Justice Mirror

by Simon Hall

  Dan’s mobile rang. Mechanically, he answered. It was Lizzie. One of the news agencies had put out a flash about Annette’s suicide.

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you film it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you ok?’

  ‘No. I’m fucked up.’

  ‘Ok, we can talk about it later. You’d better get on with editing the report.’

  The thought had hardly occurred to Dan. ‘The report?’

  ‘I know you’ve had a bad time. But it’s a huge story and it’s your job – your duty – to get it on air.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  He cut the call and turned the mobile off. The silence returned. The clock ticked around to twenty to six.

  ‘What are we going to do, then?’ Loud asked.

  ‘I’m going home,’ Dan replied. ‘I’m going to get so drunk I won’t remember my own name, let alone…’

  He didn’t need to finish the sentence. From this moment, he never would.

  A banging on the door made them recoil. It was Adam, tie low on his collar, face streaked with sweat.

  ‘Did you film it?’

  ‘I wish people would stop asking me that!’ Dan shouted. ‘Yes, we fucking filmed it, all right? She landed a few feet from me. She died a few feet from me. Splat, dead, dead, dead, right by me. We saw the lot. We filmed everything. I’ve even got some of her fucking blood on my trousers if you want a look. Ok?’

  ‘Don’t you start—’

  ‘Then don’t you start coming in here and—’

  Dan felt a pair of arms around him. The grip was firm, but kind. It was Nigel.

  ‘Calm it down,’ he said. ‘We’ve all had a shock.’

  ‘No bloody shit,’ Adam grunted.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Dan snorted.

  ‘We’re all supposed to be on the same side, here,’ Nigel continued.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Dan asked Adam. ‘Are you going after the Edwards?’

  ‘What’s the bloody point? I couldn’t even get them for kidnapping. I hardly stand a chance of pinning Annette’s suicide on them. What about you?’

  ‘I’m going home,’ Dan replied, determinedly.

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes, home –where I live. The only place I want to be right now. Curtains closed, on the sofa, bottle of whisky in hand. And oblivion, ASAP. Anything but this.’

  ‘Like hell you’re going home. We need you to tell people what the Edwards did.’

  Dan picked up his satchel and stepped deliberately down from the van.

  ‘I’m out of here. I quit. From the TV and your bloody police work, too. I can’t take this shit any more. I never asked for it and I don’t want it.’

  Adam grabbed Dan’s jacket and slammed him back against the side of the van. He tried to slap the detective’s arms away, but he was too strong, too intense, hurtling too fast down the red tunnel of his rage. His eyes were wild and his breath smelt stale.

  ‘Get back in that fucking van and start telling people what happened here today.’

  Flecks of foaming spittle flew with the words. Adam was set rigid and staring, veins standing out dangerously, the hot blood pumping hard. His arms were locked, his look with them.

  As for Dan, his heart was hammering, his head pounding. But despite that he felt numb and detached, so far away from the world, drugged with the horror he’d seen.

  Nigel tried to push between them, muttering calming noises. But it was an ineloquent rambling from an unexpected source which broke the flaming trance.

  ‘I dunno, but… well, I know it’s not down to me, but… I reckon he’s right.’

  Loud was leaning out of the truck. He looked surprised with himself, but also determined.

  ‘I mean, if the law can’t get ‘em, then we’re the next best thing – aren’t we?’

  Nigel was nodding too, and holding out the memory card of the pictures they’d filmed. He kept it at arm’s length, as if fearful of the horrors confined in the mundane plastic box.

  Dan let go of Adam’s jacket, took the card, and stepped back into the van.

  ***

  The merciless turning of the clock had taken the time on to a quarter to six. But for once, the pressure of the deadline was welcome. It allowed no time to think or feel, only to react.

  ‘We’ll do the report chronologically,’ Dan told Loud. ‘It’s the quickest way. Put down some pictures of Adam coming out of court. Then we’ll go to that bit of his statement about the words of the jury and judge speaking for themselves.’

  After Adam’s words, Dan wrote one more segment of script. ‘As the police made their views clear, the Edwards emerged – apparently deliberately timed – and there was a confrontation.’

  Loud inserted the exchange between Martha and Adam. Then it was time for Martha’s interview, her reaction to the verdict. Her gloating face filled the monitors.

  ‘Blimey,’ Loud grunted. ‘That’s going to make her look bloody evil, given what happens later.’

  And to that, Dan’s only reply was an iced smile.

  It was ten past six. They had reached the most difficult part of the report. Dan took a few seconds to think, while Loud laid down Roger Newman’s garbled statement, followed by Annette running away.

  Over that shot Dan said nothing. The action of the pictures, the camera rolling as they ran captured the drama in a way no commentary ever could.

  ‘Now the tricky bit,’ Dan said to himself.

  Loud edited the pictures of Annette running along the car park and to the roof, her father and Ivy following.

  A few words were scribbled down, crossed out. Dan tried some more. They still weren’t right. Not for something this important.

  The clock measured off another minute.

  6.20.

  Dan tapped his pen on the notepad and took a swig of water. Outside, Nigel was setting up the camera. He kept looking at his watch. Loud glanced up at the clock.

