by Simon Hall
‘The answer is in that lot somewhere,’ he said. ‘But we’re not seeing it.’
Another wave of rain lashed at the window. Dan’s stomach let out a loud rumble and he clutched at itand muttered an apology. In all the excitement of the evening he’d forgotten he was hungry.
‘Last thoughts for the night then, before we all go home,’ Adam said.
‘What about if Clarke lent his car to someone else?’ Suzanne ventured.
‘Go on.’
‘He goes to Bristol to give himself an alibi, while someone back here does the deed.’
‘OK then, that points us towards someone who doesn’t have a car. And who’s that?’
‘Hicks doesn’t,’ Dan said quickly. ‘And he hates Bray as much as Clarke. And they’re mates.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ Adam said, his voice stronger with fresh hope. ‘So we’re looking at a conspiracy.’
‘But,’ Suzanne interrupted, ‘I hate to put a damper on the idea, but Hicks and Stead were fishing, and then in that shop, buying bits of food and smashing a milk bottle.’
‘But the timings of their alibis aren’t exact. They would have had time to get to the lay-by,’ Dan said.
‘Which means Stead would have to be involved too. And he’s too much of a mouse, isn’t he? He’s got a young family too. He’s got too much to lose. He never struck any of us as someone who’d go for a murder plan.’
Another silence settled on the room.
‘Well, what about our other suspects?’ Dan asked, but without any conviction. ‘What about a conspiracy between Clarke and Arthur Bray, or Eleanor Paget, or Penelope Ramsden?’
Suzanne shook her head. ‘How? On what grounds? What could bring any of those three together with Gordon Clarke? In their ways they’ve all got reasons to dislike him.’
‘Ramsden’s in hospital after her crash. That could have been a suicide attempt, because of the guilt at what she’d done.’
‘Or it could just have been a car crash.’
Dan nodded. ‘Yeah. It could. Sorry, I was just clutching at straws.’
Adam let out a long yawn, then said, ‘And interesting though all that speculation might be, it brings us right back to the same old problem, doesn’t it? The lack of any real evidence.’
The door opened and a cleaner walked in, bid them a cheery good evening and began emptying bins.
‘And I reckon that’s our cue to call it a night,’ Adam added. ‘We’ll reconvene in the morning and have another go at Gordon Clarke, but it won’t be long before his solicitor gets here and we’re stuffed.’ He paused, then added in a tired voice, ‘You know, if we’re honest, I have to say I fear this one’s getting away from us.’
It was getting on for ten o’clock when Dan finally got home. He’d had to drop El off first, and resist the photographer’s manic entreaties to go for a celebratory drink, or more likely several.
The paparazzo had got his snap.
In fact, that was more than apparent from the moment Dan opened the car door in the police station car park. The scrunched up bundle of untidiness which was El’s idea of lying low was giggling madly to itself and repeatedly burbling a rhyme.
“A naughty pervy scoutmaster,
We’ll turn his face alabaster,
With El’s little splash,
He’ll suck up the cash,
As over the papers the pictures, he’ll plaster.”
‘Blimey,’ Dan said. ‘Alliteration and using a word like alabaster. You surprise me.’
‘I may be sleazy mate, but I’m not stupid,’ came the chirpy reply.
In the canteen, on one of his missions to fetch teas and coffees, Dan had overheard an interesting conversation. The Scoutmaster smoked, but the law forbade anyone doing so in the police cells. And so as not to breach his rights, which obviously included the important constituent of poisoning himself, the man had to be allowed outside regularly for a cigarette.
With so many criminals smoking it was a common enough problem for the police, and one which they had resolved by constructing a metal cage around the back door of the police station. It was open at the top, but the walls were high and bedecked with razor wire, quite sufficiently secure to allow a prisoner ten minutes for a smoke.
And the cage was visible from the car park.
For El, it was just a case of waiting, something he knew well how to do. He had a good idea what his target looked like from the photos of when the scoutmaster was a younger man, and a long lens, ready to shoot his snaps.
