by Simon Hall
From the back of the Vauxhall, Dan craned his neck to look at Claire. She seemed fine now she’d got over the sickness of earlier. What was Adam talking about? He was always protective of his staff, but this was getting excessive.
Dan sat back across the rear seats and tried to breathe deeply. His heartbeat had just about returned to normal but his throat still felt dry. He couldn’t quieten the memory of that knife pointing at him. Sometimes he forgot he was just a journalist, shadowing a criminal investigation. The confrontation had reminded him he wasn’t a police officer and had no desire to be.
Whenever there was conflict overseas, his friends asked if he was going to cover it. The Second Gulf War was the last occasion. They all seemed to think that being a war correspondent was the peak of a journalist’s career. He felt a little ashamed explaining that he didn’t fancy it at all. For Dan, it was no contest. Sleep in a tent in a desert, baking hot by day, freezing by night, with the ever-present risk of being shot at or bombed. Or live in his beautiful Victorian flat, always cosy and comfortable, sleep in his super-king-size bed, his faithful dog by his side, all in reassuring safety.
Claire drove them to Crownhill, on the northern edge of Plymouth, turned down to the old village of Tamerton Foliot and parked the car outside St Joseph’s Church. They walked up crunching gravel to the dark, arched wooden doors. Dan wondered if they should be respectful and knock, but Adam just pushed them open and strolled in. Behind them, a white swirl of cherry blossom followed, ushered in by a playful breeze.
A man stood beside the altar, bent over a rack of fat red candles. Triangular flames flickered from their ranks, silhouetting his cassock. Many of the candles had brief notes underneath. The church was quiet, a couple of worshippers praying in a corner, but otherwise deserted. It was warmed in a spectrum of light, the flooding sunshine tinted by the rich colours of the stained glass windows. Dan noticed himself trying to tread softly. The feeling of reverence was pervasive.
The man stood up to face them. He was short, with silver hair, balding on the top, about fifty years old. He greeted them with a warm smile, revealing a chink of gap between his front teeth. Combined with the chubbiness of his cheeks, it made him resemble a beaver.
Adam went to speak, but the priest put a finger to his lips, pointed to the kneeling couple and led them outside. They shook hands and Adam introduced them.
‘I’ve been thinking about your call,’ said Father Maguire. ‘You’ve given me quite a dilemma for a Sunday morning, when I should be thinking about him above.’ He raised his eyebrows towards the blue sky. ‘I know what you want, of course. And I know you’ll appreciate it’s something I’ll find almost impossible to give. The confessional is sacrosanct. It’s a foundation of our beliefs.’
‘I understand,’ replied Adam. ‘But it’s my duty to ask you about it anyway. So far, you are the only link between two of the three people who have been the subject of blackmail demands. You’re sure you’ve never met Leon Osmond?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘OK. Well, as you know, both of the other victims have gone on to kill themselves.’
Father Maguire crossed himself, rather theatrically Dan thought. He felt like the sort of priest a television director would cast for the role. He looked and acted the part.
‘Poor Will and Linda,’ he intoned. ‘Fine people both. May they rest in peace.’
Adam nodded his agreement. ‘Let me start by asking you a couple of general questions about them. I hope that won’t infringe on the confidences of your parishioners.’
Father Maguire tilted his head to one side, said warily, ‘Go on.’
‘Was there anything that seemed to be specifically worrying them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will Freedman first then. You’ll have seen the newspaper reports about the prostitute. Was it along those lines?’
Father Maguire pursed his lips and held a finger to them. He took another glance towards the sky, but gave a slight, sad nod.
Adam nodded too, then asked, ‘Anything else?’
‘Not that’s material to your investigation.’
‘Father, with respect, it’s better if I’m the judge of that.’
‘No!’ the priest snapped. ‘I’m already fighting my conscience in trying to help you as much as I can. Don’t push it, man.’
