The Judgement Book

by Simon Hall

  Adam nodded again. ‘Thanks, Ben. I know it’s a long shot, but you’d better start going round the churches.’

  The man didn’t move, looked at him questioningly. ‘Go on!’ Adam snapped. ‘We’ve got nothing else. Get moving.’

  The detectives slowly filed out. There was no spirit, no sense of hope or expectation in their movements, only duty. Adam drummed on the window ledge again, a rhythmic metallic echo in the quiet of the MIR.

  ‘What do you read into that little row you had with Sarah in the interview room?’ Adam said, turning to Dan. ‘That stuff about the peacenik. You seemed to think you were on to something there.’

  Dan looked up from his notes on the last riddle. He hadn’t made any progress beyond sketching an ink drawing of Rutherford, his tongue hanging out in his smiling face.

  ‘Part of Robinson’s blackmail conversation she overheard, I’d say. It sounds to me like he was going on about his time in Iraq. He was probably drunk and that made him indiscreet. I’d guess he was sitting with a fellow officer and they were yarning about what they’d done in their careers. Robinson talked about the beating and death of that Iraqi boy. I reckon he also mentioned the peace activist who was killed in some kind of derogatory way. Hence the peacenik bit. He must have been a friend or lover of Sarah’s.’

  ‘The man referred to in the analysis of her past? The one from Sussex University?’

  ‘I’d guess so.’

  ‘That was the catalyst for all this? All this blackmail and these attacks on what she sees as the “establishment”?’

  Dan thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think so. It’s not the whole story, but it’s the start. I’d guess that enraged her. Combine it with the loss of her business and the drunken conversations I imagine she’s starting to overhear in the Judge and there’s your motive. It’s only a small step from hearing some of the things she did to taping them, playing them back, them eating away at her, inflaming her anger and then her seeing a way to use them in some kind of grand, meaningful gesture.’

  Adam loosened his tie and sighed. ‘Bloody hell. And Sinclair? What do you reckon happened with him?’

  ‘Same kind of thing as Robinson. He was in the Judge, drunk, talking to a mate or trying to impress some woman. You should pop round and see my new extension kind of thing. It’s great, top of the range, huge, didn’t cost me a penny either …’

  They looked at each other. Outside, a pigeon landed on the ledge, glanced in at the window, bobbed its head back and forth, then turned and flew off again.

  Dan broke the silence. ‘Rather brings to mind the old wartime slogan that careless talk costs lives, eh? Are we going to see Sinclair and Robinson then?’

  ‘In a minute. I need to think first.’

  Dan looked back at his notes on the final part of the riddle, toyed with the words, tried to find the hidden meaning. He succeeded only in adding some vague Dartmoor background to the sketch of Rutherford. It was about time they had that walk he’d been promising.

  The door opened and Claire walked in. She held one arm over her stomach as if she were protecting it. Dan suddenly felt nervous.

  ‘Everything’s drawn a blank, sir,’ said Claire, talking to Adam but repeatedly glancing towards Dan. Her voice was steady but he thought her eyes were shining. He wondered whether she’d been sick, or crying again.

  ‘No leads anywhere on who the accomplice could be,’ she continued. ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ exploded Adam. He strode back over to the felt boards and stared at all the pieces of paper and photographs. ‘There must be something. There must be. Come on! Have we tried everything?’

  ‘We’ve done all the staff and regulars in the Judge, sir. Not a hint of anything. She’s never been seen with anyone in particular, no one’s ever come to visit her, nothing.’

  Adam ran a hand through his hair, pushing up a couple of spraying tufts. The shadow of his beard had grown darker.

  ‘We’re running out of time,’ he moaned. ‘We’ve got until tomorrow evening or the whole thing blows up in our faces. God knows who the blackmailing bastards will be implicating in their sordid scandals. We could have a dozen suicides on our hands. There’s got to be something, some way we can get them.’

  Adam put his hands on his hips and clenched his teeth. ‘It’s no good talking to Sarah again I suppose?’

