by Simon Hall
Dan whistled softly under his breath. It was an evisceration in print.
‘A couple of developments from our background checks,’ Adam continued. ‘Father Maguire has suddenly become more interesting to us. He’s got a criminal record, for burglary.’
‘What?’ asked Dan, more than a little surprised. ‘Really?’
Claire opened a box file, found a couple of sheets of paper. ‘It’s from before he became a priest. When he was in his twenties. He had some family bereavement – his dad, I think – and went off the rails. Got involved in drugs, starting burgling homes to support his habit.’
‘Blimey,’ Dan said. ‘Who’d have thought it? About him, and, well …’
His words faltered. Their eyes again crept to the photograph of Linda.
‘What happened to Maguire afterwards?’ Dan asked quickly.
‘He was spared jail,’ said Claire. ‘Did some community work, found God and the church. There’s no further hint of wrongdoing. Quite the reverse in fact. No one’s got a bad word to say about him. He’s noted for being a caring and compassionate priest.’
‘But,’ said Adam pointedly. ‘But …’
Dan nodded. ‘He’s got form – as I believe you lot say.’
‘Yep.’
‘A possible means of getting information he could use for blackmail. From the confessional for Freedman and Linda, if not Osmond.’
‘If he’s been telling us the truth,’ said Adam. ‘If.’
‘And a motive?’
‘Don’t know – yet.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Well, his little misdemeanours were a long time ago, and he might well have left them all behind. But we keep it in mind. See what else happens, whether we need to talk to him again.’
The door opened and a couple of detectives walked in, greeted them and settled at the line of computers at the back of the MIR.
‘Anything else?’ Dan asked. ‘It sounds like there’s plenty to go at.’
Claire opened another folder. ‘We’ve done some work on the clues we’ve broken so far. “Open original memorial.” All we managed to come up with were plaques commemorating the Queen’s Silver and Golden Jubilees – assuming the Silver is the original memorial, and the Gold the newer one, and the sailing of the Mayflower to the New World. As you know, the Mayflower steps, where the Pilgrim Fathers set off from, have been moved a couple of times, hence more than one memorial. But neither idea gave us anything.’
‘There was one other thing,’ Adam said. ‘It came from our checks on Julia Francis.’
‘Who you gleefully told she was a suspect. You didn’t really mean that, did you?’ Dan asked.
‘Not really. But I had her checked, just in case. Her background’s more interesting than I suspected. Her family are from South Africa. Her father was a prominent anti-apartheid campaigner. He was imprisoned several times, and died in jail. The family escaped to England afterwards. It seems young Julia took up the law because of what happened to her Dad. She’s a prominent supporter of Freedom, the civil liberties group, and does a lot of legal work for them, all for free apparently.’
Dan wondered whether to say it, but thought he would anyway. ‘Which might explain why she took exception to your interview technique.’
He readied himself for the retaliation, but was surprised when it didn’t come.
‘It may indeed,’ Adam replied quietly. He looked almost abashed. Dan could see he was reconsidering his view of Julia Francis. It was as evident as an old-fashioned computer, a pattern of lights flashing on its frontage to indicate a program was running.
Claire got up from her desk, opened a window. A welcome breeze slipped around them, easing the room’s stuffiness.
‘What about the banner on the plane?’ Dan asked. ‘Any luck with that?’
‘No,’ said Claire. ‘It was commissioned and made at the same time as the bill poster which exposed Freedman, paid for in cash and delivered by the company to the pilot. When I asked if it might seem odd to them, putting that drink-driving message on to a banner no one batted an eyelid. They’ve had much worse. They’ve made and flown banners about unfaithful husbands and wives, cheating business partners, you name it. Revenge is good business, apparently.’
Dan itched again at his back. He glanced down at his mobile phone. So far no call from Lizzie, but it was early. He knew she’d want another story today and he was wondering what he had to offer. Not much, given this briefing. There were some fascinating titbits, but nothing Adam would allow him to report. Not yet, anyway.
