The Judgement Book

by Simon Hall

  Then Dan would imagine himself running to her, holding her, stroking her hair and drying her tears. He’d protect her and heal her, ease her fears and hurt, soothe it all away with his whispered words and tenderness. They’d go back to her flat, he’d cook some food, fuss over her, not allow her to move from the sofa as he made up for his crassness and stupidity. He’d be alongside her wherever she went, to protect her from the past and to guide her, and himself, to a better future.

  Rage and pity battered him. One moment he could raise his fists to attack Claire, the next open his arms to hug her. Rutherford trotted back in through the half-open door and he reached down and stroked the dog’s head, then walked into the kitchen, poured himself a large whisky and paced leadenly back into the living room.

  Dan lay on the sofa and closed his eyes. Now a new image came. A huge book, all in black, the size of an ancient monolith. It loomed above his frightened figure and the pages slowly turned. His name was there, in capitals at the top of each. Below were lines and lines of text. He picked out the occasional word. “Rapist, murder, connived, blackmail, conned, cheated, deceived, lied.”

  Dan groaned and turned his head into the fabric of the sofa, but the image refused to die. Now Linda Cott appeared by the book, dressed as a Master of Ceremonies, smiling broadly. Hundreds of people surrounded her in rows of theatre seats. She was introducing the pages, gleefully telling the crowd what scandal each contained.

  He couldn’t shut out what Cott had said. That he and Adam would find out what was written about them, and maybe sooner than they thought. His panicked mind imagined the possibilities. Someone discovering the Book and selling it to a newspaper. Sarah or Linda found not guilty at their trial, or sentenced to just a few months or years in prison, the Book patiently waiting for its moment when they were freed. An unknown accomplice releasing it …

  The Judgement Book’s toxic contents could be unleashed at any time. If he and Adam didn’t find it, it would be like a ticking clock within them both, counting down the minutes until detonation.

  Dan sat up again, reached out and cuddled Rutherford. The dog nuzzled into him, letting out a low whine. He felt his eyes start to sting.

  The glowing clock on the stereo system said it was almost eleven. Dan turned on the television and tried to watch a film, but hardly registered it. He closed his eyes again, but the visions crowded straight back into his mind. He sat up and stared out of the window. The cleansing breeze had cleared the night and a glowing half moon hung in the darkness of the sky. He was frightened to go to bed, to lie and think and dream.

  ‘Fancy a walk?’ he asked the dog. ‘I could do with trying to clear my head.’

  They crossed the road to Hartley Park. Dan wandered slowly around the tarmac path while Rutherford bolted back and forth across the grass, skidding to a halt, then turning and sprinting off again. Dan watched but couldn’t find his usual smile for the dog’s antics. He sat down on a wooden bench by the swings of the children’s play area and rested his head in his hands.

  A cultured voice cut through the peace of the night, startling him. ‘I say, are you all right, young man?’

  It was a middle-aged woman wearing a rainbow-coloured shawl, Wellington boots, a Fedora hat and walking a fat black Labrador. The fabled English eccentric was alive and well and had apparently moved to Plymouth.

  ‘Yes, sorry, fine,’ he said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I was just thinking, that’s all. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

  ‘Good,’ she said jovially. ‘I was a little concerned.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. It’s been a long week, that’s all. Thanks for the young man compliment too, I don’t get called that very often.’

  She smiled indulgently and turned to go. ‘Just one thing,’ said Dan. ‘I don’t have my watch on. Could you tell me the time please?’

  ‘Of course.’ She lifted a sleeve to reveal a classical, square-faced watch and angled it to catch the light of the streetlamps. Dan noticed the numerals were Roman. ‘Half past eleven,’ she said and walked briskly off.

  Dan watched her go, the Labrador waddling after her. Half past eleven. Or VI past XI, as her watch would have it.

  Rutherford wandered back and sat down, facing towards the flat.

  ‘I get the hint, old chap,’ said Dan. ‘We’ll go home in a minute. But first answer me this. Why is my mind full of Roman numerals?’

  The dog looked up at him, yawned, lay down on the tarmac. Dan didn’t move. What did Roman numerals have to do with anything? It had to be the blackmailers’ riddles. They were full of numbers. He tried to think methodically. What numbers had he seen recently that were important?