  Dan could see he already knew the answer. ‘No chance. She’s said all she wants to.’

  ‘Yeah, but what was that crap she came out with about our initial thoughts to do with anything? She really went on about it at the end of the interview. It sounded like it was important.’

  ‘No idea. Our initial thoughts, and being dead right … what could that mean? I can’t see anything. It might be important, but it might just be a bluff. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to wind us up or confuse us even more.’

  Adam turned away from the boards and caught an elbow on the metal edge of a support. He yelped and rubbed at it.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he growled again. ‘I’m going to get a coffee. It might help kick-start my brain. Claire, Dan, get thinking. I want ideas. Any bloody ideas. Then we’re going to have our little showdowns with Robinson and Sinclair.’

  The door to the MIR slammed shut behind him. Claire looked at Dan, her face crumbled and she started crying. He reached out and cuddled her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I thought I could handle it, but I’m all over the place. I thought I could wait to work out what we’re going to do, but I don’t know if I can. Every time I think about it I start to cry. I’m so frightened. I can feel the baby growing inside me.’ She tenderly rubbed her stomach. ‘If we’re going to have it, I’ve got to know. If not, I can’t bear it being here, alive inside me. I just can’t.’

  Dan squeezed her tight. He could feel the tears gathering in his own eyes, but he blinked them back.

  ‘Claire, come on. Claire! We will work it out, I promise you. It’s going to be all right.’

  She pulled away, fast, sharp, a violent movement which left him standing, staring, not knowing what to do.

  ‘“Be all right? Work it out?” Work what out? How do we work it out?’

  ‘Claire, please I …’

  ‘How the hell are you going to work anything out? You didn’t even notice I was pregnant!’

  ‘Claire …’

  ‘Do you know how that felt? All those days I was waiting for you to realise. All that time, all alone. All those hints I dropped, and you never even noticed. Do you know how lonely I felt?’

  ‘Claire …’

  ‘You were too stupid. Too self-absorbed. Too bloody intent on yourself, your own life, your job, your damn dog, everything except me!’

  And now, for once in a career and a life of talking, for Dan the words would hardly come. ‘Claire, I … I’m sorry. I don’t know why …’

  ‘And every bloody day I was trying to tell you I could feel the baby inside me. Growing! Every day. And you didn’t even realise. You selfish, self-absorbed, ignorant arsehole!’

  Dan stood, just stood and stared. There was nothing else he could do. Claire glared back, her lips trembling, her eyes a red haze of tears. Then, she raised a fist and swung weakly at his shoulder. He caught her wrist, gripped it, and pushed her away.

  ‘What the hell are you doing woman? I’m trying to help sort this out! For Christ’s sake, we don’t even have to have this baby…’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  The blade of her voice cut through his words. ‘All I’m saying is …’

  ‘An abortion? Is that what you want?’

  ‘Look, I just think …’

  ‘Is it? Well, is it?’

  They glared at each other. ‘I … I can’t talk about this now,’ Dan stuttered. ‘Adam will be back in a minute. We’re in the middle of a big case. I can’t think. I haven’t got the time. We’ll talk about it later. Or at the weekend. That’s it.’

  ‘But I need to know. I have to …’


  ‘That’s it, I said. Enough!’

  The clock ticked loud in the quiet of the room. Outside in the corridor, a door slammed.

  Claire lowered her head, that dark bob of hair falling across her face. Slowly, she turned, sat down at a desk and started typing mechanically at a computer.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE MAN WITH THE machine gun eyed them warily as they waited in the car. It was understandable given the ever-present terrorist threat, although it couldn’t fail but make you nervous. Dan shifted awkwardly in the driver’s seat, offered a reassuring smile to the sentry. It wasn’t returned. But then, in fairness, smiles and deadly weaponry seldom made easy companions.

  To avoid any possible misunderstandings, he kept his hands on the steering wheel, clear and obvious in the soldier’s sight.