‘So what do we do next?’ he asked.
Adam shrugged. ‘We wait. Probably for the next blackmail note, to see if that takes us anywhere.’
Dan remembered the news stands he’d passed on his way to Charles Cross. They were full of headlines about the blackmailer.
‘I bet we won’t wait long,’ he said. ‘The abuse you hurled at the Worm in the press conference, I’m sure he’ll want to react. It feels to me like the person we’re after is very proud of what he’s doing. He’s not going to take it lightly, you suggesting he’s some kind of common criminal and inadequate.’
Adam yawned. ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘I feel like we’re treading water, waiting for something to happen. And it’s bloody frustrating.’
Dan drove back to the studios, his mind full of the briefing. There were lots of tantalising possibilities, but no hard leads. His legs ached and he could still sense a lingering fatigue. He would have welcomed a lie in bed this morning. Still, he’d seen Claire and now felt more content about their relationship. Those worries about how they’d ever look after a child remained on the outskirts of his mind, but at least they’d quietened.
He peered through the porthole window of the newsroom door before walking in. Lizzie was at her desk, working on the computer. He craned his neck to see her shoes and got a pleasant surprise. Low heels today, probably only a couple of inches.
‘You got a story for us then?’ she asked as he walked in. She sounded remarkably jovial. Dan noticed she was sporting a new silver bracelet. Unusual. She didn’t wear much jewellery.
‘Not at the moment. The detectives are investigating a series of leads and I’ll hear if anything comes up.’
He didn’t like lying at the best of times, and found it even more difficult with Lizzie. She had laser eyes, could see straight through him. Dan looked around for a distraction, spotted the corner of a greetings card sticking out of her bag.
‘Happy birthday, by the way,’ he added, trying to sound nonchalant, as though he’d planned to say it all along.
‘You remembered!’ Lizzie sounded genuinely touched. ‘Thanks, that’s kind of you. Men are usually so hopeless about things like that.’
‘It’s never a good move to forget your boss’s birthday.’ Dan began edging away, towards his desk. Time to quit while he was ahead. ‘I wish you a good one.’
‘Thanks,’ she said again. ‘A present of a story would be nice.’
‘No promises today, but I’ll see what I can do.’
He was surprised she let that go. It was almost worth a story in itself. She must be feeling mellow.
Dan spent a dull morning answering emails and filling in two month’s worth of expenses. He’d clocked up four hundred pounds when he gave up, and was sure he was owed at least another couple of hundred more. He’d never got the hang of paperwork – far too tedious for a limited lifespan – but sometimes that could be costly.
He found himself doing a couple of internet searches for babysitters, nannies and playgroups in Plymouth. There were scores. How would they ever choose which to use? You didn’t just entrust your child to anyone. A recommendation from a friend would be the best way, but it wasn’t something he was going to raise with anyone just yet.
He was about to type in “animal rescue homes” too, but stopped himself. He could scarcely believe it. Was he really considering that he might have to find another home for Rutherford? Never, h
e would never do that. Rutherford had been a loyal friend through some difficult times and Dan resolved he would never allow himself to even consider losing him. Never.
His stomach growled. The newsroom clock said ten past twelve. He began thinking about braving the canteen for lunch when his mobile rang. Adam.
‘Hello mate,’ said Dan, excited. ‘You got something? A breakthrough?’
‘Nothing like it.’ Adam sounded flat, dispirited. ‘We’re checking everything we can think of, doggers and all, but at the moment we’re not getting anywhere.’
Dan tried to keep his eyes away from Lizzie. He could hear her voice cutting across the newsroom. She was berating a producer for his sloppy use of English. A sharpened fingernail jabbed at the air. Her charitable mood of earlier hadn’t lasted. It wouldn’t be long before she was hovering, hounding him for a story. “I want, I want, I want …”
‘How can I help you then?’ Dan asked.
‘I could do with getting out of the office for a while and fancied a chat. How do you feel about lunch?’
