The TV Detective

by Simon Hall

  It was below street level, the only natural light coming from a tiny rectangle of a window at the far end. And even then, the brave few beams had to be both keen and determined to make it inside. The window was covered with thick metal bars and grimy, opaque glass. The room was bare-bricked, adorned only with a thin and unwelcoming whitewash and small and cold. In the coming years Dan would discover that the temperature was remarkably consistent, no matter what was the weather outside, be it snowstorm or heatwave.

  As for interview, it was more usually an interrogation which took place here.

  It was Dan’s first visit to the room, but Adam greeted it like an old friend, patting a fond hand on the grey metal door, and saying, ‘Many a case I’ve cracked in here.’

  And that was clearly well known in the station. As they walked into the custody block, the sergeant behind the desk grinned and said, ‘Your usual, Mr Breen? I’ve reserved it specially for you.’

  Interview Room number two, the smallest of the pair, the coldest, and by far the most oppressive.

  ‘And that,’ Adam said contentedly, ‘equals the most likely to make your suspect feel like talking, so they can escape ASAP. It’s exactly how an interview room should be. None of these soft furnishings and pastel colours of your modern politically correct nonsense.’

  The furniture, if as such it could be so described, consisted of a table and three chairs. The table was so basic it would have pleased a puritan. A wooden board held up by metal legs might be a better description. On the side nearest the door were two plastic chairs, opposite them another. Adam seated himself in one, Dan tried the other, but then got up again and went to stand by the door.

  ‘I’ve seen those TV shows too,’ Adam said, over his shoulder. ‘The ones where the nasty cop stands and the nice one sits. They’re not really true to life, but if you want to stand over there, go ahead. Now, give me a moment so I can work out how to come at this interview.’

  Dan leaned back against the wall. Its coolness was welcome. He was feeling warm, despite the temperature of the room, but whether it was the legacy of this morning’s run with Rutherford, or the anticipation of what was to come, he wasn’t sure.

  He’d woken early, taken the dog for a few laps of Hartley Park, then driven down to the police station. Adam had been waiting, and instead of ascending the stairs to the MIR as Dan had expected they headed down, to the custody suite. As they walked, the detective explained about the potential breakthrough.

  He’d had all the suspects put under surveillance.

  ‘You didn’t tell me,’ Dan objected sulkily.

  ‘I didn’t trust you then,’ came the straightforward response. ‘But I’m telling you now.’

  Surveillance is expensive and intensive in terms of staff, Adam said, but sometimes, often in fact, there was no choice. He’d grown frustrated with making indiscernible headway, Greater Wessex Police’s most senior officers, the High Honchos as they were known, were agitating for progress, so they’d authorised a couple of nights of observations.

  The first revealed nothing of any interest. The second, last night, had looked to be going the same way.

  Arthur Bray was at home and watching the television. He’d walked around the house a couple of times and stopped to look at his shotguns, even run a hand over one, but whether or not the gesture might be interpreted as suspicious the watchers couldn’t say. It could just be a man who was proud of his collection of guns.

  Adam clicked his tongue as he related that part of the story, but it wasn’t apparent whether he thought the information was important.

  Penelope Ramsden was also at home, and painting, not in the DIY sense, but on a canvas. Inquires had discovered she was an amateur artist of some renown, particularly in demand for portraits. The officers watching her house couldn’t tell for certain, but they thought her current project was a large picture of the late Edward Bray.

  ‘And of that too, I’m not quite sure what to make,’ Adam observed. ‘It reinforces her story that she loved him, but also helps the theory that if he had spurned her she could easily have killed him out of jealousy.’

  Eleanor Paget was working late at the hospice. At one stage she went for a walk around the grounds and seemed to be talking to herself, occasionally in an agitated manner, but the surveillance team couldn’t get close enough to hear her words.

  Regarding that nugget of observation, Adam had let out a sigh and said, ‘It could be a tormented soul, lamenting the murder she’d committed, of course. But equally it might just be her practicing some speech to a group of fundraisers.’

