by Simon Hall
‘What are you up to?’ she asked eventually.
‘Nothing.’ Dan tried for a hurt expression, but he’d never got the hang of them. ‘I’m just trying to do my best for you and the programme – as always.’
She laced her look with acid suspicion, as only Lizzie could.
‘Done,’ she said finally. ‘But on one condition. I want wall-to-wall coverage. You got that? Wall-to-wall, then floor-to-floor, then back to wall-to-wall again. Oh, and ceiling-to-ceiling too. I want the lot, I want it first and I want it exclusive to us. And I don’t want you disappearing into the investigation like you have before. You’re a hack, remember, not a detective. This is a fantastic story and the viewers will be hooked.’ She stood up and wagged the fingernail at him. ‘You got that?’
‘Yes boss,’ Dan replied meekly.
He’d have been disappointed with anything less.
Dan walked into the Major Incident Room, or MIR, just before nine o’clock. Heads turned with the curiosity of a bunch of detectives and he looked away to hide a smile. He’d laid two bets with himself as he drove down to Charles Cross Police Station. That Adam would be wearing his best suit in expectation of a television interview, and that the detective’s beloved green boards would have been retrieved from storage.
Dan sometimes wondered if the world of the media and television had beguiled his friend as much as he himself had fallen for the realm of the detective.
Adam stood at the front of the room, dressed in an immaculate navy suit, white shirt and blue-and-white diagonally striped tie. Always a handsome man, with his dark and rugged looks, today he could have passed as prepared for a modelling shoot. Four green felt boards stood on their chipped wooden legs beside him.
It was one of the first things Adam had said to Dan when they’d met, and even now he could remember it, almost word for word. He’d been nervous, new to the Crime Correspondent job, an eager amateur, and Adam had taken it upon himself to impart some wisdom.
The detective had straightened his tie, that odd quirk of his when he felt life was running his way, and launched into his little speech, the justification for the anachronism of his boards.
‘Computers are vital in modern policing, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes, to crack a case, you have to see the web of links between people set out in front of you. Too many detectives mistake computers for brains. Crimes are committed by humans, not machines, and only people can solve them. Computers are tools to help, but they can’t see the invisible threads that connect people and events, which in one lightning strike of realisation give you the key to the crime.’
It had become a familiar oration.
The room was filled with about thirty people, mostly detectives in well-worn suits, but there was also a sprinkling of uniformed officers at the front. A rumble of expectant conversation resonated. It felt like a tribal gathering, the excitement of the meet before the hunt.
Dan weaved his way to his customary position at the back of the room and propped himself up against the window ledge. No matter how many times he was invited to join an inquiry, he’d never got over the feeling of being an interloper. He was always more comfortable secreting himself at the back, knew many around him felt he had no place here. A couple of detectives nodded a half hearted greeting, others whispered hostility or shook their heads contemptuously. Most just seemed to regard him as a curiosity.
Claire stood at the front, to Adam’s side. She was wearing her standard black trouser-suit, looked professional, authoritative, and simply beautiful. They exchanged a brief glance. They’d agreed to be discreet about their relationship when working, even though everyone else knew. You couldn’t keep a secret from detectives.
‘OK, everyone, let’s make a start,’ Adam said, and the room quietened. ‘This is going to be quick, as we have to get out there and get the inquiry running. We need some momentum to carry us to our killer. And that’s what we’re looking for. We’re hunting a killer – not perhaps with a knife or a gun like we’re used to, but a killer nonetheless. Someone who drives people to their death.’
He paused, looked around the room, eye contact for every officer. It was Adam’s way at the start of a case, to energise his team with a vision, make them feel they had a righteous mission to pursue. The nods and mutters of agreement indicated the words had done their work.
Adam pointed to a photo stuck to the centre of the middle board. ‘Will Freedman, MP. Killed himself yesterday at his home. Two key points to start with.’