  And still the seconds passed.

  ‘Don’t try to be clever, idiot. If in doubt, just KISS – Keep It Short and Simple,’ Dan muttered and began writing.

  ‘Clearly distraught, Annette ran to a nearby car park, her father in desperate pursuit. And then, in the middle of a city, in front of hundreds of onlookers, on a beautiful, cloudless day, came the moment that despair drove a young woman to take her own life.’

  Loud went to lay down the shot of Annette jumping, but Dan reached out and stopped him. ‘We don’t show people dying on the TV, my friend,’ he said kindly. ‘At least not at half past six, with kids watching. Stop the sequence when she’s standing on the ledge. That’s plenty enough.’

  Nigel was outside the door watching. As the last shot of the report was laid, he leaned forwards and gave Dan a gripping hug.

  Loud watched for a moment and then joined in.

  ***

  In years of enthusiastic practice, Dan had come to realise an unexpected truth about his passion for beer. Drunkenness was all about mood.

  The young Dan had noticed he could grow tipsy on just a few pints, if he was feeling buoyant. But if he was down, even a swim in a lake of ale was unlikely to make an inroad on his sobriety.

  Thus it was late this evening, in the long hours after this terrible day. Dan had sunk a few pints and they hadn’t shifted his mood in the slightest.

  In truth, it was worse even than that. He’d drunk a fair measure of spirits too, although he could probably claim that was professionally necessary. Earlier, as soon as Dan had finished cutting his report, the cameraman and guardian that was Nigel had jogged to a corner shop and bought a half bottle of cheap whisky.

  He offered it across as Dan prepared for the live broadcast. The gift was so gratefully received it was difficult not to snatch. The whisky’s bite restored colour to the complexion, roughened the voice and steadied the nerves. And so, once more, they’d got away with it.


  Lizzie rang afterwards and pointedly didn’t mention Dan hanging up on her. But she managed to do so in such a way that the empty space was painfully obvious. It was always there in its absence, like a tooth missing from a mouth.

  She pronounced the report pretty acceptable, which was praise indeed on the Lizzie scale. But she went on to issue a catalogue of demands for a follow up story tomorrow. Dan made soothing noises, pretended to take diligent notes of the litany of demands and ended the call as soon as he could. Some days, enough was more than enough.

  He went home, gave Rutherford a cuddle, took the dog for a run around Hartley Park, showered, changed, caught a bus and headed for town. In the hideaway of a forsaken corner of a backstreet bar, Dan sipped at his beer, gathered his spirit and slowly allowed the memories to return. The pub was quiet and he was left undisturbed.

  It was as he began work on the third of the succession of pints that Dan reached a decision. He took out his mobile and sent Katrina a text message. With a woman like her it had to be finely judged.

  Hell of a day. Horrible what happened. I know you were close to Annette – hope you’re ok?

  It took another half a pint’s debate before Dan added a kiss and sent the message. He sat back and finished the drink. It was time to move on.

  He began walking towards the plaza and the courts. If there was to be any chance of sleep tonight this stampede of screaming thoughts would have to be calmed.

  The Chancellery was the nearest bar to the courts, its frontage looking out on the plaza. And it was there that the weary traveller of the soul slowly headed.

  ***

  The city was filled with the night. People passed, chatted and chuckled. Taxis, cars, buses and motorbikes rumbled and buzzed.

  Life went on. It always did.

  The air was still warm but sharpening as the legacy of the sun’s kindness faded. From the cellar of a club came the piercing sound of a band tuning up. A line of joggers puffed their way by, reflective vests flaring in the occasional flash of light. Pigeons watched from ledges, cooing their contentment as they settled for sleep.

  Dan paced a circular route to the Chancellery. First, he walked down Catherine Street, passing the doorway where Annette was taken. He knelt and ran a hand over the pavement, following the cracks of the flagstones.

  The space where the white van had parked was empty. A couple of women walked past, giggling together, not noticing the strange man staring into space, his eyes lost in the past.

  He turned and walked back to the plaza. Past the courthouse and the Lady of Justice, a half-moon hanging above her sword.

  On Dan walked, to the fearful destination of the car park. There was no police tape left, no sign of what happened here only a few hours earlier. Cars trundled round the multi-storey, their headlights flashing through gaps in the concrete panelling.

  Life went on, as ever it did, and always would.

  Dan knelt by the side of a wooden bench, bowed his head and whispered an apology. And there he stayed, until his knees and back would bear no more. He stretched and trudged up the steps to the Chancellery, nodded to the pair of looming door staff and pushed open the door.

  And there, at a table, sat Martha and Brian Edwards.

  ***

  Dan stopped, half-turned, ready to make an escape, but Martha was on her feet. ‘Come and join us.’

  Spread across the tables was an array of tapas. Olives, tomatoes, cheeses, some prawns, ham, artichokes. And a couple of bottles of the finest champagne, two fluted glasses alongside.

  ‘No hard feelings,’ Martha went on. ‘Have a drink on us.’

  ‘What?’

  In the one small word was disbelief and incredulity, anger and rage. And there was hatred, a bubbling cauldron burning within, filled with the flames of a thousand fires.