Dan’s coughing fit had tipped the paparazzo off nicely, and he was now gleefully in possession of half a dozen fine photographs of his victim, which would be hawked around every paper that went to press. Christmas was traditionally a quiet time for news, so there would be no shortage of bidders. In fact, the rights to the images were likely to reach that dizzying height of the paparazzi’s delight, an auction.
For El, it was a lucrative payday. And combined with the snap of the shotgun being recovered from the ditch, it had turned into a lottery winner of a week.
So great was the chubby buffoon’s excitement that it took Dan a good quarter of an hour to calm El down before he could get away. The whisky he would be sampling on Christmas Day would now be the finest money could buy. Or, at least, the finest the local Plymouth supermarkets could provide, which was highly unlikely to be the same thing. But, as was often said with Christmas presents, it was the thought that counted.
Back at the flat, Dan just about found the strength to make himself some beans on toast, and sat on the great blue sofa, Rutherford at his feet, watching the rain’s relentless attack on the bay window. Too tired even to get up and turn on the television, he finished the poor substitute for a meal and made the fatal mistake of laying back and closing his eyes just for a few minutes.
He woke again with a start and a cricked neck half an hour later and forced himself to get up and start getting ready for bed.
Rutherford sat in the middle of the hallway, looking pointedly at the airing cupboard where his lead was kept.
‘You dropping hints, dog?’ Dan asked him. ‘I am more than a little tired, if you hadn’t noticed.’
Rutherford angled his head and produced his “never been loved” look.
‘And it’s raining – hard. In case you hadn’t noticed that either.’
The dog pawed at the carpet.
Dan couldn’t help smiling. No matter how low his mood, how leaden his body, that daft dog could always be relied upon to lift his spirits.
‘All right then, just a little run, a couple of laps around the park. I suppose it’ll probably do me good too.’
The rain was pounding down, filling the air with a barrage of hurtling droplets. Dan pulled on a coat and jogged over the road to the park. The grass was soaking, churned to mud in patches, and the planned run duly became a brisk walk.
‘Health and safety, dog,’ Dan explained over the din of the downpour. ‘I’m taking full advantage of one of the curses of modern life. I wouldn’t want to damage myself just before Christmas.’
Rutherford never worried about the weather and went sprinting off across the park to sniff at the myriad of fascinating scents the visitors of the day had left behind. Dan strode hard, felt his heart picking up with the effort and his head clearing with the rush of pulsing blood. The wash of the rain was refreshing, even exhilarating.
The houses at the far end of the park were all bedecked with Christmas lights, each competing to outdo the others in strings and weaves of flashing colour. It was a sight to delight an electricity company shareholder and outrage an environmentalist. The roads were quiet now, only the odd bus and taxi flitting past.
A white Christmas was off the agenda, but a wet one looked likely. It was by no means as romantic, but far more British.
Dan walked automaticallyand found himself thinking through the inquiry once more. He wasn’t surprised to suffer a welling disappointment. He had never considered that the first murder case he�
��d worked on, had become such a part of and been so fascinated by, would remain unsolved.
All that work, all that thought, and all for nothing. It was like receiving a surprise package, pawing and picking at layer upon layer of wrapping, the excitement and anticipation building, only to find there was nothing in the middle.
Still, at least there was Christmas to look forward to. He was due a few days off and would spend tomorrow evening with Kerry and much of the day itself with El. They would sip at the fine whisky he had been promised, watch old films and swap yarns.
Rutherford ran back and jumped up, prompting Dan to dodge from his filthy paws.
‘Too quick for you, my old rogue,’ he said, ‘I know you far too well. Right, one more lap then and we’ll get home. I could do with some good sleep.’
Dan pulled the hood of his coat tighterand walked on, blinking hard against a swirl of wind and rain. Across the park he noticed another figure, bent beneath a large umbrella, also accompanied by a dog. So, he wasn’t the only idiot sufficiently devoted to his canine friend to bring him out on a night more resembling a mid-Atlantic squall.