The lilt of an Irish accent bubbled into Maguire’s voice when he was annoyed. His silver eyebrows arched and jumped, as though they were competing with each other to touch his hairline.
Adam stared silently at him. Dan knew the technique. Quiet was unsettling. The detective was inviting him to fill the void, give something away. It was a tactic Dan himself had used many times in interviews. But the little priest was not to be intimidated. He held Adam’s gaze and said nothing.
‘OK then, Father, how about Linda?’ said Adam, finally. ‘You’re aware she appears to have committed suicide too?’
‘Of course.’
‘Was there anything she was specifically worried about?’
‘Again, I don’t think that’d be relevant to your inquiry.’
‘Father please,’ said Adam. ‘This is vital in catching someone who is ruining lives.’
‘I know that, Breen,’ snapped the priest again. ‘That’s why I agreed to see you at all. I don’t have to tell you anything, as you’re very well aware. I’m bending my faith just talking to you. Don’t try to break it.’
Adam held up his hands in a calming apology. ‘Then let me rephrase the question. Perhaps that would help us both. Did Linda mention anything about blackmail?’
‘No.’
‘Anything about sex?’
The priest closed his eyes.
‘No,’ he barked finally.
‘Anything about work?’
Father Maguire paused, slowly opened his eyes and raised his face to the heavens.
‘God help me,’ he whispered. ‘And on a Sunday too.’ He looked back at them, his eyebrows jumping again. ‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘She was worried about her job. Now that’s it. No more.’
Adam waited, then said, ‘Father, we need to know …’
‘No more!’ he barked. ‘None! Not a word. You got that, Breen?’
Adam nodded. ‘All right, Father, thank you. I very much appreciate your help. There’s just one final thing I must ask. May I take you into my confidence?’
Maguire nodded wearily. ‘If you must. Confidences are part of my job. And they’re not always an easy weight to carry, I can tell you.’
Adam managed a weak smile. ‘We think the information the blackmailer has may have come as a result of conversations between the victims and other, unknown, people. Is there any way what happens in the confessional here could be overheard?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes I’m bloody sure, Breen! No one else comes near when you’re in the confessional. We respect it completely. And if your imagination’s running away to listening devices and spy stuff like that, you can forget it. We always check the booth before we use it.’
‘Last question, Father.’ Adam saw the man’s look. ‘I promise this is the last one.’
‘Go on.’
‘Where were you at five o’clock this morning?’
‘Funnily enough, I was in bed.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
He gave Adam an exasperated look. ‘It’s not very likely, is it? I’m a Catholic bloody priest, Breen. We sleep alone remember? And before you think it, I don’t even bother the choirboys, unlike some of my colleagues. I imagine you’re asking to see if you can take me off your list of suspects?’
‘I can’t lie to you, Father. Yes, that is why I wanted to know.’
‘Well, I was asleep in bed, alone, like a good Catholic boy. I didn’t do it, but I’ll bear the idea in mind the next time the church needs a new roof. Blackmailing people from what you hear in the confessional isn’t a bad thought at all. It beats all these miserable jumble sales and coffe
e mornings I have to put on a fake smile for.’
Dan studied the ground to hide his amusement. For once, Adam looked lost for words.
‘Well, at least that’s one suspect,’ said Adam as Claire drove them back to Charles Cross.
‘You don’t really think so, do you, sir?’ she asked.
‘Not really. Didn’t feel right, did it? Couldn’t see the motive. Yes, the opportunity might have been there to blackmail Linda and Freedman, but where is it for Osmond? What he said about Linda being worried about her job was interesting though, wasn’t it?’
Claire slowed the car for a set of traffic lights. ‘Could be just that she was concerned about whatever it was she’d done getting her the sack, or disciplined.’
‘Could be,’ replied Adam. ‘But what if she’d made a mess of some case she was handling and that’s what she was being blackmailed for? What if she’d got too involved in something? We’ll have to go through all her current and recent work to see if anything comes up.’
