The Shadows of Justice

by Simon Hall

  “I was aware,” Dan muttered. “All too bloody aware.”

  The final message was a rant. If he could not be relied upon, she was sending the bright, up-and-coming talent that was young Phil to cover the events of this morning. Amidst the barrage of words was the threat of disciplinary proceedings for deserting his post at a time of national emergency, or words to that effect.

  Dan pulled a face at the phone and deleted the messages.

  “We’re in the same leaky boat,” he told Adam, and related the reckoning which now hung above him too.

  “Don’t worry,” the downcast detective replied. “All we need do is solve the case in the next few hours. That way I make the Deputy Chief happy again and you get an exclusive to placate your editor.”

  Further attempts at levity were, by tacit agreement, redundant so they lapsed back into a sullen silence.

  Claire had been on the phone to some of the other detectives working on the inquiry. After a few minutes she returned with news, she said, both good and bad.

  “Give me the good first,” Adam replied resignedly. “I could do with it.”

  “Deputy Chief Constable Flood got held up authorising some phone taps. He won’t be here until later this afternoon.”

  Adam’s hand went to his tie and straightened it. “The patron saint of detectives is back on the beat. We’ve got a bit longer to crack the case and save me from death by disciplinary.”

  “But then there’s the bad news,” Claire added, carefully. “Judge Templar wants to see you in his chambers as soon as possible.”

  ***

  They found Templar engaged in an experiment. He was attaching varying sized pieces of Blu-Tack to the balls in his Newton’s Cradle and timing the effect it had on the swing of the spheres.

  Dan was reminded of the Eggheads’ analysis of his computer, and that curious mix of personalities. The businesslike note to the Ministry and his membership of a dating club. Dan was surprised to feel a sympathy stirring for the judge, and a wondering of what the future might hold when the foundations of work were removed from his life.

  Adam stood quietly while Templar concluded his observations. The final test involved a huge lump of the blue mass being stuck to one of the balls that then hardly twitched under the swinging attack of its colleagues.

  “I’ll show Newton how to conserve momentum,” the judge chuckled. “Oh, this is so much better than locking up the lawless. I’m just sorry I didn’t discover it before.”

  He wrote a note, looked up and saw Adam. Dan was a short, but nonetheless very deliberate distance behind. Templar was unsettling at the best of times, and this clearly wasn’t one.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You asked to see me, Your Honour,” Adam replied, patiently.

  “Did I? Ah yes, indeed I did.” The warmth in Templar’s face fled, a taper snuffed by a single pinch. “You’ve really excelled yourself this time, haven’t you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Getting that Newman chap to jump off the car park. Even by your standards of melodrama, I’d say you’ve plummeted to a new low.”

  “It wasn’t my finest hour, I’d agree,” Adam replied, painedly.

  “So, are you going to actually bother clearing up this case? The killing of the Edwards, I mean. I think we all know who did for poor Annette.”

  “I’m working on it, Your Honour.”

  “Are you making any progress?”

  “We have some leads.”

  “I believe I’ve heard that one before, have I not?”

  Adam didn’t reply. His hands were interlinked behind his back and Dan could see the pressure of the grip intensifying.

  Templar unstuck the blue mass from the silver sphere and set the cradle in motion once more. A rhythmic click, clack, click, clack filled the room.

  “Am I still a suspect?” the judge asked.

  “You and the rest of the world, Your Honour.”

  “Like that, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, come on then, interrogate me,” he snapped. “Use your wit and skill to ensnare me in my own words and unmask me as a murderer.”

  Click, clack, click, clack.

  Dan thought he heard Adam groan. “Did you have anything to do with the killing of the Edwards, Your Honour?”

  “No!” Templar chirped, gleefully.

  “Did you fake an alibi with those emails you sent, and that phone call you made to your bank?”

  “No!” came the reply again.

  “Then I think, if it’s acceptable, I’d like to get on with the investigation.”

  There was no reply. Templar was too entranced with the swinging of the silver balls. Adam contorted himself into a poor impersonation of a bow and slipped out of the door.

  ***

  Commonly quiet when thoughtful, Adam now took upon himself an impenetrable silence. It was akin to that at a memorial service, dense and demanding of respect. He walked slowly out of the courthouse and sat on a bench in the plaza, deliberately facing away from the car park.

  The clouds which had edged into the western sky were massing their forces. The sun’s reign, so unexpectedly long for mercurial September, was coming to an end. A growing breeze stirred some remnants of litter and leaves.

  Dan considered getting a coffee from the Pepperpot, but he’d had more than enough caffeine this morning. He contented himself with sitting, watching the procession of the world pass. There had been little time for rest of late.

  As they left the court, across the plaza he saw Nigel and Phil interviewing a man who must have been a witness to Roger Newman’s jump. Dan sat close to Adam, but on the opposite side so the pair wouldn’t spot him.

  “It’s no good just sitting around,” the detective said suddenly. “As we’re here, let’s go talk to Parkinson. If we don’t get anywhere I reckon we’re left with the same old conclusion. That it must have been Roger Newman who set off the explosion.”