Dan squinted through the gloom. It looked like Jim, a man who lived a little further along Hartley Avenue, and who walked his Labrador, Firkin, around the park. The dog was one of Rutherford’s few friendsand would often join him in running laps together.
But this time Rutherford had begun barking and snarling.
‘Hey, idiot, what’re you doing?’ Dan called to him. ‘Calm it down, it’s only Firkin.’
The other dog ran overand started barking back. The two animals circled each other, both growling and baring their teeth.
Dan stumbled into a run. A dog fight, an injured Rutherford for Christmas and some expensive vet’s bills he could well do without.
‘Rutherford!’ he yelled. ‘Heel! Come away! Now!’
The dog ignored him. The other figure was hurrying over too. Dan grabbed for Rutherford’s collar, missed, tried again and this time caught itand pulled him back.
‘Hey, Jim, what’s the matter with Firkin?’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen these two behave like that …’
He stopped suddenly. Staring at him wasn’t Jim, but a middle-aged woman with a face as furrowed as a pickled walnut.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Dan muttered. ‘With the rain and your big coat and umbrella I thought you were someone else.’
‘So I see,’ she said sniffily. ‘Come along now Beatrix,’ she told the dog. ‘Let’s leave this nasty rough beast and be getting home.’
Dan scowledand was about to find a suitably sharp rejoinder when the beautiful moment came. Its power rendered any speech impossible. In just an instant the park, the beating rain, the cold, the blackness of the winter night, all rushed away, receded in his mind. He stood, soaking, just staring.
The only thing Dan could see was Edward Bray, climbing out of his jeep, a dark figure waiting, hidden in the gloom, levelling the barrels of a shotgun and squeezing the trigger.
And now he knew just who that person was, and how the crime had been committed.
Chapter Twenty-two
DAN STUMBLED BACK HOME, his mind a spin of thoughts. A taxi blared its horn as he wandered across the road, hardly even seeing the speeding headlights. The wash from a long puddle drenched him further, but Dan didn’t notice. At the flat, as he fumbled the key into the lock, he reached for his mobile, then, with an afterthought, hesitated.
It was coming around to midnight. Not perhaps the ideal time to make a phone call.
Dan forced himself to wait and think. He grabbed an old towel, dried Rutherford, then patted some of the rain off his own face and hair. He didn’t even comprehend that he was using the same towel.
All he could see was that evening, ten days ago, what he was now certain had happened then, and in the hours and days leading up to the moment of murder.
He filled the kettle, made himself a cup of coffee and wrapped his hands around the mug, only then realising he was cold. Dan dumped his wet clothes on the bathroom floor, turned on the shower, stood in its pummelling heat and let his mind ricochet through the case.
If he was right, there was only one way to solve it, and just one opportunity. It would have to be done tomorrow, and before nine o’clock in the morning.
There was no choice. He’d have to talk to Adam now.
He sipped at the coffee and flinched. He’d forgotten to put in either milk or sugar.
Dan wrapped himself in a towel and made the call.
Adam answered within three rings.
‘I’m sorry if I woke you,’ Dan began.
‘You didn’t. I was sitting up. Thinking.’
‘About the case?’
‘Yep.’
‘Get anywhere?’
‘No.’
Dan hesitated at the absurdity of what he was about to say. He was a television reporter, with a grand total of ten days experience of police investigations, and he was about to attempt to tell a Detective Chief Inspector how he thought a murder had been committed and then covered up.
‘Get on with it,’ Adam prompted.
‘What?’
‘As it’s almost midnight, I suspect it wouldn’t be my most brilliant deduction to assume you haven’t just rung for a friendly chat. I can hear the excitement in your voice. In fact, it sounds like you’re being strangled. So come on, out with it.’
‘Well, now I’m talking to you it feels daft …’
‘Just get on and try me.’
Dan swallowed hard and did, blurted it all out in a rush of thought. He hardly took a breath in the whole monologue.
