferred for a week was still eluding them, and proving all the more teasing for it.
‘That, I would reckon, remains the key to the case,’ Adam said, as he walked back into the MIR. ‘And before you ask, I could see you staring at it on the boards, and thinking about what it means.’
He handed Dan a plastic cup filled with a poor impersonation of tea. Even the smell made him grimace.
‘So,’ the detective continued, ‘what do we do next?’
‘Err …’
‘Err indeed,’ came the rapid response. ‘Thank you, but not the greatest of insights. I was hoping for something a little better.’
Dan bridled. ‘Well, it’s still a hatred, or revenge killing. Because Bray was shot in the heart, and there was that kick in the face after he was dead. Nothing’s changed there.
’
‘Yep.’
‘And we’ve still got our little list of suspects, some of whom are now looking more likely bets than others.’
‘Yep.’
‘But we’ve still got no evidence.’
‘Yep. All true, but none helpful. Come on, tell me something I don’t know.’
‘So we … we – ’
Adam folded his arms, waited expectantly, and indeed annoyingly. Finally, Dan said, ‘Look, are you in a rough mood today? Had a bad weekend or something?’
Instant anger flashed in the detective’s eyes. ‘My weekends are my business.’
‘Sure, but …’
‘You got that? My business and mine alone.’
Dan held up his hands. ‘OK, OK. It just … I don’t know, feels like I’ve done something wrong and I don’t know what it is.’
‘I’m only doing what you wanted. Trying to get you to think like a cop.’
‘Well, give me a clue then.’
‘Your clue is that we’re trying to find a clue.’
Adam sipped at his coffee. Dan was about to try his tea, but the acrid smell made him think better of it. The door opened and Suzanne walked in. Her lips, always as thin as a parched river evaporated almost entirely when she saw him. She sat down on a desk on the opposite side of the MIR. Dan felt he was caught in a classic pincer movement.
‘I give up then,’ he said, tetchily. ‘I don’t know.’
Adam nodded condescendingly. ‘Well done. That’s an important lesson of investigations, one you needed to learn. Sometimes we don’t know either. So far, there’s been plenty of action, buzzing around, seeing suspects. But it’s not all glamour. It’s common to hit a hiatus. A real life inquiry isn’t like you see on the TV. We don’t sit in the pub for half the time, suddenly have a brainwave and go out and arrest the killer. It’s hard graft. Isn’t it Suzanne?’
She nodded emphatically, but clearly didn’t feel sufficiently moved to make the effort to speak. Dan tried giving her a half smile, but it wasn’t reciprocated.
Adam went on to outline what would happen next. It sounded far from exciting. Research would continue on Bray’s life. More checks would be carried out on the suspects, their backgrounds and associations. The detectives would be looking for any links between them which might suggest a conspiracy of ideas or actions. They would all be re-interviewed and put under a little pressure to see if their stories matched the accounts they had given initially. Any discrepancies, any evasions, would be noted and worried away at.
Dan saw his hopes for a story fading fast.
‘And that’s it?’ he said, trying not to sound disappointed.
‘That’s it,’ Adam replied. ‘That’s the reality of police work. Hard, mundane toil.’
‘Well, maybe I could help.’
Suzanne at least had the decency to turn her splutter of disbelief into a cough, but it made little headway in disguising the vast and snow-capped mountain range of her scepticism.
‘How could you help?’ Adam asked.
‘What about if I did a story? Appealing for witnesses.’ Dan concentrated hard, so he wouldn’t sound sly. ‘If you let me put out a little titbit about the inquiry, like saying that Bray was kicked in the face after he was killed, that’d get plenty of attention. I could interview you, and you could ask for witnesses to come forward. It might work.’
Adam shook his head. ‘No, I want to keep those details to ourselves for now. It’s better if we just quietly carry on with the inquiry.’
‘But I could really get you some interest.’
‘No. I’ll let you know if I need any more coverage.’
‘But I …’
‘I said no. That’s it. Decision made.’
The words were as brutal as a door slamming. Adam turned away, walked over to the boardsand studied the lines of writing there. Suzanne joined him and they began a whispered conversation. Dan swung a leg back and forth and wondered what to do. Sitting in the MIR, watching nothing much happening hardly felt appealing. And he kept hearing Lizzie’s words in his head and her demands for a story.
The clock on the wall said it was half past nine. Dan thought his way through the case, looked for some insight that would give them a lead, or some compelling reason to produce a report, but came nowhere close to approaching either. He found his mind wandering to what present to buy for Kerry. Perhaps some jewellery, that was always a safe bet.
His mobile rang. A withheld number. That meant the newsroom, and more manic insistence for a story. Dan switched the call to his answer machine. It would buy him a few minutes, but not much more.