  There was that house number, the Charles family and their red gate. It was number nine. He searched his mind but couldn’t come up with anything that helped. Dan wondered what he was trying to do. The only riddle they had left was Sarah and Linda’s talk about their initial thoughts being dead right. How could that fit with Roman numerals?

  Dan breathed deeply at the night air, tried to use its freshness to instil new energy into his tired mind. Once again he worked through the case.

  1200 drifted into his brain. Where had he seen 1200? That was it, the number of people killed in the Blitz of Plymouth. It was inscribed on the new plaque at Charles Church, on the wall opposite the original, the one they’d opened. The number of people dead.

  That word again – dead.

  Dan stared up at the white moon, not seeing it, just thinking. What was it the blackmailers said about their initial thoughts? That they’d be dead right, would lead them to the Judgement Book. But the initials of what?

  What about the five parts of the riddle they’d originally been set? They had the answer now. It didn’t help, it led to a fake Book, but they had it. Perhaps it could be important after all. Were they looking for a riddle within a riddle? It sounded far-fetched, absurd even, like something from a spy film, but he wouldn’t put anything past Sarah and Linda.

  Open original memorial Church Charles.

  That was the answer to the five clues. The words twisted and bounced in Dan’s brain. He forced the letters to dance, imagined patterns and anagrams, but couldn’t see anything significant.

  Initial thoughts … why did the blackmailers make such a point of talking about their initial thoughts? That they were dead right. It was their last taunt, their final victory. To them it must be the most important part of the game.

  Open original memorial Church Charles.

  The initials.

  OOMCC.

  Dan felt a seeping excitement start to fill his body. It began slowly, just an imperceptible awakening, then quickly gathered momentum and seemed to fill him with new life. He felt instantly fresh, his mind clear.

  The sacred power of the epiphany moment.

  OOMCC.

  Roman numerals.

  But – a vague memory from long-gone schooldays. The Romans didn’t have zeroes.

  So call it MCC.

  Or 1200.

  Twelve hundred. The number of people killed in the Blitz of Plymouth. The number of dead. The number inscribed on the new plaque in the ruin of Charles Church. Not the old one, the original memorial where they’d thought the clues led and where they’d found the false book, but the new plaque.

  And how very like their two Worms. To hide the Book not where they thought it was, but just a few yards away.

  Dan swore loudly, jumped up from the bench, jogged back to his flat and called Adam.

  They met in the car park at Charles Cross. Adam was carrying a bulky holdall. He explained it contained some of the kit from the toolbox. It was a good job his friend was a Detective Chief Inspector, Dan thought, or they risked being arrested for going equipped for burglary.

  ‘I’m sorry if I woke you,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t wait.’

  ‘You didn’t wake me,’ Adam replied. ‘I was sitting up thinking.’

  Dan nodded. He knew that was exactly what Adam would have been doing, just as h
e himself had. He scarcely dared to hope that tonight they would find the Judgement Book and save them both that familiar torment in the weeks and months to come. It was something you could ease from your mind temporarily, for a few hours, even, after a while, maybe for a day or two. But you could never forget it.

  ‘Annie knows something’s wrong,’ Adam went on. ‘I reckon even Tom does. I haven’t exactly been myself of late. I’ve not told them yet. I just said to Annie I’ve been called out on a job tonight. But if we don’t find the Book, I will have to tell her everything. How it’s all going to hang over me – how I could be exposed and sacked at any time. The scandal, the outcry, the photographers at the door. The bloody lot. I know she’ll stand by me, but …’

  Adam shook his head and his voice tailed off. Dan patted his shoulder. He wanted to reassure his friend, tell him that this time he was sure they were going to find the Book, but the words wouldn’t come. With all they’d been through over the past few days, Dan wondered if he was losing the precious power of hope.

  The metal gate to the car park ground open, the noise surprisingly loud in the quietness of the night. They walked down the hill to the church. The bag Adam carried clunked as they strode.

  Across the city, a chorus of church bells struck midnight. The moon was high in the clear sky, surrounded now by a halo of haze. A few drunken revellers staggered along the pavements, and music thudded from the open doors and windows of the late bars. A police car streaked past, its blue light strobing over the pale stone of the ruined church.

  Adam turned away. This wasn’t a time to be recognised by his colleagues. They crossed the road to the roundabout and walked down the steps into the church’s open innards.

  A young couple were grinding together in the hollow bell tower.