Another pause, letting the words settle. ‘First, his family,’ Adam went on, pointing to two more pictures next to Freedman’s. ‘Wife Yvonne and daughter Alex. They were downstairs when he killed himself. Was he getting at them in some way? Why choose the house, when it could have been a cliff, or railway line? He could have spared them that distress, couldn’t he? Or was it just that he wanted to be in his own home when he died?’
A few of the younger detectives took notes. Most just listened. The room was silent, rapt.
‘I had a chance to speak briefly with Yvonne and Alex last night,’ Adam continued. ‘They were upset, of course. But with Alex, it was more than that. She was scathing about her Dad. So what’s that about then? Is it just the shock and upset of her father’s death? Or something more sinister?’
No one spoke. Outside, a plane droned by. Adam watched it thoughtfully for a few seconds, then continued.
‘Right then, let’s start thinking. I want ideas how we find our killer. First, let’s have a look at the letter the blackmailer sent Freedman. The TAG teams found it a couple of hours ago. It was well hidden, stuck between some constituency research papers inside a folder in his study.’
Claire passed around a sheaf of papers. Dan took one of the last copies and began reading. He knew from the hisses of breath from the detectives around him that what he was about to see was shocking.
Dear Mr Freedman,
You are a despicable man. Like many of your kind, you pretend to be one thing in public, when the private reality is very different.
You are an adulterer, a frequenter of prostitutes, a liar and a hypocrite. All that, despite your fine talk of family values. You are utterly odious.
I know what happened in Blackpool. A nineteen-year-old prostitute, dressed as a schoolgirl. How will you explain that to your fourteen-year-old daughter? Let alone your loving and devoted wife?
It was a nice trick, using a different – and sleazy – hotel to the one you were staying in to meet her. Paying for the room in cash was a wise precaution. The false glasses and the hat were pretty touches too. But still I know what you did.
I’m surprised you only managed to have sex with her twice. That’s not exactly great value for money – as I believe you Traditionalists espouse – when you’ve paid five hundred pounds for her services, is it? Particularly not given how excited you were. The fulfilment of a long-cherished fantasy, wasn’t that how you thought of sex with a schoolgirl?
I can’t bring myself to pass any comment on the extra fifty pounds you paid to spank her.
So, Mr Freedman, we have established you are a thoroughly despicable man. The question is, what do I intend to do about it?
You’ll be expecting me to ask for cash. Wrong, totally wrong. I don’t want your filthy money. My only interest is in exposing you. You and your rotten kind.
Will it be any comfort to know you are not alone, Mr Freedman? Your sordid secrets fill my beautiful Judgement Book. But there are others there too. Others of your kind. You are the first, but you will not be the last. I’ve chosen four others to share your fate. Is that any comfort?
You don’t deserve this, but I will give you one chance to save yourself. The following riddle, if solved, will give you a word. It’s a classic game. If you can break it, use that word to begin your speech to the Plymouth Traditionalist Association on Thursday night. If I do not hear it, news of your little indiscretion will be spread far and wide.
61, 43, 21, 51
For yo
ur information, and for the police who will no doubt eventually come to see this note, I add this. The solution to the riddle, and those which I will set for the other four chose ones, will take you to the hiding place of the Judgement Book.
Good luck.
Dan breathed out heavily and looked up from the photocopied sheet. Some of the detectives were still reading, others staring sightlessly ahead, lost in their thoughts. A series of gasps and low whistles punctuated the silence of the room. It took something extraordinary to surprise such experienced officers, but Dan could tell from their reactions they’d never seen anything like this before.
Adam waited until everyone had finished reading, then asked, ‘So, what do we make of that?’
‘A bloody nutter,’ growled one uniformed officer at the front.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Adam, slowly. ‘Or someone coldly sane and with a grand purpose – in their eyes at least. You all remember that hoax bomb in Plymouth? That contained a note which talked about a Judgement Book opening. We dismissed it as a crank at the time. But now we have to ask ourselves – was that a warning of what was to come?’