  Andrew Hicks had been at home, as had Jon Stead. Both were doing nothing more suspicious than watching the television. The night looked doomed to be another for the sizeable scrapyard of good ideas.

  But then came the change. Hicks left the house, called for Stead and they went together to the local pub.

  And as for Gordon Clarke, he too had been at home, that was until a taxi arrived to pick him up. It took him to the Red Lion, the same pub in which Hicks and Stead were sitting. And when Clarke arrived, they all shook hands and embraced warmly.

  The three men clearly knew each other well.

  And yet, said Adam, even that wasn’t the most interesting part. The men had been kept under surveillance, but hadn’t said or done anything which might be of interest to the police. They’d just sat, chatted, and drunk beer.

  Then though, when they had left, the two watching detectives made some inquiries in the pub. With some heavy leaning on the reluctant landlord, they found that Hicks, Stead and Clarke were regulars there. And on several occasions in the past few months they had been overheard all talking together about ways to kill Edward Bray.

  Gordon Clarke had been called first thing that morning and invited to the police station for a chat.

  ‘Suzanne put it in exactly those terms,’ Adam explained. ‘She didn’t say why, of course. He was suspicious, naturally, but she said it was just routine. Then he asked what would happen if he didn’t come. She was happy to reassure him that would mean a couple of detectives having to come to his office and arrest him, then bring him in. So, he said he’ll be here in a minute.’

  It hadn’t taken Dan long to learn there was much psychology to detective work. Adam wanted Clarke here to play the next stage of the investigation game on his territory, in this cold and intimidating room. The man would be off balance, wouldn’t know what to expect, would probably think that if the police had strong evidence against him then he would already have been arrested.

  Suzanne would see Hicks and Stead at the same time that Clarke was in the police station. But it was his which was the most important interview. If the three had plotted together to murder Edward Bray, then the resourceful and motivated Clarke was probably the ringleader. So, it was the decapitation strategy. Take him out first, and if he could be cracked, all else would follow.

  ‘If you could keep quiet on this one, I’d be grateful,’ Adam said airily. ‘It might well be a vital interview. Depending on what I hear, I could even arrest him on suspicion of murder so I can hold him while inquiries continue. Just keep quiet and watch, if you’d be so kind.’

  Dan breathed out hard. It was better drama than those police TV serials he’d begun watching, the very ones where he had indeed got the idea he should stand by the door during an interrogation, just like the hero always did.

  It was Tuesday morning, just three days before Christmas. Perhaps it would be the day the Edward Bray murder case was solved.

  * * *

  Clarke was brought in to the interview room by the custody sergeant. He was led to the chair and asked to sit down. His hair had been cut and newly highlighted, but he wore the same shiny suit as before.

  Adam didn’t look up. He was scribbling some notes on a piece of paper. Clarke stared at him, then leaned forwards on his chair. He coughed pointedly, but Adam kept writing.

  Clarke sat back, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them again and cleared his throa
t.

  Still no reaction from Adam.

  ‘Nice place you have here,’ the businessman said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Adam replied, but still didn’t look up from his notes.

  Clarke shifted awkwardly on his seatand looked around the room.

  ‘It’s cold in here,’ he observed, pulling his jacket tighter around his body.

  Adam didn’t reply.

  Now Gordon Clarke began itching at his cheek. ‘Look, what is all this about?’ he said finally.

  Adam glanced up. ‘I think you know,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I can assure you I don’t.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  There was a silence. Outside, in the muffled distance, a lorry rumbled past.

  ‘It’s about Edward Bray,’ Adam said. ‘The murder of Edward Bray.’

  Clarke’s face was shining with a gathering sweat now, despite the chill of the room.

  ‘And what’s that got to do with me?’

  Adam didn’t reply, just looked the man in the eyes.

  Clarke broke off the stareand shifted again on his chair. ‘Look, what is going on?’

  His voice sounded thin, tense. He picked again at his cheek.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ he barked.