  ‘No – thank – you,’ he managed.

  Music was playing, a Mediterranean guitar sound. Fans turned in the ceiling, spinning shadows from the spotlights. The place was busy, all the tables taken and people standing at the bar. More were coming in, pushing their way past.

  And now the rage seared through the disbelief, overwhelmed it effortlessly. Dan stepped over to the table. ‘You heard what happened? To…’

  Martha shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You’re still out celebrating.’

  ‘This is our first night of freedom for six months. It’s nothing to do with Annette.’

  ‘Nothing to do with her?’

  One of the bouncers had sensed the gathering storm. He stepped into the bar and was lingering behind Dan.

  ‘You come in here, yards from where she died. You eat and drink and you say it’s nothing to do with Annette?’

  Martha picked up a prawn and swallowed it. ‘I’m moving on. It’s something I’ve had to get used to. Maybe you should do the same.’

  Dan took another step forward. He was within feet of the Edwards. The bouncer followed. Brian stood up, inflated himself, ready for the attack he knew was coming.

  ‘Don’t you feel anything? Not even any remorse?’

  ‘Remorse?’ The word could seldom have sounded so incredulous. ‘Shit happens in life. It certainly has to me and I’ve managed to tough it out. If other people can’t, maybe they don’t deserve to.’

  She took the champagne and began topping up a flute. Dan lunged forwards and knocked the bottle from her hand. It went rolling across the table, bubbles frothing on the wood.

  The bouncer sprung, steel arms grabbing Dan’s shoulders and pulling him away. It was all he could do to flail a leg. It hit the table and upset the flutes. One fell to the floor and shattered, crystal ice flowing over stone.

  The bar was silent. Everyone was watching the little scene. The bouncer dragged Dan out of the door. All he could hear was the echo of Martha’s laughter and her voice calling for more champagne.

  ***

  The darkness of a bench outside the court was where he stumbled to try to find some calm. The clock on a bell tower said the time was just after ten.

  Dan checked his mobile. No calls, no messages. No Katrina. No nothing, no one.

  A tramp walked past swigging from a bottle of cider. He picked up a cigarette butt and asked for some change. Automatically, Dan dug into his pocket and handed over a few coins.

  A plane droned overhead, navigation lights winking on its wings. He watched its path, hesitated, then scrolled down the phone’s contacts list and found the name.

  She answered quickly. ‘Are you ok?’

  ‘No. Not a bastard, bloody bit.’ And in a rush of words Dan told her about the evening.

  ‘Do you want to come round?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, no actually. I do want to see you. But…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I need to be in my flat. With Rutherford, and just… safe.’

  ‘I’ll see you there in half an hour.’

  ‘Just one more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s not for… well… you know. It’s just for a cuddle – if that’s ok?’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll see you soon.’

  Dan got home only a few minutes before she arrived. They sat up until well into the early hours, staring at the moon, fussing over Rutherford and talking about nothing. It was just a chance to be somewhere else, far from today.

  When they finally got to bed and at last to sleep, they must have had only a couple of hours rest at most. The ringing of the phone jarred both awake.

  ‘Dan, it’s Adam. Where are you?’

  ‘Err – what?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In bed. In my flat. As you might expect, given you’ve called my home number.’

  ‘Don’t try to be smart. I was checking you hadn’t diverted the phone, or something like that.’

  ‘Adam, what are you talking about? Why are you so interested in where I am?’

  The detective ignored the question. ‘You’ve be
en at home for the past few hours? After your little showdown with the Edwards?’

  ‘How did you know about that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Is there anyone who can confirm you’ve been at home tonight?’

  Dan struggled to sit up. ‘Adam, what the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘You’re going to be a suspect, otherwise. Which means I won’t be able to use your help. And I’m going to need it.’

  ‘A suspect? Adam! For what?’

  ‘First – can anyone confirm you’ve been at home for the last few hours?’

  Dan glanced over to Claire, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She was wearing one of his old T-shirts and looking far better in it than he could ever have imagined achieving himself.

  ‘That won’t be a problem. Now, what are you talking about?’

  ‘The Edwards. Half an hour ago there was an explosion in their street. In their house, in fact. It was a big one. It’s wiped the place out. They were blown to pieces.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Almost as if it was a matter of ego, the biggest stories tend to make themselves known from afar. The Edwards’ house was in Cattedown, just south-east of the city centre. It was probably three miles from Hartley Avenue, but a warning of the explosion was in the air soon after they left Dan’s flat. The darkness of the night sky was daubed a rhythmic blue with the ranks of emergency lights, all reflecting from a haze of drifting smoke.

  Dan headed for the driver’s side of the car and was stopped by Claire in full police officer flow. ‘How many drinks did you have last night?’

  ‘A couple.’

  She gave him a detective’s look. It was the equivalent of wearing a T-shirt with the slogan You’re lying and I’m well aware of it.

  ‘We’re headed for a place swarming with cops. Ones who might not be as understanding as me.’

  With no further fuss, Dan handed over the keys. Several years ago, when their relationship was skipping across the meadows of springtime, he’d nominated Claire an authorised driver of his car.