The TV Detective

by Simon Hall

  And as is often the way with sleep, the moment you start ignoring it, it takes offence and decides to come calling. Dan must have dozed off, because he was startled awake at just after five by the ringing of his mobile.

  It was Adam, telling him to be at Charles Cross by six.

  The preparations were laid. The plan was in place.

  The car park of the police station was as busy as Dan had seen it. There were two large police vans, teams of officers milling around, chatting as they strapped on their protective gear. Four police cars were also lined up and ready to go, their headlights on, directed to illuminate the vans. The relentless rain drifted in the white beams and long shadows shifted across the tarmac as the men and women prepared for the raids.

  A Tactical Aid Sergeant was giving a briefing, but it was short and less than informative.

  ‘As you know, we’ve had no time to do any reconnaissance or intelligence work on these houses, so we can’t give you much idea of what you’ll be up against. These are ordinary members of the public you’re grabbing, so we don’t expect too much trouble, but bear in mind this.’

  The rumble of conversation died, and the man waited until he was sure he had everyone’s attention, then added, ‘You’re dealing with people who may have committed murder, and while we think it’s unlikely there will be weapons in the houses, be ready for anything. Good luck.’

  The teams continued donning their clothing, heavy boots, shin and knee pads, stab resistant and bullet-proof vests and helmets. A woman was checking the equipment in the back of a van. A small red battering ram with the words, “The Enforcer” handwritten on it in white paint, which she patted affectionately. Metal bars, mini fire extinguishers – which one officer had explained were used to calm angry dogs – and taser electric stun guns.

  Dan caught a sight of Claire, bunching up her bob of hair, ready for the raid. Her figure was backlit by a headlamp, empasising the silhouette of her lips.

  His long and lascivious stare was only broken by a heavy hand on his shoulder. Adam.

  ‘Impressive, eh?’ he said. ‘Without being overly melodramatic, I always think of it as like the troops getting ready for battle.’

  Dan nodded, but didn’t speak. Adam peered at him. ‘This your first time on a raid?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dan managed, his voice thin.

  Adam gave him a look. ‘Without being rude, given my experience of you over the last ten days, I wouldn’t say you’re the bravest of men – are you?’

  Dan shook his headand opened his mouth to speak, but words were proving elusive.

  ‘Well, don’t worry,’ the detective continued. ‘We’ll ride with the troops, but they’re going in first. We’ll just watch and wait until it’s all sorted. OK?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Look, are you sure you want to come along?’ Adam asked.

  Dan hesitated, but then nodded once more.

  ‘You’d better,’ Adam said. ‘Because all this is down to you and your little moment of inspiration. I just hope it’s right.’

  It was only a short drive from Charles Cross, no more than ten minutes or so. Dan sat right at the back of the van, squeezed between the wall and a police officer who was large in both height and girth.

  The man kept clicking his knuckles in a less than reassuring way.

  The banter which had flowed on the first part of the journey faded as they neared the target. The expressions of the men and women changed, grew implacable, focused. The windows of the van began to steam up with their steady breath.

  Adam sat in the front, giving directions to the driver. The van lurched around one more corner and pulled up in the shadow between two streetlights. A police car drew up behind.

  A glowing clock on the dashboard said the time was 6.15.

  ‘Right,’ the sergeant whispered. ‘Final time checks. We hit at 6.20 precisely.’

  There were two entry teams, Adam had explained earlier, one for each house. The raids would be carried out simultaneously, to eliminate any chance of either of their two targets being able to call the other.

  Because, as they now understood, it was a conspiracy they were trying to crack.

  The clock turned.

  6.16.

  The teams would smash their way through the front doors and rush into the house. They would flood each room until they found the people they were looking for. They would be arrested on suspicion of murder, given a few moments to dress if they were still in bed, then taken straight to Charles Cross for interview.

  Time was vital. They had only until nine o’clock, perhaps a few minutes more if they were lucky, but not many. Nine was the deadline they had to work to.

