by Simon Hall
‘There’s another note below that last one,’ Adam said. We will be pursuing the Edwards, make no mistake. Because once they get a taste for crime, we don’t know where it could lead.
The detective stared out of the window, before adding quietly, ‘I was the senior officer reviewing the case. I wrote that. And it turned out to be bloody prophetic.’
All in the car was silent as they waited for an explanation. But Adam said only, ‘There are a couple more bits I want to read you, while we’ve got the time. They should make clear what I’m talking about.’
The Department of Health was the next target. A controversy blew up about the amount of money being paid to top civil servants when NHS services were struggling with cutbacks. The predictable denials were issued. But the mandarins’ salaries would not be revealed, a clipped spokesman announced. They were strictly confidential.
The next week they were published on a website, much to the frothing glee of the media.
Another note commented – What investigative journalists couldn’t manage, I reckon the Edwards did in an afternoon’s hacking.
‘We’re getting towards the end of this part,’ Adam said. ‘But there’s one thing to note here – the shift to a focus on health issues.’
The media live for a row, and the next case concerned some large pharmaceutical companies. They were accused of being heartless, for not allowing a range of expensive products to be sold at cost price in developing countries. Thousands of lives could be saved, campaigners protested.
A barrage of expensive spin was thrown up to counter the claim. Developing the drugs was hugely expensive. Money had to be made so profits could be reinvested in the next generation of medicines.
But, in fairness, a concession was offered, however much it may have been a single grain of sand on a mighty beach. The drugs could perhaps be sold at a small discount, the announcement ran, after a lengthy consultation, of course.
With the prospect of progress far away, the controversy dimmed. That was until the following month when a new website was launched. It listed some of the products in development. Many were highly lucrative. The companies’ futures looked prosperous.
But the site had a sting. It detailed confidential information on how the trials were progressing, picking out the problems which made the release of many of the products years distant.
Share prices slumped. Billions were wiped off corporate values. The authors of the website were never traced, despite the best efforts of the fuming companies. But the Eggheads believed the scandal fitted with the way the Edwards liked to work.
The final case Adam related was a simple act of mockery. A tsunami caused widespread destruction in the Far East, with the loss of thousands of lives. Even more were left homeless. The British government was criticised for failing to offer sufficient help.
A week later, a mysterious glitch in the centralised supply system saw hundreds of government offices going without supplies of toilet roll.
***
The convoy entered a green tunnel, sweeping through the interwoven branches of the bowing trees. Blue lights smeared the new leaves.
‘I’m starting to like the Edwards,’ Dan grinned.
‘Are you now?’ Adam replied, and there was something in his voice. It was like the way the air changes before a storm, a perceptible shift in the pressure.
Dan found himself faltering. ‘Well, yeah, I mean—’
‘Because they’re Robin Hood types, aren’t they?’ the detective continued, with that unsettling, constrained anger. ‘They’re lovable rogues. Robbing from the rich to give to the poor in just the way you reporters think is great.’
‘Well, given some of what they did, you can’t deny—’
‘And what about kidnapping a 17-year-old girl? Terrifying her and tormenting her dad?’
‘Ok, that’s out of place, but—’
‘I bet you think she’ll be safe in their hands? These Edwards wouldn’t hurt a fly, eh? It’s all just a harmless little game?’
The menace in Adam’s voice was overwhelming. It left Dan speechless and looking to Katrina for help.
‘That’s what you think, isn’t it?’ the detective powered on. ‘But you’re wrong – very wrong – because it always ends the same way.’
And perhaps to save Dan from any more discomfort, or simply to hear the conclusion of a story which had been stoked with such a build-up, Katrina cut in. ‘Adam, maybe you should just tell us what you’re trying to say.’
***
A page turned. The division from what went before was stark, like a curtain coming down and a new act beginning.
The Edwards tried another attack on a bank. And they were nearly caught.
‘I was still twitchy about what they might try next, so I had the Eggheads put surveillance on them,’ Adam explained. ‘Martha must have realised she was being watched and pulled out. I might have got her on some paltry charges, but it would have been community service at best. And given what she’s gone through, maybe not even that.’
‘What she’s gone through?’ Dan queried.
‘I’ll tell you more about that later. Anyway, there was something different about this case. It looked like the Edwards were chasing serious sums of money.’
Now came a lull, the first in the set of crimes the siblings were thought to have carried out. For four months, nothing was heard.
Until the night of 13 September and the break-in at the headquarters of the South West Peninsula (Subdivision) Regional Health Strategic Oversight Authority; a masterpiece of bureaucratic naming if ever there was one.
As Adam went through the story, Dan understood the reason for his friend’s anger. He turned, held the detective’s look, and received a nod of forgiveness.
***
The convoy slowed for the town of Kingsbridge, all inlets and creeks. It was market day, and a busy one with the sunshine and colourful stalls filling a car park and lining the main street.
They followed the road through the throng, then back out into the countryside and on to the village of Frogmore. It was another in the sizeable register of Devon names that raised more questions than could ever be answered.