  ***

  Parkinson looked flustered at their unexpected arrival, his beard twitching with concern.

  “But you didn’t make an appointment.”

  “Killers don’t, detectives don’t,” was Adam’s memorable, if somewhat cryptic reply.

  “I’ve got a meeting in five minutes.”

  “Cancel it. This is a murder inquiry.”

  “But it’s about a major new tree planting initiative.”

  The resulting look would have withered a rainforest of the kind Parkinson doubtless championed, and proved a sufficient answer.

  “I don’t know how else I can help you,” the Deputy Assistant Director prattled. “I’ve told you all I can.”

  “I’ve got bad news for you,” Adam said coldly, and perhaps with relish. “You’re the only one of my suspects who hasn’t got an alibi.”

  Parkinson could have been hit by a fist, such was his recoil.

  “Am I?” he asked, weakly.

  “You are.”

  “Well… I don’t know what to say.”

  “You could try saying you didn’t do it.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “You’ve told me that before. Now convince me.”

  “How?”

  “Try.”

  Adam left a silence after the merciless thrust of the words and let it run. Dan had always been an admirer of the way the detective could make a mere absence of sound so very menacing, but this was a virtuoso example. It was an emptiness filled with flaming arrows and raining boulders.

  “I was in bed,” Parkinson stuttered. “I was asleep. I don’t know what else I can say.”

  “Try.”

  His oversized glasses were starting to mist. It was clear the man was only seconds from tears, and possibly a substantial quantity.

  “I never asked for any of this,” he gulped. “I don’t know why it’s happening to me. I didn’t want to be on that jury. I’ve never done anything wrong in my life. I’ve never had so much as a parking ticket. It’s just not
fair! If I had killed them I’d tell you, I promise I would. It would save me all this damned torment!”

  Parkinson took off his glasses, wiped them on a greying handkerchief and dabbed miserably at his eyes.

  Adam stood up from the chair. “Thank you,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We’re leaving.”

  “You’re not going to arrest me?”

  “No.”

  “So, was – that it?” the unlikely master criminal asked.

  “That was it. With all due respect Mr Parkinson, you’re not the most difficult subject I’ve ever had to interrogate.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” he gushed. “I feel like an innocent man again. Thank you so much.”

  And with that, they left the daredevil man of parks to the excitement of his tree planting initiative.

  ***

  They returned to the bench in the plaza. The time was coming up to noon. Cloud was beginning to dominate the sky. Nigel and Phil had disappeared, probably to return to the studios to edit the story for the lunchtime news.

  “I don’t care,” Dan whispered to himself, entirely unconvincingly. “It was just a job. Good while it lasted.”

  “In reverse order then, our suspects,” Adam said. “Just for the sake of completeness – Parkinson?”

  Dan forced himself to focus. “Out. Unless he’s the finest actor known to man, I can’t even begin to contemplate him being a killer.”

  “Templar?”

  “A better bet. He’s got the knowledge about how to cause a gas explosion and leave no evidence behind. And he’s either already off the rails or in the process of leaving them. He’s also got a decent motive – all those years of seeing justice not being done.”

  “But he’s got a hell of an alibi. The best of the bunch.”

  “True.”

  “So – Ivy?”

  “He claims not to be a violent type, but he took that swing at you. And he’s got a good motive, too. Like Templar, he’s seen too much of justice failing. Plus he was close to Roger and Annette.”

  “But he didn’t give me any indication of guilt in that interview, earlier. And he’s got a good alibi.”

  “Yep.”

  “Which again brings us back to where we started. The most likely killer all along – Roger Newman.”

  Adam’s phone rang. He got up, paced around, as is an unwritten rule of using a mobile, and returned to the bench.

  “Interesting, very interesting,” he mused. “That was Claire. The neighbour who gave Newman his alibi – or seventy five per cent of one, to be exact. She rang in. She’s worried she might have misled us. She says she was quite sleepy and reckons she can only be about half sure it was Newman she heard shouting. It could just have been someone in the street.”

  “Really?” Dan said, slowly. “That is interesting. So it becomes more and more possible that Newman did kill the Edwards.”

  They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. A gang of pigeons pecked busily around their feet. A queue formed at the café, then waned again.

  Adam stood up. “That settles it. Let’s get up to the hospital. Newman should be in a reasonably fit state to talk to us by now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  For twenty minutes the car waited in queues, or trundled at an orthopaedic pace around the great tarmac lot that surrounded the northern fringes of Tamarside Hospital. Adam grew more and more agitated. “Come on, come on!” he urged. “We don’t have enough time as it is.”

  It was lunchtime, a peak visiting hour as they were finding out. The demands upon the Deputy Chief Constable dictated he wasn’t due in Plymouth until late afternoon. But, as Adam put it, “That still only leaves a handful of hours to save my backside.”

  Dan gave him a sorrowful look and the detective added, “Sorry, our backsides.”

  Claire decided to drive. She welcomed the chance to escape the MIR where she had been coordinating inquiries because there were few inquiries left to coordinate. The investigation had hit a hiatus. The only suspects in town remained their list of four and every conceivable investigation had been carried out into their movements and backgrounds.