  ‘Edward Bray. The murder of Edward Bray,’ Adam repeated. ‘Killing Edward Bray …’ he paused, and then added, ‘just as you were heard discussing in the Red Lion – on several occasions – prior to the murder.’

  Clarke squinted at Adam, then closed his eyes briefly. When he spoke, he sounded strangely relieved. ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Yes – that.’

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ came the menacing reply. ‘But I hope, for your sake, you can.’

  The businessman sat up in his chair. Dan took a subtle step forwards and studied him. He was sure Clarke looked more relaxed now.

  ‘Some of the local gossips been talking to you about our game, have they?’ he said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s hardly a secret.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘In fact, it’s our favourite drinking pastime. Fantasising about how to kill Bray.’

  Gordon Clarke told his story easily, and without even a hint of embarrassment.

  He had first met Hicks and Stead at the county court, on one of the days given over to Edward Bray’s litigation against his tenants. They sat waiting for their cases to be called, chatted, found common ground in their hatred of Bray, swapped mobile numbers and became friends. They often went out for a few beers together, and on one of those drunken nights a bizarre new entertainment was born.

  The Kill Edward Bray game.

  The rules were a little hazy, but the point seemed to be to murder the man in the most painful and entertaining manner possible – but all entirely in the imagination, Clarke insisted. His own personal best solution, as it were, was to run over him with a steamroller. The vehicle would be moving very slowly, inch by inch in fact, and, to prolong the agony, starting at Bray’s feet, naturally.

  Adam shook his head, but kept listening.

  Hicks’ favourite idea had a historical theme. He wanted to re-enact a gladiatorial contest, to see how Bray would fare against a pride of hungry lions. Clarke said he pointed out that this might be over a little too quickly to make a winning suggestion, but Hicks was confident Bray would give a good account of himself. Nonetheless, however long it took, he thought it would provide a wonderful spectacle.

  Stead, as befitted the quietest of the trio, had to be pushed to an idea, but eventually said he would be happy to see Bray publicly stoned to death. The other two thought the concept unimaginative, but had to concede it had the advantage of allowing all Bray’s many enemies the opportunity of casting a gleeful rock or two.

  Whatever, for each method of punishment, the public would be invited along, to witness the humiliation and dispatch.

  ‘And which of your lovely imaginings actually won the game?’ Adam asked, in a voice that was a hammer of sarcasm.

  ‘I’m not sure any did,’ Clarke replied easily. ‘I don’t think that was the point. We were all a bit the worse for drink and just enjoying ourselves.’

  He was definitely more relaxed now, sitting back on the chair, his legs crossed.

  ‘It’s all bloody ridiculous this, isn’t it?’ Adam snapped. ‘Not to mention gross. Grown men, fantasising about how to murder someone.’

  Clarke shrugged. ‘You didn’t know Edward Bray. You didn’t suffer at his hands.’

  ‘Did you kill Edward Bray?’

  ‘No. I didn’t. I freely admit to thinking about it, even talking about it, but it was all just a game. I didn’t murder him. As I’ve told you, and as you’ve no doubt checked and found out, I was in Bristol when he was killed.’

  Adam tapped a hand on the table. ‘Well, I have to say, this all gives me sufficient grounds to hold you here pending further inquiries,’ he said.

  There was a knock at the door. The custody sergeant opened it and began to speak but was pushed aside by a sizeable and severe-looking woman.

  ‘Just what the hell is going on here?’ she barked at Adam.

  There was a second’s silence. The strip light in the ceiling buzzed loud.

  Adam said heavily, ‘Ah, Ms Francis. I should have known.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Breen,’ came the icy reply. ‘It really is me who should have known.’

  It was apparent the two knew each other well, but even more obvious was the mutual dislike. It had turned the still air sour. She had short blonde hair, greying over her ears, and pale, watery blue eyes which rarely blinked. Her features were sharp and severe and her face prematurely lined. But what distinguished her most was her complete lack of adornments. She wore no jewellery, no make-up, and her suit was black and plain, her shirt a strict and simple white.