There was a silence on the end of the line.
‘Hmm,’ came the eventual reply.
‘Hmm?’
‘Hmm.’
Rutherford nosed his way into Dan’s legs, bit and tugged at the towel, but he eased the dog away. This was no time for games.
‘It could certainly explain much of the case,’ Adam said at last.
‘Much?’ Dan ventured mildly.
‘Well, most.’
‘All, even?’
‘Possibly.’
The line clicked and buzzed.
‘If your theory is correct,’ Adam said slowly, ‘And I say– if, then there’s still one big problem. The same one we hit earlier. The one I suspect we’re always going to come up against.’
‘Proof?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well, I think the answer is still the same as earlier. If we can’t find the evidence we need, then it’ll have to be a confession.’
‘Yep. And in order to have any chance of that …’
‘We’ll have to act now. Or first thing in the morning, at least.’
‘Yes,’ Adam said thoughtfully. ‘And if that’s to be the case, it’ll take me a few hours to organise what we’ll need.’
‘So – what do we do?’
‘We get organising. Or, at least, I do. You get some rest, tomorrow looks like being quite a day. Set your alarm for five a.m. I’ll call you then with the details.’
Dan noticed his voice was suddenly unsteady. ‘OK.’
‘See you in a few hours then.’ Adam paused, and then added, ‘Oh, and Dan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bloody good thinking.’
Sometimes, sleeping is simply impossible. Whether it’s as a child on Christmas Eve, or an adult the night before a big job interview, driving test, wedding or whatever, the excitement and nerves can never free your mind and leave the blissful space for delicious release.
Before the epiphany moment in the rain and wind and darkness of Hartley Park, Dan had felt tired. But no longer. He tried lying in bed, breathing deeply, imagining relaxing visions of long summer walks across Dartmoor with Rutherford, or paddling in secluded sun-blessed bays on the Cornwall coast.
But try as he might, he couldn’t rest.
He looked for another distraction, began to work on Bonham’s riddle again, screwed his eyes closed and imagined the characters flo
ating in the darkness.
992 619U
And now something came. A vague thought at first, but fast building momentum. A dusty memory from college days. Of a lecture theatre, overly warm and dimly lit, rows of hundreds of baffled young faces. An exposition of organic chemistry, an aged professor extolling the virtues of carbon.
‘This element ahead of all others we should hold high,’ the rather eccentric man had extolled, waving a ferrule like a wand. ‘For without it, you, me and all around us would not be here. Behold the mighty Carbon, sacred number six in the atomic scale!’
Dan tumbled out of bed. He strode into the lounge, flicked on the light, squinted at the bookcase and grabbed an old chemistry text book from one of the shelves. Rutherford padded in to see what the fuss was about.
Fast the pages turned. Dan flicked to the back of the book and found the chart he was looking for. It was the foundation stone of so much of science, the familiar shape of the twin columns at each end, the lines of boxes arrayed between them. After some scrabbling Dan found a piece of paper and a pen on the dining table in the bay window. He traced his way along the block of tiny rectangles and wrote down the letters which corresponded to the numbers.
And there, staring at him in smudgy blue ink, was the answer to Bonham’s riddle.
So simple, and yet so smart.
And so offensive.
What an extraordinary night it was turning out to be. One of revelation upon realisation.
Dan’s first thought was to find his phone and call Adamagain. But this was hardly the time. Plus, the detective would be far from impressed with the solution.
Rutherford yawned, turned, and headed back for the bedroom. Dan took the hint, placed the book back on the shelf and followed.
He tried once more to sleep, but of that there was now no hope whatsoever. The thought about what could come to pass in the next few hours in the Bray inquiry, along with finally finding the answer to Bonham’s riddle meant sweet unconsciousness was a hopeless prospect.
At around half past two he admitted defeat. Dan got up, and sat on the great blue sofa, the duvet wrapped around him, listened to the late night radio and tried to read a book.