‘So, err, is there anything I can do?’ he asked.
Neither of the two detectives bothered to turn around. ‘No,’ Adam said, over his shoulder. ‘Just keep quiet and watch.’
‘Watch what? You two having a chat?’
‘Yes,’ Suzanne said coldly.
‘Are you sure we shouldn’t be putting out some kind of story?’
‘Absolutely.’
A quarter to ten. Dan knew he’d have to ring Lizzie soon. If he didn’t have a story to offer he’d probably get called in to cover something ridiculous, just to help fill the programme. There was always a shortage of staff at Christmas as people took leave to be with their kids. That meant he could end up reporting the dreaded staples of yuletide, Santa Claus visits to hospitals, choirs full of discordant children, or festive treats for the cats at the local animal home.
He dropped his pen on the floor, bent down to pick it up and hit his head on the desk. Dan swore and groaned. Fickle Lady Luck had not just deserted him today, but was making a point of waving two fingers in his direction.
But then, as it so often can, life changed in an instant. The door of the MIR swung open.
A woman leaned into the room and said simply to Suzanne, ‘I’m off out to speak to some neighbours of Hicks and Stead.’
‘OK, thanks Claire.’
Dan glanced over. He must, he estimated later, have seen the woman for about a second and a half before the door closed again. But it was sufficient.
She was entirely and utterly, totally and comprehensively, and fully and wholly his type. Claire’s hair was dark, and cut into a bob, his favourite style. Even this fleeting sight made it obvious she had a fine and elegant figure.
Her voice was clear, feminine and strong, her face an artwork which a master sculptor would have spent many weeks labour upon and delighted in the outcome. The few words Dan had ever heard this woman speak now skipped around his ears, as an entrancing melody.
And she must have been about 30 years old. Which, the computer of his brain instantly told him, was just the ideal age for his partner.
Dan gazed and gawpedand stood and stared, until the trance was broken by a look like a right hook from Suzanne.
On his notepad, Dan wrote the word “Claire”, inked it into bold type, and underlined it.
But at least he managed to resist the teenage temptation to draw a heart around it.
The door began to open again. Dan hastily checked his tie, smoothed his hair and looked up, armed with his best smile.
Which faded fast.
A uniformed inspector strode in and said to Adam, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any spare detectives I can borrow?’
‘Why?’
‘You won’t believe this, but some bastards have had a go at the war memorial, the huge one on the Hoe. They’ve stolen some of the bronze plaques. There’ll be hell to pay. I need as many cops as I can get hold of to try to catch the thugs and get the plaques back.’
‘Sorry, Paul, all my detectives are out on inquiries.’
‘Come on, you must have someone? I need to get this one sorted.’
‘No one at all. The pressure’s on to solve this case and I need all the staff I can get. Sorry.’
The man shook his head and quickly left the room. Adam and Suzanne returned to their discussion.
Dan stared in disbelief. He coughed loudly, but go
t no reaction. He tried again, yet still with no response. From their determined lack of interest Dan thought he could have a seizure, perhaps even undergo spontaneous human combustion and it would probably pass unnoticed.
‘Can I say something?’ he ventured, finally.
‘If you must,’ Suzanne replied.
‘That thing about the war memorial and its plaques. That’s a disgrace.’
‘Yep,’ said Adam.
‘Well, don’t you think you should be doing something about it?’
‘It’s not one for CID. Uniform can handle it. We’ve got a murder to solve.’
‘Well, you’re not exactly solving it at the moment, are you?’
Adam turned slowly around. ‘What?’ he said, dangerously.
‘All I’m saying is that if you’re not making any progress on the case at the moment, maybe you should pitch in to try to find the plaques? It’s a dreadful crime. The people remembered on them died for us, you know.’
‘I’m well aware of that. But uniform can handle it.’
‘Surely the more …’
‘I said,’ Adam interrupted sharply, ‘uniform – can – handle – it.’
The two men stared at each other. ‘OK then,’ Dan replied, trying to keep his voice calm, ‘how about some media coverage? I could get the story out, and ask people to look out for the plaques.’
Adam’s voice was ominously quiet. ‘I’ll say this one more time then. Uniform can handle it. And you’re here on trust. No stories without my say so. Now, go back to what you should be doing. Sit quietly, and watch.’
Sometimes, someone can only take so much. And now the dam of resentment, which had been building nicely, could no longer take the pounds of piling pressure.
It breached and burst. And with some style.
‘Ah, bollocks to you,’ Dan heard himself saying.
‘What?’
‘I said – bollocks. That’s boll-ocks. Don’t give me your pompous bloody lectures. With something like this I can really help and I damn well should. I can get everyone looking out for the plaques. I’m going to find that Inspector and offer to do a story. And I bet he bites my arm off.’
