by Simon Hall
She began walking, step by careful step, towards the Mini. It was spotless, had the shine of a showroom, even in this weather. Claire knelt down to look under the car, checking for signs of anyone hiding on the other side. She inched her way around the bonnet, treading silently, before turning to Dan, putting a finger to her lips and shaking her head.
They moved on to the next car. It was an old, red Ford, streaked with rust. A wave of wind hit them, Claire paused and then began carefully pacing around the faded silver of the front bumper.
Something moved. Fast and darting, running through the rain. Claire sprang back, arms outstretched, ready to fend off the blow.
Dan felt himself tense. He wanted to run forwards to help her, protect her, but his legs weren’t responding.
More rain, more wind, pummeling into them, spraying chaotic patterns in the pools and puddles on the tarmac.
The doors to the stairwell banged under the assault of the gust. Claire and Dan both span around. There was nothing, just the ghost of the wind.
From the side of the Ford a seagull appeared and danced across the tarmac. Claire shook her head and continued around the car. There was no one, nothing.
She ruffled her hair and held up a couple of fingers. Two more cars to go. But to Dan, it was obvious where Templar was hiding, as evident as if a great neon arrow was pointing down from the sky. He was behind the Jeep, watching them, quite possibly tracking every movement with the barrel of his gun.
Dan’s mobile rang. He jumped, fumbled for it and switched it off. It was a withheld number, the newsroom again. Lizzie demanding to know where he was and what was going on. The answer to both those questions he preferred not to think.
The time had slipped on to ten past four. If they could find Templar, if they could persuade him not to shoot, if there was no siege, if he would submit, if he would confess, all would be well. Dan’s career would be saved, Adam’s too. But first, there was a daunting course of ifs to navigate.
Next was a battered, green Renault. Claire approached, crouched down, checked underneath, warily circled the bonnet. Dan hung back, peering through the opaque greyness of the cloud of weather. She disappeared around the car, then quickly stood and held up a thumb. Nothing.
They began making for the final vehicle on the roof. The Jeep had some of the bunches of flowers that had been left in Annette’s memory climbing the low concrete wall around it, a few scattered by the onslaught of the elements.
“I’m going to need your help,” Claire whispered.
“Err – how?”
“You’ll have to go around one side, I’ll do the other.”
Dan wasn’t surprised by the faintness of his voice. “Me?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Maybe,” Dan gulped.
“It might make Templar hesitate. It means he won’t know which of us to shoot first. ”
Claire smiled and, for what must have been the first time in his life, it wasn’t a look Dan found anywhere close to being reassuring.
“Come here,” she said, and kissed him gently on the lips. “That’s for luck.”
She looked him in the eyes and kissed him again. “And that’s for you. Now, come on.”
***
Below, a line of fire engines had parked along the street. The yellow bags were being inflated once more. Police cars had cordoned off the plaza. Dan thought he spotted men with guns running across the expanse of concrete but he looked away before he could be sure.
He followed the low concrete wall, step by step, silently, towards the Jeep. A few metres to his side Claire was peering at the corner.
There was no movement, no sign anyone was there. Just the odd swirl of the incessant wind and rain.
They were twenty metres away. Claire slowed her pace, gestured to Dan to do the same.
The Jeep was a big, silver box, parked slightly askew in the rectangle of white lines. It made for good cover, plenty of space to hide behind. It was spattered with mud, the green and white of a Devon flag proudly positioned within the back windscreen.
Flowers flapped in the wind. A chip of gravel crunched under Dan’s foot.
He stopped. Claire did the same. But there was nothing. No movement, no reaction, no attack.
They stepped onwards. Fifteen metres now.
Claire edged a little further away, to get a better angle to see around the Jeep. More thunder rumbled in the distance, but the rain was a little lighter now.
Ten metres.
Still no movement from the Jeep.
Claire stopped. She crouched down, then kneeled, angled her head, her cheek close to the tarmac. She scanned under the chassis, stood again and shook her head.
But those wheels were plenty big enough to hide a pair of legs. And a man, one who was waiting patiently, nursing a gun. Biding his time until he knew he couldn’t miss.
They paced on, their steps even slower now. They were only five metres from the Jeep.
Once more, Claire stopped. She mouthed, ready?
Dan took one very long, very deep breath, hoped it wouldn’t be his last and nodded. Claire held up her hand, four fingers and a thumb outstretched, and counted down.
Five, four, three, two, one…
In unison they lurched forwards, ran for the Jeep. Dan headed for the boot, Claire the bonnet. They reached the target at the same time.
Dan expected the levelling of a gun barrel, turning to point between his eyes, a blinding, burning blast, an explosion of roaring, deafening sound. And then the black oblivion of instant death, the sudden plunge from light to darkness.
But there was nothing. No one. Only the fading flowers, flapping in the wind.
***
They found Adam on the plaza, standing outside a police van, impervious to the rain. His hair, usually springy and fastidiously styled, had become a mat of dark moss and his suit was black with saturation.
Dan caught a glimpse of himself in one of the van’s windows and grimaced. Even Claire had the decency to look a little disheveled. No one was at their best in the appearance stakes today.