‘Great.’ A prowling Lizzie meant it would be a very good time to exit the newsroom. ‘See you in a while. The Ginger Judge?’
‘Done.’
On the drive down to town, a car pulled out in front of him and Dan hit the horn and swore. The man waved two fingers out of an open window as he drove off, and Dan responded in kind, winding down his window and shouting too. He surprised himself. He wouldn’t normally react that sharply to something so petty, prided himself on rising above the chavvish and thuggish behaviour he was convinced was becoming more common.
He was angry with himself, he thought. He felt as though he had betrayed Rutherford. It didn’t need to be that way. If he and Claire were going to have this baby, they’d have to buy a house big enough for the two of them, the child and Rutherford too. They could afford it. It might not be in the area they’d most like, but it would have to do.
That word again – if. If they were going to have this baby. What did he mean, if? Yesterday, it was when, not if. Was he thinking now they might make a different decision?
Dan braked hard as he realised the lights on a pedestrian crossing had turned red. He’d hardly noticed the drive into town. A young woman crossing the road held the hands of two young children. She shot him an accusing stare.
He passed the library where the joyriders had crashed. A vision of that knife formed again in his mind, but this time the man was pointing it at Claire’s bulging stomach, the tip just inches from the distended flesh. She held up her hands, begging him not to harm the unborn child, but he was smiling, enjoying his power, edging the blade forwards, almost touching her skin. Dan saw himself watching, paralysed by the sight, unable to do anything, only look.
He reached out and turned on the radio, slid the volume up loud. Music boomed from the car’s speakers. He tried to concentrate on it, follow the beat. Shut the thought out, anything to force it away.
Dan parked the car on the street behind the courts, got out and bought a ticket. The parking charges had gone up again and he cursed the council as he fumbled in his pocket for change. More red anger enveloped him at having to overpay by twenty pence. It was such a con, the machines not giving change, just another way to extort money from hapless motorists.
He had to sit on a bench for a couple of minutes to calm himself before he went to meet Adam. Dan counted the branches on the chestnut tree in the graveyard behind him and watched the snowy mountains of cloud drift past.
The detective was waiting in the corner of the Ginger Judge. Sarah had given them their usual table. Dan picked up a bunch of newspapers from the rack by the bar and sat down. He handed a couple to Adam and they leafed through. The blackmailer case was prominent in the headlines, this time accompanied by pictures of the plane and its banner superimposed on photographs of Osmond standing by his car.
All the pictures were credited to Ellis Hughes. Dan could imagine the photographer doing a little dance and improvising one of those strange limericks of his. He must have made thousands of pounds.
‘Never a hint to anyone whatsoever about how you found out where Osmond lived,’ whispered Adam. ‘If word gets out that it came from me, it would be a sacking offence.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dan. ‘I won’t let on. You’ve told me worse before and I’ve never said a word to anyone about where it’s come from.’
He reminisced about some of the other tricks they’d pulled, not noticing Adam’s growing frown.
‘That stuff about the serial rapist for example, that was far, far worse,’ Dan went on. ‘And what happened to him, and why. That would have landed us in court if it’d ever come out …’
Adam interrupted quickly. ‘OK, enough said. I’ve been trying to forget about that, however much he deserved it.’
He sat back and ran his hand over the spread of newspapers. ‘It worked, getting the picture of Osmond in the press. He’s almost forgotten his complaint against me and is going for the newspapers instead. He’s talking about suing them for breach of privacy.’
‘How did the High Honchos react to him being on the news?’
The flicker of a smile crossed Adam’s face. ‘Remarkably calmly. I got a call from the Deputy Chief asking if I’d seen your report.’
‘And?’
‘I said I’d caught some of it.’
‘What did he think?’
‘He just said, “I suppose the media do what they do.”’
‘Which is true.’
‘Yep.’
‘And sounds like Osmond’s got no great support from on high.’
‘Yep. He’s proving an embarrassment to the force, and quite a few of the High Honchos are young and ambitious, so I don’t think I need worry too much about Osmond.’
