The Judgement Book

by Simon Hall

  Wessex Tonight often reported on the mass brawls outside. But what marked him in Dan’s mind was the outside broadcast he’d presented from one of Parkinson’s pubs, when parliament had finally finished its tortuous procrastinations and decided smoking in public would be banned.

  Parkinson had set himself up as a champion of freedom and choice, and promised he would provide smoking shelters outside for his customers. Dan’s idea of choice was not having to suffer other people’s foul smoke, and freedom meant being able to breathe unpolluted air.

  As they were about to go on air, Dan had repeated to himself his duty to remain impartial and balanced. His personal feelings had to be discarded, however strong they might be. Looking back on his less than subtle opening question, he wasn’t quite sure he had succeeded.

  ‘Mr Parkinson, isn’t it irresponsible to encourage smoking when parliament is trying to stop it?’

  ‘I think it’s irresponsible of parliament to interfere with people’s liberty,’ Parkinson retorted. ‘Many people died to preserve this country’s freedoms.’

  ‘You’re suggesting some parallel between fighting to defend the country from a foreign invader who wants to impose a dictatorship, and protecting the right of people to pollute their own bodies, and perhaps more importantly, other people’s?’

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘What’s that to do with this discussion?’

  ‘I think it’s important to know where you’re coming from in your questioning.’

  ‘Do you smoke?’ retaliated Dan.

  ‘What’s that to do with your questioning?’

  ‘I think it’s important for the viewers to know where you’re coming from in your answers.’

  ‘All I want to say here is that I’m standing up for freedom. The sort of freedom that allows you to do your job as a reporter.’

  ‘What has being a journalist got to do with a ban on smoking? The stuff I put out doesn’t harm anyone’s health, unlike second-hand cigarette smoke.’

  ‘Some of it’s pretty unpleasant though, the lies and nonsense you people peddle …’

  And so the squabble continued. When Dan got back to the newsroom after the broadcast, Lizzie was grinding a three-inch stiletto heel into the long-suffering carpet.

  ‘You didn’t get very far with that interview, did you?’ she snapped. ‘It didn’t exactly illuminate the issue.’

  ‘I thought I exposed him as not being able to answer the questions.’

  ‘I thought you had a row.’

  That night, at home, lying on his great blue sofa, his faithful Alsatian Rutherford at his feet, when he’d finally calmed down, Dan had to admit Lizzie had a point. If you stripped away the irritant of the perfectly manicured jabbing fingernail and idiosyncrasy of the stabbing high heels, she usually did. It might have been entertaining television, but it was hardly informative, and that was supposed to be the point of his job.

  Dan prided himself on lovingly nurturing grudges and he’d never forgotten that interview with Parkinson. So, it was revenge day.

  ‘Twenty-three thousand pounds on the telephone bid,’ the auctioneer called triumphantly. He looked over at El. ‘Any advance, sir?’

  Gasps rose from the crowd. A host of expectant eyes turned back to them. El cut a comical figure. To accompany the black suit jacket which Dan had leant him, he wore his own tatty jeans and black shades. The idea was to make El look like an eccentric millionaire, but Dan wasn’t sure the photographer came close to carrying it off. He looked more like an out-of-work undertaker.

  Dan had planned to pull out at about twenty thousand pounds, just to be safe, but the memory of the broadcast spurred him on. ‘Keep going,’ he hissed from the edge of his mouth.

  ‘Hell,’ moaned El, lifting an unsteady hand again.

  ‘Twenty-four thousand. Thank you, sir,’ called the auctioneer. ‘Do I have an advance on that? It’s all for charity remember.’

  Dan stared over at the auctioneer’s assistant, standing still, phone clamped to his ear, willing him to raise his hand. Everyone was staring at the man. It was getting hotter.

  ‘Hell,’ moaned El again. He was sweating hard. ‘What have you got me into? I’m going to be bankrupt. I’ll have to flog a kidney.’

  ‘Any advance on twenty-four thousand pounds?’ called the auctioneer again. ‘No? Are we all done then? Going once – going twice.’