  Next to him Adam looked up. ‘Bloody military,’ he said. ‘They’re the worst to deal with. A law unto themselves. And they go out of their way to make sure you don’t feel welcome.’

  The Dragoons’ barracks loomed above them, the façade of grey stone glowering in the day’s gloom. It was pitted with roundels bearing cherubs and capped with a great portico of charging horses and chariots. Atop, the Union flag hung limp, as if waiting for a gust of air to give it life. A gold-embossed plaque brusquely informed them that they were about to enter the military’s domain.

  ‘As if we hadn’t guessed,’ Dan murmured to himself. ‘It doesn’t exactly look like a croquet club.’

  The sentry marched up and down, past the car, never taking his eyes from it. Dan kept his hands firmly on the wheel.

  ‘What are you expecting to get from this interview exactly?’ he asked Adam, more to distract himself from the menacing black barrel of the gun than for an answer.

  ‘Nothing much. Ideally a full confession, a confirmation that Sarah and her accomplice got the info from bugging him in the Judge, but most importantly some hint on who that accomplice might be.’

  ‘And in reality?’

  ‘I’m expecting a bucket full of bluster, an outraged denial and simulated shock that I could even have the gross temerity to put such disgraceful allegations to him.’

  ‘What about the claim that he’s responsible – partly at least – for a young boy’s death?’

  ‘Not my department. That’s one for the military.’

  ‘But you reckon it’s true?’

  Adam gave him a look. ‘As I said, that’s their business. We’ve got enough on. We’ve got to find the Judgement Book and we’re running out of time.’

  As one they looked at the car’s clock. Its glowing digits said half past eleven. Just over 31 hours until the Book’s contents were revealed. The numbers burned into Dan’s mind.

  And following them came Claire. The memory of that row. Never before had she called him an arsehole, however much and however often he might have deserved it.

  And the shock of the venom in her eyes.

  And still they didn’t know what to do about the baby.

  Dan flinched as the metal gates groaned open. The sentry waved them through, and he drove carefully under the great fluted stone arches into a parade ground. A sergeant gestured to the end of a line of impeccably parked cars and they pulled up.

  Adam introduced them and they were escorted along a long, white stone corridor, past lines of busts of imperious-looking men, interspersed with dark oil paintings depicting bloodied soldiers of many different periods of history holding hordes of the enemy of the time at bay. Dan was amused to see one painting showed men with rifles valiantly defending themselves against tribesmen armed only with spears.

  The sergeant stopped suddenly, rapped hard on a polished wooden door. It was so bright that Dan almost had to squint. He counted off the seconds. He reckoned it’d be at least ten before there was an answer. Self-important people were always far too busy to be immediately available.

  At fourteen, a clipped voice called, ‘Enter.’ The sergeant opened the door, ushered them inside, closed it heavily and stood to attention beside it. Dan resisted an urge to do the same.

  Adam held out a hand. Major Robinson studied it as though to check it wasn’t infected, then reached slowly across his desk and shook it. Dan got the same treatment. He felt the sergeant’s eyes glaring into him. Adam was right. Possibly the only way to make them feel less welcome would be stringing a banner across the room reading, “YOU’RE NOT WANTED HERE CIVVIES”.

  Adam was about to speak when the Major interrupted. ‘I understand why you’re here,’ he said brusquely. ‘Have you ever been to war, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Err, no.’

  Adam was clearly surprised by the question. It was an unusual one – in the normal world, anyway.

  ‘I thought not,’ the Major continued. ‘It can be a dirty business. I lost three good men in Iraq. Fighting for democracy. For their country. For peace.’

  Dan nearly choked, managed to turn the noise into an unconvincing cough. He wondered where, as a journalist, he should begin challenging that little speech. There was a vivid spectrum of options. But Adam had warned him before the interview that it was best if he was seen, but not heard, so he managed to keep quiet. Just.

  Robinson shuffled some papers on his desk. He wasn’t a tall man, but neither was he short, and he was built like a block of flats. His voice was loud and abrupt and its tone was clipped in the manner that many military officers seem to adopt. Perhaps it was a part of their training.

