by Simon Hall
Against the great backdrop of the grey Dartmoor sky, he looked a small man in a very big world.
‘Well,’ Dan said, as he drove them back to Plymouth, ‘that’s one set of mysteries solved then. What happened to the relationship between Bray and his father, why he was so very ruthless, and then why, despite that, he saved St Jude’s. And what a dreadfully sad story it is.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Adam replied, but then went on to rather spoil the poignancy of the mood by adding, ‘But does any of that help us find who killed Edward Bray?’
And to that question, Dan had no answer.
They were almost back at Charles Cross when Adam’s mobile rang. He listened for a few seconds, then said, ‘Really? But she won’t say on the phone? OK, I’ll get there now,’ and hung up.
Dan didn’t have a chance to ask what the call was about. ‘Eleanor Paget’s rung in,’ Adam said, before he could raise a word. ‘She’s got something she needs to see me about – urgently and in person, she says. This might be our break. To the hospice please, and fast.’
It should have been only five minutes drive, but it took another fifteen in the Christmas traffic. The city was thronging, full of shoppers weighed down with handfuls of bulging bags. Families and groups of friends disappeared into pubs and restaurants, seeking a few minutes respite from the retail storm. The rituals of the season were nearing their chaotic climax.
Adam kept checking his watch, wishing cars and buses out of their way. Such was his agitation Dan wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started asking, ‘Are we there yet? Are we there yet?’ He was like a child on Christmas Eve, waiting for the clock to turn to the sacred midnight hour.
A couple more crawling roundabouts and they reached the hospice’s drive. Adam was out of the car the second it stopped moving. Dan parked and hurried after him.
Paget was waiting in her office. She shook their hands again, then said, ‘I’m not sure if this is important to your investigation, or even if it’s relevant, but I thought I had to tell you. I’m sorry to ask you to come here, but it didn’t seem right to do it over the phone. In fact, I was in two minds whether I should say anything at all.’
Adam leaned forwards. ‘Carry on please,’ he urged.
‘It may be nothing, but …’
‘Please, let us be the judge of that,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘What do you want to tell us?’
‘Just that – well, that I know one of your suspects for the murder of Mr Bray. Perhaps your prime suspect, even. And I have to say, I think he’s a very odd man.’
Adam’s eyes widened. ‘Which one? And how do you know he’s a suspect?’
‘I know because he sent a text to tell me, just a little earlier. And as to who – it’s Gordon Clarke.’
Dan had to stop himself letting out a low whistle. Adam took out his pad and began writing careful notes.
Clarke was, so he claimed, in love with Eleanor Paget. The two had met at a business reception a few months ago.
‘With hindsight, I should have seen it,’ she said. ‘He latched on to me straight away, and he wouldn’t let go. We exchanged business cards, as you do at these things, and he’s hardly left me alone since.’
She gestured to a fine bunch of flowers sitting on her windowsill. ‘Those are from him. They’re not the first to arrive here either.’
Her tone was hardly one of a flattered and charmed woman. ‘I’ve been trying to let him down gently, but with no luck. I think I’m just going to have to tell him straight out that I’m not interested and ask him to leave me alone.’
Just after the reception Clarke had sent a text, saying what a pleasure it was to meet her. He’d followed it up with some flowers, and then an invitation to share an evening drink.
‘I went because I suppose I felt I should,’ she said. ‘He seemed a nice enough guy, if not really my type. I only meant to go out for an hour, but he insisted on buying me dinner. It was impossible to say no. Since then, he’s always sending text messages and emails. That’s how I know he’s a suspect. He sent me a message earlier to tell me that he’d been questioned. I expect he thought I’d be impressed. That’s when I called you.’
‘Why do you think we should be concerned?’ Adam asked. ‘Has he said something to make you suspicious he might have killed Edward Bray?’
She poured a glass of water from a plastic bottleand took a drink. ‘I called you for two reasons. Firstly because I know the police look for links between people in murder cases – I’ve read enough books to be aware of that. But also, and far more importantly, I …’
Her voice faltered. ‘Go on,’ Adam prompted.