  Dan felt a spreading sweat. What if he’d misheard? Or Parkinson could have called back later to lower his bid.

  ‘Last call for the Bass,’ yelled the auctioneer. ‘Any advance on twenty-four thousand pounds?’

  ‘Hell,’ moaned El, his chubby face quivering. ‘We’re screwed. I’ll have to sell a lung too. And maybe a slice of me heart, if I can find it.’

  The auctioneer’s assistant raised a hand. Dan felt his legs buckle with wonderful relief.

  ‘Twenty-five thousand on the telephone bid!’ called the auctioneer. ‘Any advance on that?’

  ‘No bloody way,’ grumbled El under his breath, shaking his head so vigorously that there was no chance whatsoever of any misunderstanding.

  ‘Agreed,’ whispered Dan. ‘Let’s get out of here. We’ve done our bit and raised an extra fifteen grand for charity. And we’ve screwed Parkinson. Mission accomplished. Come on. I really need a beer.’

  Suicide was the only way out. There was no other choice.

  It was such a shame. It had been a productive day. What a sad way to end it.

  He’d finally secured the funding for the new kids’ playgroup, after a marathon wrangle with the city council. And they’d even agreed to new swings and more street lighting for one of the parks. He’d left the office as one of the researchers was typing up a press release, proclaiming yet another triumph for his constituents.

  “Freedman wins through for the children!”

  It was a good headline. But he couldn’t help wondering how tomorrow’s release announcing his death would run.

  All day long he’d debated whether there was any possible escape. By the afternoon he’d just allowed himself to begin to hope the blackmailer didn’t really mean it, that it was all a game, to teach him a lesson. Now that his invisible tormenter had made his point, Will Freedman would live a better life and his sordid secret would be buried and forgotten, an unspoken agreement reached.

  Then came the story on the local radio. The evacuation of Plymouth city centre. A bomb hoax. The suspicion that it was the work of someone who was seriously unbalanced, a note found inside the rucksack, some bizarre threat about a Judgement Book opening.

  That was the moment he understood his life had only hours left to run.

  The goodbye note was written, neatly folded, and placed in the bedroom under the bottle of Yvonne’s favourite perfume. His will was checked and up to date. His family would be fine without him, perhaps even better off.

  He tried not to think about that.

  The bottle of whisky stood beside the hot bath. He caught a hint of its sweet, heady fragrance in the swirling steam rising from the gushing water. The smell brought so many memories of the life he was leaving, of university balls, party conferences, family holidays. The white capsules of the painkillers formed a pretty pyramid next to the sink, the syringe of insulin beside them.

  Slip into the foamy water. Swill down the tablets, then sip away at the whisky. Be careful not to make yourself sick by overdoing it. When the warm waves of drowsiness come lapping, don’t fight. Just relax, inject the insulin, and let it take you, to the release of a better place.

  And that will be that.

  He turned off the taps and reached for the tablets. He’d given up hating the person who was blackmailing him. In a strange way, he had to admit it. They were right. The only person to hate was himself. He stared at the spider plant in the corner of the bathroom. He’d always disliked it, but Yvonne had bought it at one of their trips to the local church fete and had insisted they kept it.

  It was all part of the image. Now to be spli
ntered, smashed and shattered.

  Well, at least he wouldn’t witness it.

  He saw no reason to spare himself any punishment. The memory of the schoolgirl prostitute would be the last to linger in his dying mind.

  Nineteen, she was. It was so exciting at the time, so shameful now. Just five years older than Alex. He knew what the papers would make of that. He recalled the details of the uniform the girl had worn. A tight grey blazer, navy skirt, grey knee-length socks.

  He heard himself whimper.

  Will Freedman felt the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. The loneliness was making him tremble. He hoped his family would forgive him, his party would try to understand and the obituary writers would find something kind to say. But he could see the headlines, as if written in the steam on the bathroom window.

  SCHOOLGIRL SEX SCANDAL MP

  IN BLACKMAIL SUICIDE

  He lowered himself into the bath and closed his eyes. It was a little too hot, but that hardly mattered now.