  The digits of the clock flickered and changed.

  6.17.

  Dan noticed his chest felt tight. He tried to breathe easily, think about what he and Kerry would do tonight. They could go out for a drink, but all the pubs would be packed with Christmas revellers and he wasn’t sure he would be up to it after the lack of sleep and what might come to be an extraordinary day.

  The day the Edward Bray murder case was solved.

  Much of it down to him.

  Or so he hoped.

  What a ridiculous way to spend Christmas Eve.

  6.18.

  Adam had made his calls as soon as he and Dan had finished their midnight conversation. First, to the Deputy Chief Constable, who agreed the raids may be a little excessive, but given that they could serve to frighten and intimidate their suspects, and perhaps help to make them talk …

  No further discussion was needed. The decision was made.

  Then it was to a magistrate, for a warrant, or three warrants in fact. The woman had been unphased at the awakening call, listened carefully to the evidence and duly granted the police permission for their raids.

  ‘Three warrants?’ Dan asked, surprised. ‘Surely just two.’

  ‘No,’ Adam replied, enigmatically and annoyingly. ‘Three. I’m a detective too, remember? I’ve been working on a little idea of my own about what might lie behind the murder of Edward Bray. And funnily enough, I think it could just fit in with your inspiration about how the killing was carried out.’

  Dan persisted in trying to find out what Adam was talking about, but he would say no more except that all would become clear later in the day.

  The final task on the detective’s list was to ring the Tactical Aid Group, to alert them to what would be required. They were entirely used to such calls and the arrangements were duly and quickly made.

  Then, it was a few hours restless sleep.

  Which brought them to now.

  6.19.

  The officers began climbing out of the van.

  A woman took the lead. They jogged after her, two abreast, at the front the men carrying the “The Enforcer”, Dan and Adam at the back.

  The street was classic suburbia, a line of neat terraced houses and parked cars, the streetlights on, the pavement shining with the rain. They passed a postbox, a bicycle propped against it, a couple of puddles splashing with their footfall. A white van rumbled past, trailing diesel fumes to taint the freshness of the early morning air.

  They rounded the arc of a corner. The street was narrower now, gently sloping downhill to a cul de sac. The woman stopped by a low metal gate, pointed both arms to a dark and silent house. ‘Number 23, that’s it.’

  For the home of someone involved in murder it was absolutely ordinary. A paved path cut through a tidy lawn, a well-trimmed hedge, a dark wooden front door with a brass knocker, curtains drawn tight over the unlit windows.

  The men pushed past, strode up the path, hesitated at the doorand looked back. Adam checked his watch and gave a nod. They swung the battering ram.

  There was a crunch, crack and thudding creak, violent metal on wood. The door splintered and buckled, but held.

  Another swing, another heavy pounding impact and it gave, smashing back into the wall and juddering on its hinges.

  The search team tumbled
inside. Shouts echoed in the darkness of the hallway. ‘Police! Stay where you are!’

  Two went left, towards a lounge and kitchen. Lights flicked on. Two more clambered upstairs, their boots pounding on the wood.

  ‘Police! Keep still! Do not move!’

  From above came a woman’s voice, a scream, and angry, muffled yelling.

  Adam waited at the door, held out a hand to bar the entrance. ‘This is far enough. We don’t need to go inside. We’ll just get in the way.’

  Dan had made no move whatsoever to enter the house. ‘OK,’ he gulped.

  They stood sheltering from the rain, squinting inside. More voices from upstairs, calmer now, but the words were unintelligible.

  A ginger cat sprinted out of the door, making Dan jump back. Adam shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

  Two of the search team walked past, back outside. ‘The downstairs is secure sir,’ one said to Adam, and began taking off his helmet.

  The police van pulled up outside the house. A couple of people had already gathered on the pavementand were watching curiously, despite the rain. Good gossip from an eyewitness angle was always worth a soaking.