‘Well, this is where it gets difficult.’
The detective tried a sympathetic smile, but it was as effective as a veteran hangman eyeing his victim.
‘Please, go on anyway. We’re more than used to hearing difficult things.’
‘But it feels like I’m trying to get him into trouble.’
‘Not at all. You’re just doing your duty as a good citizen.’
Dan winced. That line was doubtless well-practised and even better intentioned, the product of a hundred investigations and more. But nonetheless it felt like the said hangman reassuring his victim that what was about to happen was all for the best.
Paget hesitated, then said, ‘Well, he did go on about Mr Bray quite a lot. It was clear he really hated the man. I mean – detested him, with an absolute passion.’
Adam sounded disappointed. ‘Is that all?’
She, in turn, sounded surprised. ‘Isn’t it enough? I mean, I’m not a detective, but it sounds like it could be a motive for murder, doesn’t it?’
‘Perhaps. But a lot of people didn’t like Edward Bray.’
Adam had stopped writing notes. Whatever revelation he was hoping for had clearly failed to materialise. The play had stopped short. The scene had been acted out, but the eagerly anticipated dramatic denouement had gone absent without leave. He clicked his tongue a couple of times, thanked Paget and got up to leave.
She escorted them to the main doors. ‘I hope I haven’t wasted your time, Chief Inspector,’ she asked tentatively. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’
Adam was back on his gentlemanly, diplomatic form. ‘Not at all, of course not. What you’ve told us might well be important. Thanks for doing so.’
She smiled. ‘Good. I have to confess, I was worried about telling you. And I must admit, I was a bit naughty about Gordon’s feelings towards Mr Bray too.’
Adam was almost at the car, but Dan paused, asked, ‘In what way?’
‘Well, I have to confess, I used them rather.’
‘How?’
‘I told Gordon that I was having more than my share of troubles with Mr Bray too, particularly with his endless plans for the hospice. I used him as a bit of an excuse, as to why I couldn’t see Gordon again. I said I had far too much on dealing with Mr Bray for any distractions, however pleasant they might be.’
Adam turned sharply. ‘What did you say again?’ he asked.
Adam didn’t speak for the whole of the drive back to Charles Cross, but it was clear from his expression he was lost in the case, thinking it all through. And his attentions were focused on Gordon Clarke.
If the man always had one very obvious motive for murder, with his long and well exhibited hatred of Edward Bray, then now the tally had doubled. His fascination with Eleanor Paget, and the possibility of him believing the removal of Bray would leave the way clear for the relationship to develop was a rich addition to the potential case against him.
The man had surged ahead of the field. He’d gone from being a clear suspect, to a strong suspect, and now the prime suspect.
Adam bounded up the stairs to the MIR to find Suzanne, and demanded an instant de-brief on the results of this morning’s investigations. Dan sensed the moment to be small and silent. He slunk to the back of the room and leant against the windowsill. It felt akin to being a child eavesdropping on the esoteric convers
ation of adults.
Today, Christmas Special or no, angelic children and carols notwithstanding, Wessex Tonight could have a scoop on the first arrest in the Edward Bray murder case.
It had been a busy morning in the inquiry, the detectives working through all the tasks Adam had set them earlier. Dislike her as he might, Dan had to admit Suzanne’s briefing was impressively thorough and comprehensive.
The first issue was transport, and the potential for all the suspects to make it to the lay-by in time to be waiting for Bray to arrive. No cars or vans had been hired anywhere in the Plymouth area by any of the six. There had been the usual spate of thefts of various sorts of automobiles, but all had been investigated and resolved and none appeared connected with the case.