“Sir, about what happened outside the car park,” she said to Adam. “I apologise, but I thought it was for the best. I fully expect to be disciplined, of course,” she added.
Adam looked her over and did his best to assemble an expression of disapproving authority. But it largely failed.
“Then consider yourself disciplined,” he said, fondly. “If you’d been killed, I’d have been furious. But as you’re ok, forget it. So, where’s Templar?”
Dan shrugged. “He’s outthought us again. He’s probably miles away. What he told the security guard about going to the car park was a lovely diversion. It gave him loads of time to escape.”
“And now he could be anywhere,” Claire added. “But we’ll find him.”
“Maybe,” Adam replied. “But not in time to save me – or Dan.”
As one, they checked their watches. Dan’s said it was twenty past four, which meant probably around half past. Brian Flood would be arriving at Charles Cross at any moment.
Back in the Wessex Tonight studios Phil would be editing the story of the day. Roger Newman’s outspoken attack on the police and the journalist suffused with such extraordinary arrogance to presume he could play an important role in the investigation. The funeral requiem was being readied.
“Haven’t we got enough to save ourselves?” Dan asked, trying not to sound desperate. “Now we know who killed the Edwards?”
“Nowhere close,” the downcast Adam replied. “In fact, it’s worse. Newman’s attack still stands and we’ve let the mastermind escape. I’m going to look even more stupid than before.”
Claire laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, sir. You cracked it in the end.”
“More by blundering around than good judgement.” He sighed and wiped some rain from his face. “Ah, come on, I’ve had enough of standing here feeling sorry for mysel
f. It’s time to face the wrath.”
Adam was about to start trudging back towards the courthouse when a shout stopped him. It was the security guard and he was running and waving.
“Just make my day even better,” Adam grunted. “Let me guess – Ivy’s escaped?”
“No sir,” the man replied. “It’s Judge Templar. He wants to see you.”
“What?”
“Most insistent, His Honour was. He even made me run through this weather to tell you. He says he’s in Courtroom Number Three and wants to see you right away.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Through the glass panel of the door they could see Templar, sitting high at the head of the court. He was writing, a fat fountain pen moving quickly back and forth over a sheet of paper. The judge occasionally stopped to think before continuing with his task. He wore his grey wig, his red and purple robes and had positioned a gavel by his side.
Adam turned to Dan and Claire. “The good news is – no sign of any weapon. The bad news – no sign of any sanity either.”
“There’s plenty of space under the bench to hide a gun,” Dan observed.
Claire ignored the latest outbreak of faintheartedness. “I can’t believe he’d have called us here if he just wanted to start shooting. He could have done that earlier when you two were talking to Ivy. Or he could have gone to the car park and waited to shoot it out with us there.”
Adam checked his watch. The time was just before half past four. “If we’re going to crack this case and save ourselves, it has to be now.”
Claire nodded her agreement. Dan hesitated and did the same, but without anything like such commitment.
Adam held a quick whispered conversation with the tactical firearms commander, who was standing by the stairs. It was clear from the look on the man’s face he didn’t approve. Dan could hear the odd phrase.
“It’s going completely against standard procedure… Surely better to hold him there until he decides to come out.”
But Adam wasn’t in a mood to heed advice. The discussion was brief and the order given.
Armed police officers were deployed at both ends of the corridor around the door to courtroom number three. They were dressed all in black, wearing body armour, and moved fast and silently, despite the weight of their pistols and semi-automatic rifles. Some knelt, others half hid behind walls.
All were soaking wet, a legacy of the operation to surround the car park. When the security guard passed on his message, the marksmen had followed Adam into the courthouse, their faces full puzzlement. A firearms call to a court, with a judge as the subject, was hardly their usual fare.
The rest of the building was quietly evacuated, ushers and security guards herding people towards the front entrance. There they stood, a huddled group, sheltering as best they could from the rain. Across the plaza the firefighters were packing up their inflatable bags, ready for use another day.
Word of what was happening had reached the media. A cordon was in place around the courthouse and behind it stood photographers, reporters and cameramen. Nigel was amongst them. By no means for the first time in his life of joining Adam on cases, Dan found an unspoken wish welling in his chest – that he was standing in safety beside his cameraman, rather than here.
The firearms commander beckoned to Adam. “The Deputy Chief Constable will be here in ten minutes.”
Adam paced back to Dan and Claire, waiting by the double doors of the courtroom.
“That settles it,” he said. “I’m going in. The only question is whether you two should come.”
“I’m coming,” Claire replied. “I was ready to face him in the car park, I am again now. Plus, Templar’s old school. He might just react better to me.”
“Thank you,” Adam nodded. “Dan?”
“Well, Templar doesn’t like the media, and he didn’t think much of me before. I don’t want to antagonise him. Maybe I should just—”
“Dan’s coming,” Claire interrupted.
The three held a look. The curious triangle that linked them still held strong. They would fly or fall together. Inside the court, Templar was still scribbling at his piece of paper.
“Right,” Adam said. “Let’s do it.”