  No one else had appeared on the radar of law enforcement. No one else with any kind of motive had been found. It was just a question of discovering which of the four was responsible. But that was one of those disarming statements which sound simple but are rather more tricky to achieve.

  Partly to distract Adam from his frustrations, and himself too, Dan began another recap of the case.

  Roger Newman was a very lucky man. The firefighters had positioned their inflatable bags in just the right place and managed to force enough air into them to break his fall. One leg hit the concrete and was badly broken, but that was his only injury. A call to the hospital confirmed he was sitting up, in pain but entirely in possession of his faculties. He was fit enough to be interviewed once more.

  Claire let out a high-pitched noise, which was a mixture of surprise and relief. A man was backing a Jeep out of a space. It was odd how a few square feet of tarmac could resemble the promised land.

  “Just one more thing before we see Newman,” Adam said to Dan, as Claire manoeuvered, assisted by the covetous glares of a queue of other drivers. “When we were at the car park. You said you didn’t think he killed the Edwards. Did you really mean that?”

  Dan gave himself a minute to think. He knew the answer that was expected, even required of him. But he couldn’t give it.

  “Yes, I did mean it,” he said, slowly. “I don’t think Newman killed them.”

  ***

  The walk to Torridge Ward was dominated by Adam reeling off a catalogue of reasons why Newman could be the killer. They came faster and more forcefully than promises from a politician at election time.

  Of their suspects, Newman had the strongest motive by far. He had no real alibi. He was a successful businessman and you had to learn to be ruthless in business. That could feasibly extend to committing murder. His mental balance was disturbed by the loss of his daughter.

  As for the argument that it wasn’t in his character, look at Newman’s reaction when they went to arrest him. He’d thrown a punch. So, he could be violent. He’d tried to escape, a credible sign of guilt. On top of which, Newman tried to kill himself. That was – partly at least – in remorse for setting off the explosion.

  Dan listened patiently and had to agree with all Adam said. It made perfect sense. But he still couldn’t escape the indefinable feeling that Newman wasn’t the killer. And he could see Claire felt the same way.

  “We’ll see in a minute,” a disgruntled Adam huffed, when he’d given up trying to convince them.

  They followed a long and well-polished corridor, around a corner and into a newly built part of the hospital. It overlooked the sizeable gardens on the southern side of the grounds, an expanse of neat hedges and lawns.

  The windows were large and the wing light. The occasional sound of hammering and drilling drifted through the walls.

  Ahead was a pair of swing doors. They were almost at Torridge Ward.

  ***

  Newman was out of bed. He was sitting in a wheelchair by one of the long windows, looking out over the grounds.

  Debate as they may the nature of Newman’s character, his popularity wasn’t in doubt. In just a few hours, word had spread of his attempted suicide. For some, it would have attracted only contempt or even bare hostility. But not for Newman. His bed was surrounded by cards from well-wishers and several bunches of flowers.

  One was from his housekeeper, another from the staff at Roger’s Rugs. Some of the cards were from the schools he had helped with his charitable work. But by far, the majority were from young people who had received bursaries and gone on to fine futures they might otherwise never have known.

  Adam’s eyes roved across the display. But his expression said it made no impact on his resolve. He coughed loudly and Newman turned.

  Dan hadn’t been sure what reaction
to expect. More anger and defiance he thought most probable, perhaps another tirade. But Newman was humble and contrite, and it felt genuine. He said quietly, “I’m sorry. Please, sit down and let me try to explain.”

  Claire settled on a chair, Dan sat on the end of the bed. Adam remained standing.

  “You’re sorry for what, Mr Newman?” he asked.

  “Not what you’re thinking.”

  “That depends what I’m thinking.”

  Newman smiled. It was a weary look, but honest enough.

  “You’re waiting for me to pour it all out and say sorry for killing the Edwards. But I can’t – because I didn’t.”

  Adam said nothing, just waited for Newman to continue. And he did, without any reservations.

  “I’m sorry for losing my temper, and for trying to hit you.”

  “It’s an occupational hazard,” the detective replied, wryly. “You get used to it.”

  “And for running from you, too. And for – well, you know. That business on the roof.”

  Adam’s demeanour made it clear he wasn’t going to be tempted into any concessions, so Newman turned to Dan. “You understand, don’t you? I wasn’t myself. I’d been drinking. What happened with Annette…”

  Dan spared him the need to finish the sentence. It was difficult not to empathise with the man.

  “I can certainly understand that, Roger.”

  “And I wanted to thank you.”

  “Thank me?” Dan couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. “For what?”

  “For trying to stop me jumping. For doing your best to talk me round. For all you’ve done, in fact. You’ve been very good to me, with the kidnapping and the trial, and…”

  The words stuck fast. The images, the events after that verdict, impossible to articulate.

  “Everything that’s happened,” Newman continued. “I just wanted to tell you I appreciate it.”

  He pulled his dressing gown tighter around his chest, despite the comfortable warmth of the ward. Outside, most of the sky was covered in a silver shroud, only a few forlorn patches of blue remaining, a dying memory of the sunny days that were.