They turned off the main road and onto a single tarmac track, fattened only by the occasional passing place. The earth banks of Devon hedges closed in, their green bulk speckled with the blues, purples and whites of springtime.
One by one, the accompanying sirens fell silent. They were moving slowly now, furtively with the hunt.
‘I can just finish the story,’ Adam said. ‘It’s time to show you what the Edwards really are.’
***
He was a security guard in name, but it was a Hall of Mirrors description. A caretaker in uniform would have been more accurate.
Albert Fisher was, by unanimous account, a gentle man. He was 63 years old, greying, a little overweight and earning some extra money to ease the path into retirement. He and his wife Janet both had reasonable pensions and planned to downsize, selling the house in Plymouth and moving to the open countryside of the Lizard peninsula in Cornwall. A twee white cottage had been identified and the conveyancing was underway.
The couple had always been outdoor types, and planned to defy the passing years by staying that way. The Lizard was a wonderful place to walk, with its heathland and spectacular coast. Even that great headland could be just a base for exploring the rest of Cornwall. A good life’s final adventure beckoned happily.
The motive for the break-in was unclear. A theory that the Edwards might have been looking for confidential documents was aired. Perhaps they wanted to access the computer systems.
Albert had found a storeroom open and walked in to investigate. His reward was a cosh on the back of the head. The medical evidence was clear that he had been hit at least twice more as he lay unconscious.
That the Edwards were responsible was guesswork based on evidence so flimsy there would never be a point in putting it before a court. They had no alibis for the ni
ght and an informant whispered that they’d been talking of some kind of attack at an important building. Martha’s knowledge of forensics, the theory went, would have given her the ability to break in without leaving fingerprints, hairs or fibres.
Albert had survived, but he hadn’t lived. There was extensive brain damage. It left a man who had been proud, independent and eloquent unable to walk, talk or care for himself. When it became clear the police investigation was making no progress, Janet had spoken out in an attempt to bring witnesses forward.
Dan could recall very few reports on Wessex Tonight that were not his own. Most were fillers, of little consequence, forgotten in seconds. But some stood out. And for him, they were always the victims’ stories, the tales of lives ruined in a second’s viciousness or violence, stupidity or negligence. On the darker nights, lying sleepless in bed, those that Dan had himself covered often returned to taunt his restless mind.
Janet put on a little make-up to help her brave the camera and just about got through the interview. That she kept breaking down only made it more moving. She described the life the couple were planning to lead together. Spoiling grandchildren by day, walks on the beach by night, just like when they first married almost 40 years ago.
‘And now…’ she’d stammered, ‘all he’s got… after all those years… all those hopes… is a living death.’
Martha and Brian Edwards were interviewed at length. He would say nothing at all, retained an unbreachable silence.
A note on the file read, Suspect Martha drilled it into him. Usual story. Say nothing and we’re safe. He was probably the one who did the actual beating, but on her orders. Evidence for this – as ever – none. Just another theory.
Martha said almost nothing. Only when she was told both siblings were being released had there been a brief exchange.
Martha Edwards – You bastards have been going on at me as if I’m a criminal. Where were you to investigate what happened to me when I was a kid?
Detective Sergeant Franks – That’s not what we’re talking about.
Martha – And that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? No one’s ever talked about it. No one’s ever cared.
Franks – For the last time, do you have anything to say about Albert Fisher?
Martha – I’m sorry for what happened to him. But…
Franks – But what?
Martha – Who’s sorry for what happened to me?
Franks – About Albert Fisher?
Martha – He worked for the government. You work for the government. You make your choices and take your chances. Fuck you all.
Franks – He was a 63-year-old man. Beaten as he lay helpless on the floor.
Martha – And I was a 5-year-old girl!
Franks – Is there anything you want to say about the attack on Albert Fisher?
Martha – Just let me out of here.
***
Adam finished reading. They drove on in silence, the rumbling of the car the only companion to their thoughts.
Finally, Adam said quietly, ‘No Robin Hoods. No lovable rogues with hearts of gold. Just criminals.’
The road turned down a hill. Ahead was an expanse of sea. They were approaching East Prawle, angles of roofs reaching above a line of trees.
Katrina drew up in a pub car park. The rest of the convoy followed. Police officers began clambering out of the vans and cars.
‘Just one thing,’ Dan said, as Adam opened the door. ‘What changed? To turn them from mockery to effectively murder?’
Adam hesitated, then said, ‘Later. It’s not what you need to hear when we may be about to face them.’
Chapter Fourteen
It began like a phoney war. The procession of vans, cars and motorbikes moved slowly along the narrow road. There were no racing engines, no squealing tyres, no sirens. Only silent intensity.
Every officer was watching. For the guilty twitch of a curtain or hasty shutting of a door.
They would move into the centre of the village. And from there they would storm outwards, a radius of motion, through houses, cottages, caravans, shops, sheds and barns.
A tattered old wooden sign welcomed them to East Prawle. A homely and embracing sight for generations of locals and holidaymakers, but surely never to have witnessed visitors like this.
The Devon hedges tapered to the ground, as if curtains falling on their arrival. Around was the expanse of open countryside and the great dome of the sapphire sky. Fields filled with the hues of crops.