  He looked in his late 40s, swarthy and tanned with short, sandy hair, but to Dan’s disappointment Robinson wore no moustache. It would have completed the stereotype nicely.

  ‘Major, with respect, the rights and wrongs of the Iraq war are not what we’re here to talk to you about,’ said Adam. ‘I simply need to know if the allegations in the letter addressed to you contain any truth, and if so …’

  ‘They do not.’

  ‘I have to say Major, that other claims against different individuals have proved to be true.’

  ‘These are not.’

  ‘Major, we’re not interested in investigating the nature of the allegations, merely how the blackmailers may have …’

  ‘The allegations are false. End of discussion.’

  It was a true military response to the questioning. Every probe, prod or jab was met by a barrage of heavy artillery.

  Adam sighed heavily. ‘Major Robinson, please …’

  ‘As I said, end of discussion. If such allegations do merit investigation, that will be carried out by the army. As you are no doubt aware, you have no jurisdiction here. Now – before you leave – was there anything else?’

  From the corner of his eye, Dan was sure the sergeant at the door was smiling.

  Adam got to his feet, tried again. ‘Major, I am investigating a very serious crime, and I’m asking for your help. I simply need to know …’

  Robinson cut across him again, his voice now an order. ‘That then ends our business.’

  Adam glared at him, snapped, ‘No it does not. Listen to this. For what it’s worth, I think those allegations are absolutely true. But I don’t care about that. You can sort it out between you – you and your army chums. All I want to know is this. When you were in the Ginger Judge, drinking and bragging about what you’d done in Iraq with your military mates, did you notice anyone hanging around you?’

  ‘How dare you …’

  ‘… anyone appearing to linger? Being unusually interested in you or your conversations?’

  The two men were standing face to face now, competing to out-shout each other.

  ‘How dare you –’ Robinson barked.

  ‘Did you see anything suspicious, Major?’ yelled Adam. ‘This is important! Did you?’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Did you?!’

  A sudden silence. The two men had shouted each other into submission. Perhaps it was a verbal version of the doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction. Robinson’s fists were clenched. Adam’s neck had turned red.

 
When the Major finally spoke it was with a controlled calm. ‘This discussion is at an end. But finally, I give you this warning, Inspector. I intend to report you to your Chief Constable for your conduct here today.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Adam replied. ‘That’s the least of my worries.’

  He turned for the door. Dan followed. The sergeant had stopped smiling.

  Twenty minutes later they were sitting in the waiting room outside Steven Sinclair’s office. It was on the twelfth floor of a city centre, 1960s tower block, one of the heights of architectural misjudgement. As such, naturally it had been endowed with listed building status, thus sparing it the merciful justice of a gang of bulldozers.

  Below was a concrete plaza and series of small, oblong ponds which had been designed to add atmosphere and elegance, but which became a dumping ground for cigarette butts and other assorted litter.

  To pass a couple of minutes, Dan picked up his mobile phone and sent Claire a text message. She always appreciated knowing she was in his thoughts, and after their little scene of earlier that was more important than ever. Adam glanced disapprovingly over, so Dan switched on the predictive text function to make the typing quicker. It was remarkable how its anticipation of the words could speed up the messaging ritual.

  With Adam on inquiries, but thinking of you. x

  He looked up at the detective. Dan wasn’t sure he should ask it again given what had happened with Robinson, but thought he would anyway.

  ‘And what do you expect to get from this interview?’ he whispered.

  ‘Roughly the same as last time, except with less military bluster.’

  A secretary showed them in. The office was large, the wooden floor covered with an ornate and patterned rug, the walls panelled with austere oak. Steven Sinclair sat on one of a row of soft chairs by the large windows overlooking the city. He was six feet tall, lanky, with short dark hair and wore a navy blue suit, but no tie, the modern politician’s fashion of smartness without formality. The skin on his face was taut, as if it had been stretched back from the nose, giving him a look of permanent surprise.