Another silence. Most of the crowd in the MIR kept glancing down at the blackmail note. Next to Dan one woman whispered what they all seemed to be thinking. ‘What the hell are we up against here?’
A middle-aged detective in a crumpled suit spoke. ‘It’s that stuff about the schoolgirl that’s worrying, isn’t it, sir? If Freedman liked them that age, what could have been going on with his daughter?’
There were a couple of groans from around the room. ‘My thoughts exactly, Jack,’ replied Adam. ‘An unpleasant possibility, but something we have to look at. It’s a sensitive one. You and Claire can handle it.’
The man nodded, as did Claire. Dan noticed she was rubbing her hand over her stomach. He wondered if she was feeling ill. She looked a little pale. He reminded himself to call her as soon as he could.
‘Come on then, team, what else?’ Adam demanded. ‘Where else do we go?’
‘What about the riddle, sir?’ asked a young detective at the side of the room.
‘What indeed?’ replied Adam. ‘Well, as it’s such a high profile case, we’ve got codebreaking experts coming in courtesy of the National Crime Faculty. We can let them work on the riddle. Us mere mortals will stick to the mundane old detective work.’
Dan stared at the pictures of the Freedmans on the felt boards. He knew he wouldn’t be leaving the codes alone. He’d always found puzzles enticing, and was bloody-minded enough not to give up until he knew the solution. He studied the numbers on the photocopied sheet.
61, 43, 21, 51
He wondered how they could form a word. His first instinct was that they looked like coordinates, but to where? And why so many number ones? Dan tried to let the numbers swirl in his mind, to see if they’d form any patterns, but Adam’s voice drew him back to the MIR.
‘So where else do we go then, team? Come on, let’s start making some progress. The media are all over us, not to mention our beloved High Honchos at headquarters. And it looks like the blackmailer has other victims in mind. We’ve got to stop him. So, what about how he knows all this? Could he have been there at the hotel, when Freedman was with this prostitute?’
There were some murmurs of no. ‘I agree,’ said Adam. ‘How could he? He’d have to have been in the actual room. And kinky though he might have been, Freedman wouldn’t have been up for giving a show. So, could he have bugged the room?’
‘Or she, sir,’ said Claire quietly.
Adam nodded. ‘Quite right. Our blackmailer could be a man or a woman. So, come on then team. How does our person get their information?’
Dan started to speak, but stopped himself. He was an observer here, however much he might like to think of himself as an amateur detective. But Adam had spotted the movement and turned, head tilted expectantly. Dan felt his face reddening.
‘Yes?’ Adam prompted. ‘Come on, if you’ve got an idea, share it with us. You’re amongst friends.’
A lick of laughter rolled around the room. Everyone was staring at Dan. There was no way out.
‘It sounds like a conversation to me,’ he made himself say, trying to keep his voice calm and level.
‘Explain,’ replied Adam.
Dan looked down at his photocopied sheet, gave himself time to think.
‘Well …’ he began, and, annoyed to hear his voice croak, swallowed hard. ‘It sounds like the details are taken from something Freedman himself said. It’s all from his perspective, isn’t it? How could some observer know it was his fantasy, to have sex with a schoolgirl? And everything about the disguise, the cost of the room and the extra fifty quid for the spanking? It sounds like a level of detail and insight that could only come from the man himself.’
‘So what are you saying?’ asked Adam. ‘That he told someone about it? Wrote it down somewhere?’
The room was still oppressively silent. Dan avoided eye contact with anyone but Adam.
‘Not wrote it down,’ he said finally. ‘That’d be too risky. I’d guess he told someone about it. And that’s how the blackmailer got to know.’
Adam nodded thoughtfully. ‘But it’s a very detailed account, isn’t it? That’s what makes it so convincing. And we have to assume the blackmailer got it right, otherwise why would Freedman kill himself? It doesn’t sound like a rumour, something someone heard second or third hand.’
Now it was Dan’s turn to nod. Suddenly he was more relaxed. It felt like just the two of them talking, as they had so many times before, friends discussing a case in a quiet corner of a pub.