  Adam’s mobile rang. He answered, listened, then said, ‘OK, we’re almost done here too. See you in a few minutes,’ and hung up. ‘Suzanne,’ he explained. ‘At the other house. They’ve got him. He’s on his way back to Charles Cross.’

  A milk float trundled by, the accelerating whine of an electric motor accompanied by the cheerful clink of bottles. From upstairs came the woman’s voice again, loud, then turning to a cry. A baby started wailing.

  A man’s figure appeared at the top of the stairs, silhouetted in the light behind. He began walking slowly down, step by hesitant step. His arms were held behind his back and as he passed Dan saw he had been handcuffed. The face was familiar from their previous meetings, but the expression very different now. His mouth was a little open, his eyes blank, his skin colourless, almost bleached.

  It was a look deeper than disbelief, more utter incomprehension.

  Two police officers led him to the van, opened the back doors and pushed the man gently inside.

  ‘OK,’ Adam said. ‘That’s Stead safely in custody. Suzanne’s team have got Hicks. That’s part one of the plan successfully sorted. Now comes the tricky bit. Let’s get back to the station, start talking to them and see if we can crack this case.’

  From upstairs came again the woman’s voice, breathless and stifled, sobbing and rising to a shrieking crescendo as it mixed with the baby’s wailing cries.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  IT TOOK MORE THAN an hour before Hicks and Stead had been booked into custody, assessed, and were ready to face questioning. Adam harassed and chided the poor custody sergeant as the man filled out his forms.

  The reaction of the two men to their arrests was very different. In one cell, in the far wing of the custody block, Stead sat quietly on the thin blue mattress which covered the stainless steel ledge that passed for a bed. He was hunched forwards, hands on his knees, staring silently at the concrete floor.

  Even the offer of a cup of tea or plastic beaker of water went unanswered. Stead just shook his head, a movement so slight as to be almost undetectable, and returned to his miserable trance.

  As he waited for the sergeant to finish his work, Dan couldn’t resist taking a tiptoe walk along the cell block. It was a feeling he suspected was akin to his ancestors going to a public hanging, one of pure, inhumane fascination and schadenfreude at the sight of the condemned, but it was no less tempting for knowing that.

  At the tiny peep hole to Stead’scell, he stopped, waited and watched.

  It was a good three or four minutes before the man moved at all. And when he did, it was only to reach out a hand, extend a couple of fingers and touch the bare, whitewashed brick of the cold, confining wall. He pushed at it and then did so once again, disbelief filling every pitiful motion.

  Hicks by contrast was a boiling kettle, a caged animal, railing against his incarceration. He paced back and forth, kicked out at the flimsy mattress and pounded his knotted fists on the unyielding steel of the cell door, beating out a relentless boom. He would lean back against the wall, then launch himself forwards, arms flailing, voice screaming obscenities, the words echoing along the hollow corridors of the police station.

  It was the manner of a man who could be a murderer. And Dan was sure he would have thought so, had he not known otherwise.

  Or perhaps, in truth, the word was suspected.

  Last night, in the safety and security of his flat, he had been so sure of how the killing of Edward Bray was carried out, who had pulled the trigger and who had helped to foment, plan and then cover up the crime. But now, faced with the men themselves, the suspicion of what they had done and what might now happen to them, and with the denouement of the case approaching, the doubts were crowding in, whispering their sly, corrosive toxins into his mind.

  There was another delay as the sergeant called the police doctor to check Hicks and Stead were well enough to be questioned. The behaviour of both raised obvious questions about their stability.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Adam exploded. ‘I don’t have enough time as it is.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the sergeant replied, ‘but there’s no choice. And as you well know, if you question them and we haven’t checked they’re up to it first, anything you get will be chucked out of court straight away. It’s in both our interests to make sure they’re OK.’

  Adam sworeand issued a vehement restatement of his oft-repeated position about criminals having far too many rights, but stalked off to the MIR, tetchily beckoning Suzanne and Dan to follow.