An ambulance screamed past them, its siren wailing. The noise made Dan think of the joyrider’s knife again, its blade glinting in the half-light of the car park. He could have been in the back of that ambulance, gasping for life, a knife handle protruding from his chest.
Adam turned. ‘What was this exclusive you were thinking of for your report tonight then? We’d better get that sorted, if we can.’
‘I don’t know if now’s the right time …’ Dan began, but Adam interrupted.
‘Get on with it. We haven’t got time to fumble around.’
Dan looked at Claire. In his eyes, she even managed to drive elegantly. He must be in deep. He was hoping to have a few private minutes to raise it with her first, but Adam was in no mood for delay.
‘What I was thinking – what I had in mind was this …’ Dan began, and tailed off again.
‘Yes?’ prompted Adam. ‘Come on. Even you can’t have thought of something that bad.’
‘Well, everyone will have the story of the blackmail link between Linda and Freedman and the CCTV of the blackmailer from the press conference. But what I wondered was whether, to make my report different and better, and I know this is asking a lot, but …’
‘Just get on with it, will you?’
Dan hesitated, then said, ‘I’d like to do a tribute to Linda.’
‘Fine,’ replied Adam. ‘Good idea. She deserves it. What’s the problem? Why are you making such a fuss? I’m very happy to say a few words about her after the rest of the media have cleared off. That way you get your beloved exclusive.’
‘Well, that’s the point,’ said Dan, uneasily. He shifted in his seat and sneaked another glance at Claire.
‘What is?’
‘You doing the interview.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you’ll be doing the news conference attacking the blackmailer, won’t you?’
‘So?’
‘So, it would be good to get someone else to do the tribute.’
‘Why?’
‘Because TV likes variety, and two different faces on the screen always work better than one. Plus you didn’t actually know her very well, did you? I’d like to talk to someone who can give me an anecdote or personal experience of her.’ Dan looked at Claire again, waiting for the reaction. ‘Like someone she’s helped, for instance.’
Adam turned back to the front of the car and drummed a couple of fingers on the dashboard.
‘Fair point,’ he said. ‘But no one really knew her that well.’
‘Some knew her better than others though, didn’t they?’
‘Like who?’
From the driver’s seat Dan heard Claire draw in a sharp breath.
‘Ah,’ said Adam. ‘Like Claire?’
‘Yes. Like Claire.’
Adam folded his arms, gazed out of the windscreen. Dan noticed they were picking up speed. Claire stared straight ahead, her face set. The car felt as if it had filled with storm clouds.
‘I don’t have a problem with that,’ said Adam at last, placing a heavy emphasis on the “I”. ‘I suppose you knew her as well as anyone Claire. What do you think about doing an interview?’
There was a pause, then Claire said tersely, ‘Can I have a few minutes to think about it please?’
For the first time, Dan truly understood the meaning of the phrase “through gritted teeth”. He wondered how much trouble he was going to be in later. He thought he saw a slight smile flicker across Adam’s face.
‘Fair enough,’ said the detective. ‘It’s bad enough being interviewed by Dan when he’s your friend. I wouldn’t want to think what it’s like when he’s your boyfriend.’
Dan shifted again in his seat. It suddenly felt sticky. He didn’t know what to say, so he kept quiet, counted the landmarks. They passed the old Crownhill Fort, its great earth ramparts and gun emplacements part of the Victorians’ attempts to defend Plymouth from a French attack, then turned south, heading into the city, along the Manadon flyover, for once living up to its name and not choked with traffic. He took a couple of obvious looks at Claire and knew she was aware of him doing so, but she didn’t acknowledge him, just kept her eyes set ahead. Dan sighed to himself.
They drove on in silence until the radio crackled with a call for Adam. He picked it up and listened, nodded a couple of times.
‘Good,’ he said finally. ‘We’re making progress. We have another suspect. The teams have found a solicitor who worked for both Linda and Osmond. And the press conference has been arranged for an hour’s time. All the media are going to be there. So then, what do I say?’