That left the suspects’ own vehicles. All had cars, apart from Andrew Hicks. Gordon Clarke’s was in his garage at home all day, so he said, but that couldn’t be verified. He’d walked to the station to catch his train to Bristol, it being only a matter of ten minutes. When asked why he didn’t get a taxi, given the wet weather, Clarke said he had considered doing so, but the rain eased just before he needed to leave. Besides, he had added, reluctantly, business wasn’t booming at the moment and money was a little tight.
Jon Stead had a car, but it was being used by his wife Vicky, a fact confirmed by both her, her sister and the company she worked for. The couple had a year-old baby son, Joseph, who her sister was looking after while Vicky returned to work on a part-time basis.
Arthur Bray said his car was at home, Penelope Ramsden that hers was at the office and Eleanor Paget said hers was at the hospice. None of this could be independently confirmed or denied.
The Automatic Number Plate Recognition System had been checked. It uses a comprehensive network of cameras and stores records of vehicle movements for a month. None of the plates of the cars owned by the suspects showed up as travelling anywhere near the lay-by around the time that Edward Bray was murdered.
‘That doesn’t mean anything though,’ Adam observed. ‘Criminals have got to know about the system now, just like they’re aware we can trace their mobile phones. False number plates are easy enough to get hold of. Just slip them over the real plate, or replace it for a while, and that’s the system foxed.’
Next in Suzanne’s account came the CCTV pictures of Plymouth and Bristol railway stations. She clicked on a computer and brought up the images. Adam stared, then let out a long groan.
Despite civil liberties campaigners citing the prevalence of CCTV as evidence of Britain’s surveillance state, the truth, as Dan had quickly come to learn, is rather more mundane: many CCTV cameras don’t actually work at all, and are only installed as deterrents. And of those that do work, the pictures are frequently little more than useless. The camera is either pointing in the wrong direction, or the quality of the images are so dark and dull, grainy and blurred as to make them hopeless in aiding any form of detective work, let alone coming close to being reliable enough for use as evidence in court.
These images were typical. The picture was fuzzy and gloomy, the shot was wide, so lacking any detail, and the rain and darkness of the day weren’t helping. The images from Plymouth showed a man walking quickly in to the train station, the shot lasting no longer than seven or eight seconds. The Bristol pictures were a little better, but not much. They captured the same man walking out of the station entrance and climbing into a taxi.
In both sets, the man was wearing a long raincoat and sheltering under an umbrella, which obscured his features.
‘It looks like Clarke,’ Suzanne said. ‘It’s his build. For another little check, I sent a detective to his office. It was ostensibly to check on his movements over Christmas, just in case we needed to speak to him again, but in reality to see if he’s got a coat like that. And there it was, hanging up just inside the door, and that umbrella beside it too. From what I, and the detective who saw them can tell from the pictures, they look to be exactly the same ones.’
Adam turned away from the computer and swore.
‘In other words,’ he added, ‘there’s no evidence to help us at all.’
‘No sir,’ Suzanne replied.
‘Is it worth getting Clarke back in? Arresting him this time? Trying to put some heat on him?’
‘On what basis? That he’s taken a fancy to someone else who’s got a connection with the case, and might hope getting Edward Bray out of the way would give him more of a chance with her? I can imagine what that solicitor of his would say about that.’
Adam nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said sulkily. ‘But you’d agree he remains our prime suspect?’
‘I would sir. But I don’t think we’ve got anything like enough evidence even to arrest him. And I don’t think we should rule the others out either.’
Adam sat down heavily on a desk. The clock on the wall said it was just after one.
‘Let’s have some lunch then, and see if that brings any inspiration. If we’re going to get this case cracked by Christmas, and make our beloved High Honchos happy, then we’re running out of time.’
As perhaps befitted the festive season, the children and their carols went undisturbed by the spectre of breaking news. There were no developments in the Bray case that afternoon.
For Dan, it was an important, if tedious lesson. So far, he’d greatly enjoyed the twists and turns of the investigation. It felt dynamic and fast moving, continually full of surprises. In fairness, Adam had warned it wasn’t always thus, that long and sometimes frustrating periods of hard work, with little happening, were more the reality of detective work.