  ‘Right,’ he said, as soon as the door clicked closed, ‘let’s talk tactics. It’s vital we get this right. How do we do it?’

  Suzanne ran a hand over her chin and said, ‘We don’t have much time, so how about you do Hicks and I’ll question Stead? We give them both half an hour, then regroup to see what we’ve got.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Seems fair enough. It’s logical. It maximises our time and resources.’

  ‘Err …’ Dan began, then stopped himself.

  ‘What?’ Adam snapped.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I was just thinking …’

  ‘Yeah, right. I know what that means. Your thinking can be dangerous. Come on, out with it. What exactly were you thinking?’

  Suzanne’s hostile eyes were on him. Dan thought about what was happening downstairs, the men who were currently being examined by a doctor, but who, in the next couple of hours could be charged with their parts in a murder. They could spend tomorrow, Christmas Day, in prison, and many more such days to come.

  And he was a TV reporter. A child in an alien land. Where the fun of the game of the last ten days had suddenly become very serious.

  How sobering could be the ruthless impact of reality.

  ‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Well, don’t waste our bloody time then,’ Adam growled. ‘We’re not exactly blessed with much.’

  ‘Hey, hang on!’ Dan heard himself say. ‘If it hadn’t been for me we wouldn’t be here now. Who cracked the bloody case?’

  Adam took a step towards him. The detective’s hair was uniquely wild this morning, spraying in patches of dark tufts and his face was creased and shiny with sweat.

  ‘We’ve cracked nothing yet,’ he said ominously. ‘Not– a – bloody – thing. All we’ve got is a theory. That’s it. And unless we get on with finding something to back it up we’re stuffed. So come on, that’s enough sodding about. Let’s get down to questioning them.’

  He turned to go, but Dan reached out a hand and grabbed his shoulder. Suzanne’s mouth slipped open. It was as if he had touched a sacred object, a heretic condemned in the eyes of a believer.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Adam barked.

  ‘I think you’re wrong.’

  ‘What?’

&nbs
p; ‘You wanted to know what I thought. Well, this is it. I reckon it’s wrong, splitting up and seeing them both at the same time. We’ll get nothing from Hicks, I can guarantee it. He’s too tough. He’s delighted in Bray’s murder all along. Stead’s our only chance. He’s the weak link in all this, the quiet one. We should concentrate on him, go at him until he cracks, all three of us.’ Dan paused, then added quietly, ‘Well, you two, anyway.’

  Adam hesitatedand glared at Dan. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead. There was a silence in the room, a long, loud and resonant silence.

  ‘Suzanne?’ Adam said finally.

  She shrugged. ‘It could work. It’s a gamble, isn’t it? It’s got to be your best guess, sir.’

  ‘Down to me then, is it? As ever.’

  No one replied.

  The detective drew himself upand stared out of the window at the grey, creeping dawn and the sullen, spattering rain.

  ‘OK then, Stead it is,’ he said at last. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was just after half past seven on the morning of Christmas Eve. Downstairs in the cells were Andrew Hicks, Jon Stead and Gordon Clarke, the three men who Dan believed had plotted together to kill Edward Bray.

  All three had named Julia Francis as their solicitor. Her offices opened at nine. At that point the messages on the phone would be played, and she, and doubtless some equally well trained and similarly ferocious colleagues would hurry straight to the police station to represent her clients.

  As ever with Francis, the word was a masterpiece of euphemism. It might equally be used to describe the way the Royal Air Force represented their country and dealt with the Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain.

  With the evidence they had, in the face of committed and informed legal resistance, Adam said they would not be able to justify keeping the men in custody. Against Hicks and Stead they had essentially nothing, merely some circumstance and a theory, in effect, pure supposition. Against Clarke, at least they had the fibres from the car boot, but it wouldn’t take Francis a great deal of research to find out they could have come from thousands of boots.

  The men would walk free within minutes.