  The woman was a walking definition of austere.

  ‘I take it by your arrival here you’re acting for Mr Clarke?’ Adam asked.

  ‘You are as perceptive as ever, Chief Inspector. And I take it by the fact that you’re investigating the case he will certainly have need of my services.’

  Another silence. The pair stared at each other. The already chilly interview room felt like it was now playing host to the dawning of a new ice age. Only Gordon Clarke was enjoying the moment. He’d started smiling.

  ‘Mr Clarke asked me to come here as soon as I could,’ Francis continued. ‘I was a little delayed by a small matter in court, for which I apologise – to my client, Chief Inspector, not to you, naturally. Now, if I may have a few minutes with Mr Clarke, as the law states I must unquestionably be allowed.’

  She glanced towards the door, folded her arms and waited expectantly. Gordon Clarke’s smile widened. Adam didn’t say anything, just walked out of the room and closed the door heavily behind him. In the corridor, the sergeant started to apologise for letting her in, but Adam reassured the man he had little choice. The law was on her side, as she was well aware. Anyway, it was apparently renowned in police circles that arguing with Julia Francis was akin to attempting to stand in the way of a fully laden, runaway, articulated lorry, heading down a steep hill.

  ‘She’s the local criminals’ favourite solicitor,’ Adam explained quietly as he stood with Dan in the corridor. ‘Very much in demand by the worst undesirables. Many a nasty crim she’s got off on some wheedling technicality or dirty dodge. She’s not exactly popular around here. I’ve had more than a few run-ins with her myself.’

  ‘Funnily enough,’ Dan said, ‘I guessed that.’

  They waited in the corridor. Adam made a quick call to Suzanneand listened to what she’d found out from questioning Hicks and Stead. The expression on the detective’s face said her inquiries were faring no better. Ten minutes passed. A couple of police officers wandered by and said good morning to Adam, but he just nodded in return.

  ‘Francis being here is going to make life a whole lot more difficult,’ he said.
‘I’m willing to bet she’ll come out demanding Clarke be released immediately. If I so much as raise an objection, she’ll be threatening court writs, complaints to the High Honchos and the local MP. I wouldn’t be surprised one day to hear her threatening to petition the Prime Minister, the American President and the Pope.’

  As if on cue, the interview room door opened. ‘Mr Clarke will see you now,’ Francis said, managing to make it sound as if they were the lowest of door-to-door salesmen lurking seedily at the rear entrance of a manor house.

  Adam walked back in, Dan following. Gordon Clarke was sitting at the table. If anything, his smile was broader even than before. The third division footballer had scored a hat trick.

  ‘This is how it goes, Chief Inspector,’ Francis said. ‘Is my client under arrest?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you intend to arrest him?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘I’ll take that as no then, knowing you as I do. What evidence do you believe you have against him?’

  ‘He hated Edward Bray.’

  ‘Along with hundreds of others. What specifically?’

  ‘He was heard discussing killing Mr Bray.’

  ‘As part of a game, which he now admits to be juvenile and ill-judged, but nonetheless, merely a game, just a fantasy, however distasteful. Do you have anything else you would wish to raise?’

  It was a ruthless, quick-fire dissection of whatever case there may have been against Gordon Clarke, an assassination by machine gun.

  Francis waited, but Adam didn’t reply. ‘And, of course, my client has an alibi, has he not?’ she said, with a tone of finality. ‘One which I can see by your face you have checked, and found impossible to undermine, despite no doubt expending your best efforts. So, Chief Inspector, unless you have anything else to put to Mr Clarke, he and I will be leaving now.’

  Dan and Adam walked back up the stairs. ‘Bloody woman,’ Adam grumbled. ‘I suspected the moment she walked in the game was up. We don’t really have a thing on Clarke and she knows it.’

  Suzanne was waiting in the MIR. She favoured Dan with a brief, frosty glare, then told Adam all she had learnt from Hicks and Stead.