Dan looked up from the notes he’d written earlier. ‘It’s quite spicy,’ he said, tearing off a sheet of paper and handing it forwards. ‘See if you think it’s too much.’
Adam read through the scrawled words, emitted a few murmurs of approval. ‘I like it. It should certainly put some wind up our Worm. I might even add a couple of little jibes of my own. Let’s really take the fight to our foe for once. It’s about time.’
Chapter Thirteen
DAN SAT AT THE back of the press conference and fretted. He kept picking a snagged nail, smoothing it, then finding another to worry away at. He tried to concentrate, but unpleasant thoughts kept surfacing and nagging. Does she still love me? Or have I blown it? Anyway, what was he doing? Loves me, loves me not – it felt like being twelve years old again.
Claire hadn’t said a word to him in the hour they’d been back at Charles Cross. He’d tried to engineer a couple of minutes alone so they could talk, but there was no time. Adam was buzzing with his speech to the press conference. Every new line he thought of he wanted to test on Dan to see how the media would react. Dutifully, but uninterestedly, Dan had offered his view.
The detective had also agonised about his tie, whether it was too bright for a sombre occasion. Dan had to stop himself pointing out that he didn’t really care, and eventually agreed. Adam was right, appearances were very important on TV. The sprouting red and green flowers would have to be replaced. Semiotics, the unspoken language of film, dictated that they didn’t fit with a story of blackmail and suicide.
A probationer detective was despatched to the city centre and told it was the most important mission he would undertake – not to come back until he’d found a smart, diagonally striped tie, with a mainly navy base colour to match Adam’s suit. It must be silk too, of course. Dan, who usually found his friend’s vanity and fixation with his wardrobe amusing, couldn’t help but feel a growing irritation.
To cheer himself up, he called his downstairs neighbour and was reassured that Rutherford had been fed and was currently running around the garden with a tennis ball clenched between his teeth. Dan smiled. He felt a sudden desire to join his dog. The thrill of chasing the joyriders had long since ebbed and a leaden tiredness was weighing him down again. The memory of the menacing knife was still strong in his mind. The simplicity of being outside, in the spring sunshine, throwing a ball for his stupid dog to sprint af
ter was wonderfully alluring.
But there was no chance of escape. It was going to be a long day and it felt as though everyone wanted a piece of him. There was the press conference to cover, then the interview with Claire, if she decided to do it. A big if, and even then in capitals, italics, and probably underlined too. He’d also have to appease Lizzie, go back to the studios to cut the story, then probably back to Charles Cross to help out with whatever Adam decided they needed to do next. Dan yawned and stretched, tried to force some spirit back into his sullen body.
Eleanor said she hoped she’d be able to reveal the answer to the third part of the riddle later. Dan wanted to be there for that. So far, he hadn’t even had a chance to work on it. “Now tel me this” was the key, she’d said. What did it have to do with last Sunday?
He went to get his copy of Osmond’s blackmail note from his pocket but stopped himself. He didn’t feel up to trying to solve it. His mind was too full of Claire, the press conference, Lizzie, and the story he’d have to write later. That was quite enough.
Beside him, Nigel bent over the camera, checking its focus. The room was full again, snappers, newspaper, radio and TV reporters, many grumbling about being called out on a Sunday. Dirty El was at the front, caressing the long lens of his camera. If Claire was playing it cool, maybe they could go out for a few beers. That would cheer him up. He sometimes thought of El as the court jester in his life. Always up to something comical, but often full of surprising wisdom too.
At exactly two o’clock, the door at the side of the room opened and Adam strode in, wearing his sombre new tie. He sat down at the desk, with the blue and white Greater Wessex Police screens behind him and looked around at the press pack. The rumble of conversation died away.
He apologised for the late notice and for asking the hacks here on a Sunday, then paused, shuffled some papers, and hit them with the story.