This afternoon, Dan very much felt that for himself.
He sat in the MIR and watched Adam and Suzanne go through piles of paperwork, witness statements and records of the movements of their suspects. They raised the odd point, even occasionally ventured a theory, none of which led to anything approaching progress.
Dan did his best to distract himself by working on the puzzle on the wall. Bonham’s string of characters danced on the edge of his eye line, felt like it was calling, waving and taunting.
992 619U
Dan had always prided himself on enjoying a good riddle. When some rare and precious spare time allowed, he would often attempt– and commonly come somewhere close to completing – a cryptic crossword in one of the newsroom broadsheets.
He’d tried looking up the letters and number on the internet at home, but found only reams of financial data and some references to a far distant galaxy. Both of which dated from long after Bonham’s conviction, and neither of which offered any help.
The “U” had kept tickling his mind and prompted a strange thought that perhaps it could refer to a German U-boat of Second World War vintage. But some more research sunk that line of inquiry as effectively as a barrage of depth charges.
Dan did his best to come up with a lightning strike of inspiration, but his sullen brain was proving immune to prompting. Eventually he gave up and returned his attentions to Adam and Suzanne.
But still nothing of note was happening in the inquiry. And by five o’clock, hate to admit it though he did, Dan was very bored.
It was a relief when Adam called a halt to the day. He told Suzanne and the other detectives in the MIR to go home, rest, and they would start afresh tomorrow.
Dan waited for everyone else to depart, before asking, ‘What shall I do? There doesn’t seem much point me coming back tomorrow and just sitting here, waiting for something to happen.’
‘That’s fair enough. It’s not exactly interesting. Why don’t you go back to your newsroom tomorrow. I can always call you if there is some development. Are you off home now then?’
The question was oddly tentative. ‘Not necessarily,’ Dan replied. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Do you fancy a beer? And maybe something to eat?’
‘Yeah, I’d like that. But can I sort out my domestic life first?’
‘Oh yes? Have you got that woman waiting for you?’
&nb
sp; Dan smiled. ‘Not exactly.’
He explained about Rutherford, how he had been neglecting the dog lately, and the guilt that brought.
‘If I can get home, take him out for a run, shower and change, I can meet you on Mutley Plain in a couple of hours.’
‘Done.’
The Old Bank pub was the honoured venue, lacking in atmosphere, but rich in ales, a contrast unlikely to deter Dan.
As he walked down the hill towards Mutley Plain, Dan realised with surprise that, for the first time during his meetings with Adam Breen, he didn’t feel nervous.
Around him, the Christmas procession continued. Even some of the passing cars were bedecked with tinsel and plastic Santas. It was only early evening, but plenty of the people were already by far the worse for wear.
The night was still dry, but had turned suspiciously warm. Long experience of the mercurial moods of the weather in the South-west made Dan think it indicated that rain was on the agenda. The Wessex Tonight forecaster had prophesised it too, but that counted for little. Dan had been amused to read an article carried in all the papers which reported that scientists had concluded the best way to predict tomorrow’s weather was simply to say it would be the same as today’s.
Which, in one study, more or less reduced a whole profession to being largely a waste of time, in his humble opinion.
Dan stopped at the cashpoint. He had to queue and was a couple of minutes late, so he wasn’t surprised to find Adam already waiting. He’d also had the decency to get a couple of pints. It was interesting that the detective too preferred a table with his back to the wall and a good view of the pub, and probably for similar reasons to El.
Police and photographers, professions of paranoia. To which pairing Dan suspected he could probably add journalists too. None was ever going to win a popularity contest.
They shared some pleasantries about the clemency and busyness of the evening, before Adam sprang his surprise.
‘We’ve had a – well, I don’t know what to call it. It could be something, it could be nothing. To say it’s a development is putting it too strongly. It might be, it might not. Let’s say, we’ve had an– occurrence. It came after you’d gone home. I didn’t bother calling you because I’m not quite sure what to make of it.’