Before them, a dark finger of headland jutted into the sea. Prawle Point, southernmost tip of Devon; an impertinent jab of land into the open waters. The line of the cliffs embraced the bay, the sun at its zenith, its only challenge a couple of brushstrokes of cloud. In the far distance the tiny dots of a disciplined line of shipping ploughed a path along the English Channel.
The road opened out once more. Houses were beginning to rise from the earth. A man guided a young child on a bike, newspapers, bread and milk piled in its basket.
The air was full of the sound of gulls. One picked at the discarded packaging beneath a litter bin. A jackdaw watched from its perch on a Georgian post box. It was classical Devon. But hidden somewhere, amidst the rustic veneer, was a secret.
Silence had filled the car, Katrina, Dan, Adam and Claire too focused on their surroundings to speak.
But now Adam muttered, ‘Are you sure about this? You and your bloody weird inspirations. Cirl buntings indeed.’
Dan didn’t bother to reply. It was an echo that hadn’t the decency to fade. They must have been through the conversation half a dozen times. After the moment of revelation in the news library, Adam sent a couple of detectives to check on the key claim of the report, the tiny scope of the birds’ main remaining habitat.
Dan tried not to grow irritated and then smug as the call came back. It was entirely true. The story of the cirl buntings was renowned within the birdwatchers’ world.
If it was cirl buntings the police needed to find, they should start the search in East Prawle and its immediate surroundings. And given that faint noise of a lawnmower in the background of the ransom call, the village itself had to be the most likely location.
Ahead were a couple of shops and a pub with a large earthen car park. One by one the vans, cars and bikes pulled up. And across the grass and tarmac and paths and tracks spread the flood of the operation to save Annette Newman.
***
That the briefing had been quick was a mark of its urgency, with Adam managing to confine his speech to only a few seconds. He stood on the step of a Land Rover, the breeze toying with his dark hair, officers all gathered around.
There were a hundred or so, as many as could be mustered in a short time. The convoy had grown as it travelled. Cars lingered in lay-bys to join, others screamed up behind. The police helicopter had also been scrambled. It was waiting in a field, ready to join the hunt.
At the heart of the gathering was the knot of armed officers. Even they were showing hints of the anticipation of what was to come. One man dabbed at a trickle of sweat as it twisted its way down his forehead. Another clenched and unclenched a fist.
There was only one road into and out of East Prawle. A couple of officers were pulling barriers from the back of a van and blocking it. Another laid out bollards and Road Closed signs. Two more stood sentry duty.
The trap was laid.
At the back of the group Nigel filmed, camera steady on his shoulder. He too had joined the convoy, pulling out just as it left Kingsbridge.
‘What’s the plan?’ he whispered to Dan.
‘I don’t have a plan. We’ve no idea what’s going to happen. Just follow and film everything we can.’
Adam was gazing into the ring of the crowd, a leader’s look to each of his officers. The sun had angled behind him, casting a darkness across the detective’s rugged features. Shadows filled his eyes.
‘I won’t say much, because there’s not much to say,’ Adam rallied, the au
thority of his voice carrying easily across the car park. ‘We get one chance at this. Be restless and relentless. Use your eyes and your instincts. Spot the sign that leads us to the kidnappers. That gate closing, the feet running or the person who can’t look you in the eye. Get out there – and save Annette!’
***
In each direction officers ran, filled with the energy of their purpose, like sparks flung from a Catherine wheel.
One made for the shop, the kind of all-encompassing affair of many a village monopoly. A blackboard advertised the sale of newspapers, cigarettes, milk, lottery tickets, greeting cards, beer and wine, vegetables, light bulbs, logs and kindling. Even a variety of creams for every purpose; ice, sun, insect and Devon clotted.
Through the reflections of the glass, the officer pushed his way past the queue of three, quite a rush in the terms of the Devon countryside. He began talking to the woman behind the counter.
An Alsatian trotted past, his handler striding hard to keep up. The dog could have been Rutherford’s cousin. A spaniel sniffed along the path beside the pub, stopping occasionally to check a scent, its busy head a smudge of golden motion.
Outside the pub, a detective spoke to a squat man wearing a grubby T-shirt and shorts. His arms were folded, resting on the support of his ample stomach and his voice loud.
No, nothing. Nothing unusual at all.
The village filled with the barrage of the police helicopter. It rose from beneath the cliff line and hovered overhead, rotors threshing the air.
At the heart of it all, Nigel filmed, whipping the camera around time and again, panning back and forth, trying to capture the human blizzard that was the hunt.
‘It’s chaos,’ he gasped. ‘Where do we go?’
Dan didn’t reply, just kept his look set on Adam. Amongst all the officers going about their frenetic work, he alone stood still, a cool pillar of composure. All the experience of his generation of policing was in that look; feeling for the trail they sought.
A young cop was half way up a ladder, calling questions to a man digging out a gutter. He was waving a picture of Annette. A woman was checking the cars parked around the back of the pub. A stream of officers knocked on doors, hard and demanding, firing questions at those who emerged.