  He eased back into the welcoming water and wondered whether his fellows in the Judgement Book would come to the same end. He’d never believed in an afterlife, despite all those hypocritical mornings in church, but if it existed he imagined them all meeting up, an exclusive little club. He wondered who they could be and what they had done. They were faceless in his mind, surrounded only by the writhing serpents of their sins.

  Will Freedman MP wished them luck as he lay back and counted away the last seconds of what had been such a promising life.

  They walked to the Heather Park Tavern, five minutes down the road from the Auction House. Seagulls wheeled in the calm of the spring evening air, calling gleefully to each other, delighting in the freedom of their flight. Dan bought them a couple of pints of ale, a dark and foreboding brew. It was stronger than he’d usually go for, but after the stress of the auction he thought they needed it.

  ‘Cheers,’ said El, taking off his shades and wiping his brow. He sipped at the head on his beer and his chubby, freckled faced warmed into its trademark grin. ‘Well, we got away with that.’

  ‘Yep. That’s another dance with the devil successfully negotiated,’ replied Dan, looking around the pub and waving to a newspaper reporter he recognised. ‘And all for a good cause. Anyway, let’s forget it now. I’ve had enough stress. What else have you been up to lately?’

  ‘Just the usual,’ replied El, slurping his beer. ‘A couple of thugs in Crown Court who I’ve got to snap without getting thumped.’ He rubbed tenderly at a cheek coloured with the purple hint of a dying bruise. Being attacked was an occupational hazard for a paparazzo like El.

  ‘And there’s a rumour going round about that MP, Freedman,’ he continued. ‘Some sort of sex scandal brewing, so I’m going to do a bit of the famous Dirty El sniffing. It’d be big money if I could stand that one up.’

  ‘It certainly would,’ mused Dan. ‘He’s made quite a play of going for the family vote. Let me know if you get anything. It’d make a great story for the TV too. How’s the rest of life? Anything else interesting?’

  ‘Not really. You?’

  Dan had been shifting the conversation to that question. He hesitated. For days now, he’d been wondering how to break the news to El. The photographer was his best friend. They were drinking and working buddies, had been through difficult times together and between them covered some of the biggest stories the South-west had seen. The conversation they were about to have felt bizarrely as if Dan was telling El he was leaving him for someone else.

  A young couple walked in, made for the bar. The pub was about half full, a few spaces left on its wooden benches and the odd smaller table. It was a local of the kind of which few were left now, untouched by the insatiable hunger of the big chains and genuinely battered from the passing years, not fitted out with the fashionably worn look which never came close to convincing.

  ‘I made a big decision last week,’ Dan said slowly, leaning back on the knotted bench. ‘Well, I say I, but I mean we.’ He paused again. ‘In future I may not be quite the bachelor, out-on-the-beer type that you’ve always known.’

  El looked surprised. ‘You’re not – getting married?’ He managed to make it sound like Dan had a terminal illness, and only days left. ‘Having – a baby?’

  Dan chuckled, couldn’t help himself. ‘No, it’s not quite that bad. Claire and I have decided to buy a house. We’re going to have a shot at living together.’

  The photographer rubbed his double chin. ‘Well – err – congratulations.’

  Dan wondered if he’d ever heard the words sound less sincere. Unusually for him, El seemed to notice his tactlessness and tried to make amends, although not altogether successfully.

  ‘Congratulations … I suppose.’

  The two men looked at each other. For once, El was silent.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dan went on. ‘I’ll still be out for a few beers now and then, and we’ll keep working together. I won’t be one of these guys who disappears into a relationship and dumps his friends. I’ve lost too many mates like that. It’s pathetic.’

  El nodded. ‘Sure. I know that. I suppose I just didn’t ever see you settling down.’

  ‘I’m not sure I did myself. But anyway …’

  Dan’s mobile warbled, interrupting him. He fished it out from his jeans pocket, got a surprise. Adam’s name was flashing on the display. He and Dan had become close friends after the series of cases they’d worked on together, from the shotgun murder of the businessman Edward Bray, to the riddle of the Death Pictures, then last year the extraordinary days that led them to Dartmoor, and the horror of Evil Valley.