Sarah bustled up and made a fuss of them, even complimenting Adam on his tie. She was a fine hostess, the kind you rarely got now. Most pubs were so industrial. You went in, ordered a beer or some food, sat, ate and drank and left. It was production line leisure, processing people without the input of any humanity. Having someone who knew your name and wanted to have a little chat made such a difference.
‘Have you seen all that?’ Sarah asked, pointing to the newspapers. ‘What a scandal. Everyone’s talking about it. Are you still working on the case?’
‘Yep,’ said Adam, sipping at his beer.
‘Have you got him yet?’
‘Not yet,’ the detective replied. ‘But I will.’
‘Good,’ replied Sarah, crouching down next to them. Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘That poor Mr Osmond. He came in here a lot you know.’
‘Really?’ said Adam, suddenly sounding interested. ‘Was he in over Christmas at all? Can you remember?’
Sarah gave him a mock frown. ‘Of course. I remember all my customers. Yes, he came in several times over Christmas, usually with that lovely wife of his. And Mr Freedman too. A very kind man he was. Always left a good tip.’
‘Really?’ Adam replied. ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but you might have some information which could be important. When the lunchtime rush is over, can we have a chat? I’d be interested to know who they were with, who was sitting near them, and what they were talking about.’
‘Me? Some information?’ Sarah sounded surprised. ‘Of course, if I can help in any way I will.’
Adam nodded. ‘After lunch though,’ he said meaningfully. ‘I’m starving.’
Sarah took the hint and brought them a pair of menus. Dan scanned through his, then got up to look at the Specials board behind the bar. Chicken pie, some salad that he edited from his sight, scallops and roast pig.
‘That’s an unusual description, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Roast pig?’
‘All local and very popular, Dan. We serve it cold with chips or salad. But I’m afraid we’re out of it.’
Another little irritant for his day, thought Dan. When life wasn’t running your way it really did so with style. He ordered sausage and mash instead. Ada
m had another mixed grill. Brain food, he explained. Dan tried not to glance at his friend’s stomach. He was sure Adam was putting on weight. It was something that often happened when he was in the middle of a big case. There was little spare time for healthy eating or exercise. It was remarkable how fast it could happen when you reached a certain age.
The bar was about half full, plenty of lawyers again, but more than a few lunching ladies too. The wooden floor was strewn with a minefield of shopping bags. The sounds of a busker blasting away on a harmonica drifted from outside.
Adam began talking about something to do with a family birthday he must remember to get a card for, but Dan couldn’t quite concentrate on what he was saying. Something was bothering him, nagging at his consciousness, distracting his thoughts. Claire again? More guilt about Rutherford? He didn’t think it was any of that, but the inkling wouldn’t go away, sat annoyingly on the edge of his mind, just out of reach.
‘Err, what, sorry?’ he said.
‘I said, I was thinking it could be useful, talking to Sarah,’ repeated Adam, tapping the table to make Dan concentrate. ‘The Worm might have somehow overheard conversations his victims were having. Perhaps he even found a way to bug them.’
Dan frowned. ‘A bit far fetched, isn’t it? How? Slip some sort of bug into a pocket, or bag? It sounds too Hollywood for me. And how do you choose the likely victims anyway, not to mention get close enough to them to do it?’
‘Ah, you’re probably right. I didn’t really believe it. But I do think that if we can find the link between the victims we’re almost there.’
‘Sure. But where is the link? That’s the problem, isn’t it? We don’t have a link between them, or not all three of them anyway.’
Adam sighed. ‘Let’s leave it for now. I could do with talking about something else.’
Sarah brought their food. People had been slipping in through the door in their ones and twos and the pub was almost full. Dan was amused to see almost all the lawyers had bottles of mineral water on their tables. It was the fashion of the moment, a politically correct eschewing of alcohol. He and Adam hadn’t hesitated to get themselves a couple of pints of ale. He wondered if journalists and detectives would be the last to change. He certainly hoped so. For him, political correctness was a target for attack, never aspiration.