***
Claire pushed the door gently open and Adam stepped carefully into the courtroom. Templar didn’t look up from his notes.
The detective took a pace inside, then another. Claire and Dan followed. There was still no reaction from the judge.
Rain beat down on the skylights. The room was a little too warm, just as it had been when the jury returned their verdict in the trial of Martha and Brian Edwards.
Adam stopped in front of the rows of seats in the public gallery. Templar had shown no sign of acknowledging their arrival. He was too intent on what he was writing.
Claire shifted her position. One of the old wooden floorboards creaked a loud, complaining sound. They waited, sure now that the judge would speak. But the room was still, the only sound the unending, battering attack of the rain.
Adam took a breath and coughed loudly. And now, at last, Templar looked up. He stared at them, those piercing eyes following the line of their wary and watchful faces, scrutinising, just as he did with everything that happened in this court.
They must have looked a strange incarnation of the coming of justice. All three were soaked; their hair still dripping with rainwater, their jackets dark with the outpourings of the storm. Each of them standing with hands behind their backs in the well of a deserted courtroom, facing a judge who the years had journeyed to become a murderer.
Templar prodded at his wig. “Ah, there you are,” he announced, brusquely. “It’s about time. I was beginning to wonder when you were going to turn up.”
He pointed to Adam. “You, Breen. I imagine even you managed to spot the clue about where I might be – given that I instructed that guard to come and tell you. I see from your appearance you followed my little feint to the car park. I thought that would appeal to your sense of melodrama.”
Adam rode the blows without comment. He hesitated before replying, and even here, even now, the judge of so many years standing in this court still demanded the respect of the title he had long worn.
“Your Honour,” Adam said, carefully. “I’m not sure whether you appreciate this, but we’re here to arrest you—”
“Yes, yes, I know all that,” Templar interjected. “God knows I’ve presided over enough miserable trials to have heard it sufficient times. We’ll get to all that nonsense in a moment. But first, I have something to say.”
He pointed to the benches below where the solicitors and barristers normally sat. “Step forwards, will you? Come on, hurry up. I have some remarks upon which to address you.”
***
Dan couldn’t help but glance around the room. At the jury box, where Parkinson delivered that extraordinary verdict. At the dock, where the Edwards stood, waiting for the decision on their fate. And then behind, at the public gallery. Where Annette and Roger Newman sat week after week, as the trial went about its judicial progress.
It was only a couple of days ago that the case had ended – but it felt a long time indeed.
“Right, then,” Templar barked. “Before I begin, I think we need a little accompaniment, do we not?”
He reached under the bench. Dan saw Adam stiffen, his body tense, ready for the appearance of a gun. Claire was doing the same. But in Templar’s careful hands was carried only the Newton’s Cradle. He smiled fondly, set it upon the polished wooden surface and began the silver balls swinging.
Click, clack, click, clack…
“That’s better,” he exclaimed. “Now, one last matter requires attention before I begin summing up in this, my final case.”
An accusatory finger singled out Dan. “You, Groves. You’re supposed to be a reporter, are you not?”
“Yes, Your Honour,” came the startled reply.
“Take some damned notes, then. This is an important pa
rt of the story, is it not? Something you will doubtless be wishing to report upon? It would at least be welcome if you could make some reasonable attempt to get it right – for once.”
Dan reached into his satchel for a pen and pad. His phone was there, switched off to avoid the endless calls and messages. An idea formed. A couple more seconds pretence of fumbling and all was in place. He held up his notebook and did his best to smile disarmingly at Templar.
“About time,” the judge chided. “Do I have to think of everything for you people? Right, pay attention. This won’t take long. In fact, it’s rather remarkable that after all these years I have so little to say by way of my concluding remarks.”
Click, clack, click, clack…
Templar studied the piece of paper and drew himself up in the chair. His voice boomed as he projected it around the old wooden panels of the courtroom.
“It is often said that justice is a game. But if that be the case, then it is a game in which one side is heavily disadvantaged, like a football team of the full complement of eleven playing a five-a-side ensemble. And not content with this handicap, the state appears set upon ever further attempts to neuter its ability to find any form of justice. It bestows an increasing weight of rights upon the criminals, whilst eroding those of the victims.”
Templar paused and looked up to check they were all listening. And they were, how they were. Strange, extraordinary and bizarre though it may be, this was the most compelling of confessions.
“In my years upon the bench, it seems to me that Lord Denning’s fine old quotation – ‘Justice should not only be done but manifestly and undoubtedly be seen to be done’ – has taken on a new meaning. In these modern days, justice should neither be done, nor be seen to approach anywhere remotely close to being done.”
A droplet of rain dripped from Adam’s jacket, landing in time with one of the clicks from the silver spheres. Claire pushed her fringe back from her brow but kept her eyes set on the judge.
“I can no longer keep count of the number of cases which I have presided over where the needs of justice have fallen far short of being satisfied. When first I became the resident judge in this court, it was with great pride that I would arrive here, and look up to the Lady of Justice, standing tall above us. These days, I fear I have come to see her as a figure of shame.”