‘Yes,’ Dan said. ‘It sounds like the blackmailer heard it all from Freedman himself. But who would he tell about something like that?’
‘Who do we tell our innermost secrets to?’ asked Adam. ‘Our family usually, but clearly not here. So let’s see if Freedman had any close friends he might have confided to. Boasted to, even.’
‘And there’s another possibility, isn’t there?’ mused Dan. ‘Is Freedman religious?’
‘Why?’
‘What if he’s confessed what he did to a priest? What if that’s how the blackmailer got all this?’
‘Good thought,’ said Adam. ‘And let’s take it one step further. Who else do people speak to in professional confidence? What if Freedman had a counsellor? Might he have talked to them? What about a lawyer? Or a doctor? Maybe he was worried about catching something from the prostitute and had to go to his doctor and explain. Let’s get working on anyone Freedman could have told about his fatal indiscretion.’
Some of the detectives, mainly the younger, more keen ones, took more notes, others just nodded.
‘Right,’ Adam said, with a tone in his voice that said it was time for the discussion to end, ‘there’s just one more thing for now then. Our little game. What do we call our blackmailer?’
In his experience of major investigations, Dan had quickly learnt it was a tradition to give the criminal they were hunting a nickname, and often an unpleasant one.
‘How about Blackie, as it’s a blackmailer?’ an older man at the back said, and laughter rolled around the room.
‘Not in these days of painful political correctness,’ Adam replied. ‘No matter how harmless the idea it could be misinterpreted, and I don’t need some daft row with the PC brigade. Come on, give me something else.’
There was a silence, filled with thinking, then Claire said, ‘Worm.’
‘Worm?’
‘Yes. We don’t know if we’re hunting a man or woman, and worms are hermaphrodites. Plus – well, Worm seems to sum up the kind of person our blackmailer is.’
Adam nodded. ‘Worm it is.’
The door swung open and rattled against the wall. A uniformed sergeant bumbled in. He was chubby and red-faced.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mr Breen,’ the man said, with a hint of a Welsh accent.
‘Yes, Taff?’ replied Adam. The police had never been renowned as the mo
st imaginative organisation, particularly with their nicknames.
‘Something you should know about, sir. Two of the bobbies on patrol have just reported something bizarre. They’ve arrested a bill-poster. He was sticking up a board near the city centre, one of those huge ones out in the middle of the Marsh Mills roundabout.’
The sergeant looked around at the expectant faces. ‘Go on,’ replied Adam.
‘This billboard, sir. It only had writing on, not like those fancy posters with pictures that you see, just these great big letters. But it was what it said that made me think, sir, given what happened yesterday …’
‘Just tell us, man,’ snapped Adam, losing patience.
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It said –’
The sergeant squinted at his note book. Everyone was watching him intently. Dan was tempted to ask the assembled to hold a quick vote on whether Taff’s nickname should henceforth be changed to procrastinator.
Adam folded his arms, glared. A perfectly polished black brogue tapped irascibly on the floor.
The sergeant looked up and finally the elusive information came. And, remarkably, it was worth waiting for.
‘I’ve got it now, sir. Here it is. It said – “Vote Will Freedman MP, Prostitute Party.”’
Chapter Five
ADAM RAN DOWN THE police station stairs, Dan following. Their clattering footsteps echoed from the cold concrete and chased them along the flights. A series of uniformed officers and traffic wardens stood back to let them through. The MIR was on the fourth floor, but Adam wasn’t at all breathless.
‘Come on,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ve had the world’s press on the phone to the station this morning wanting interviews. You can tell me what you reckon’s best to do while we go see this poster. I think we just found out how our Worm planned to expose Freedman.’
Adam jogged over to a battered blue Vauxhall Cavalier and climbed in. The car smelt strongly of stale cigarettes. The detective pushed a series of buttons until one rolled down a window. He breathed in the clean air, gunned the engine and accelerated out of the police station.