  Dan shivered, despite the bar’s warmth. He didn’t want to go back there. Working with the police on investigations had become a fascinating new world. It was only in that last inquiry that he’d learnt the savage reality of just how traumatic it could be.

  He knew the call was trouble before he answered it. Adam wasn’t a man to ring for a friendly chat.

  ‘I’ve got a big case breaking,’ the detective said quickly, sounding harassed. ‘In fact, it’s going to be huge. This is a quick tip-off to let you know, and because I get this feeling I’ll need your help – again. The media’s going to be all over it.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Dan, fumbling for a pen and piece of paper.

  ‘This didn’t come from me.’

  ‘As ever and always.’

  ‘Will Freedman, high-flying local MP.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ mumbled Dan, balancing the phone under his chin while he tried to write. He motioned to El to finish his pint. The photographer nodded and drained the glass.

  ‘He’s dead. Topped himself at his home.’

  ‘Suicide you say? That’s a decent story, but it’s not huge. It happens.’

  There was a pause. The mobile line hummed.

  ‘Yeah, but not when his death appears to be connected to a bizarre bomb hoax. And not when he seems to have been driven to it by a blackmailer who knows some dynamite sex scandal about him. And not when he leaves a note saying he pities the other prominent people whose sordid secrets are about to be revealed, courtesy of something called the Judgement Book.’

  Another pause, then Adam said huffily, ‘Now, does that sound like a story to you?’

  Dan was already out of his seat and heading for the door.

  Chapter Two

  THEY RAN OUT OF the pub and tried to hail a black cab. Two drove by, despite their frantic waving. One driver even gave them a cheery smile as he passed.

  ‘Bloody Plymouth cabbies,’ grunted Dan. ‘They don’t want to know unless you’re young, female and cute.’

  The evening was still, the fading light mixing with the orange of the streetlamps. Dan spotted another taxi rumbling up the road. They had to move fast. If a big story was breaking, getting there as soon as possible was vital. Some creativity was required.

  ‘Come here El,’ he said, stepping out into the middle of the road. The photographer remained determined
ly on the pavement. ‘Big money for good piccies,’ Dan cooed, rubbing his fingers together, and El reluctantly joined him. The cab slowed.

  ‘’Ere, what the hell you doing?!’ shouted the driver, waving a fist from the window. Then his tone changed, surprise replacing the anger. ‘’Ere! Aren’t you that bloke off the TV?’

  For once, Dan thought the dreaded words could just work for him. Usually followed by a jabbing finger and, “What you should be reporting on,” or “What you don’t understand is,” this time being recognised might be useful. They clambered in to the back of the cab.

  ‘Yeah, I’m the man on the telly and we’ve got a story breaking,’ said Dan. ‘Quick as you like please.’

  The man whistled. ‘Cool. I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Wait until I tell the Mrs! Hold tight.’

  The taxi’s wheels squealed in protest as the driver forced it into a spinning U-turn. Dan and El instinctively grabbed the door handles to steady themselves. Dan started going through his Scramble plan. He called Nigel to get him to Freedman’s house, then the newsroom. There was a satisfactory panic at the end of the line. The outside broadcast truck would be despatched. They wanted a live report for the 10.25 bulletin.

  The cab’s engine gunned as it headed through the city centre, past the bombed-out Charles Church, lonely memorial to the Blitz of Plymouth, up to the University, all glass and concrete towers, and on to El’s flat on North Hill.

  The taxi pulled up on the double yellow lines and the photographer jumped out, jogged up the path and waddled back less than a minute later, panting heavily, camera slung around his neck. He cradled it lovingly as he climbed back into the cab. Despite the warmth of the evening, El wore his familiar battered body warmer, its pockets filled with flash bulbs, lens cloths, light meters and spare batteries. The paparazzo was ready for action.

  Dan checked his ever-unreliable second-hand Rolex. Almost nine o’clock it said, so probably about ten past. Only an hour and a quarter until the late news. They’d have to move quickly.

  El handed Dan the jacket he’d borrowed for the auction. ‘Here mate, think you’ll need this.’