  ‘Church patrol,’ barked Adam, holding out his warrant card. ‘On your way and this time you won’t be arrested.’

  Even given all they were going through, Dan had to stifle a laugh. It was truly an impressive feat, the detective managing to make the ridiculous words sound so pompous. The couple trotted away up the steps, hand in hand. They looked no more than about fifteen years old.

  Dan and Adam stood and stared at the plaque. It was an oval, head high, and held on to the stonework by four screws. Adam took a step closer and scrutinised them.

  ‘They’ve certainly been moved lately,’ he said. ‘There’s no rust on the heads. They’re shiny.’ He tapped the plaque. It sounded hollow. ‘Plenty of room there to slip something in behind too. Come on, I’ve had enough messing about. Let’s just do it.’

  He handed Dan a screwdriver, took one himself and they began work. The screws came out easily. They removed the left and right ones first, then the bottom. Within a couple of minutes the plaque was being held on to the wall only by the top screw. Adam slowly undid it while Dan supported the plaque. The screw fell out and rolled over the flagstones.

  The two men looked at each other.

  ‘You ready?’ asked Adam.

  Dan felt himself begin to tremble. His eyes were aching.

  ‘Yep,’ he said, as confidently as he could.

  Still though, they waited. It was as if they each feared being the one to make the discovery, that there was nothing behind the plaque, or worse, another fake book. Hopes raised and again shredded.

  There had been so much of that lately.

  Adam let out a low hiss, gave Dan a quick glance. He hesitated, then nodded and they lifted the plaque away from the wall.

  An object fell and hit the flagstones. They followed its path, watching it settle. It was wrapped in a thin white plastic shopping bag, but it was obviously a book, pocket diary-sized. Dan knelt down and touched it. He was surprised by his own reverence.

  It was as though they’d finally found the sacred relic at the end of a long and arduous quest. He’d expected something bigger, more powerful, more deadly. In the countless times he’d imagined it, it had towered over him with its dominance. But it was mundane, utterly ordinary.

  Adam knelt too, picked up the bag and carefully slid out the diary. It was bound in cheap black leather, just a plain cover, so very innocuous. It couldn’t have cost more than a few pounds over the counter of any average store. Dan gulped hard.

  Surely not another of the blackmailers’ tricks. He wasn’t sure he could take another one.

  Claire rushed back into his mind, tearful, on her knees, begging for his help. He blinked her away, concentrated on the small black diary. One corner was slightly frayed, as if it had seen far more use than the year’s work it was designed for. Dan wondered how many times it had been opened. By Sarah, or Linda, or both of them, sitting together, side by side, glorying in the fetid words and the justification of their grand purpose.

  Adam held the book in both hands. ‘Are you ready then? Do you want to open it, or shall I?’

  ‘You open it,’ said Dan, his voice croaking. ‘You’re the detective. Besides, I don’t know if I can.’

  Adam’s fingers found the corners of the diary. Outside the ruined church there was a screech of laughter followed by angry shouting. Dan could only make out the word “kebab”. A howl of pain echoed through the night. A vague image came to him of people fighting over a take-away. He’d seen it happen often enough before.

  Adam opened the book and the two of them stared at the first page. There, on the top line, in capitals, were the words WILL FREEDMAN MP. Below, in neat handwriting were the details of the night he’d spent with a young prostitute in a hotel in Blackpool.

  Adam’s hand was shaking, the damning words blurring a little with the motion.

  ‘This is it,’ the detective said simply. ‘We’ve found it. The Judgement Book.’

  Dan didn’t know what to say. He expected to feel exhilaration, delight, joy, happiness, even simple relief. But nothing came. There was just emptiness.

  ‘Let’s have a look at what else is in here, shall we?’ Adam asked. Dan only nodded. He seemed to have lost his voice.

  Adam leafed through the pages. They saw the names they expected, Leon Osmond, Steven Sinclair, Major Anthony Robinson, the details of the crimes they’d read about in the blackmail notes the men had received. There were other names there too, some very familiar.

  Dan saw one that surprised him. Christopher Parkinson, the pub baron. That pleasurable night conning him out of thousands of pounds for charity seemed a very long time ago now. Dan reached out, stopped Adam turning the pages and went to read, but the detective closed the book firmly.

  ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘We’ve done quite enough trespassing into the laments of people’s souls these last few days. We’ve all got our guilty secrets and secret is how they should stay. There’s only one thing that really matters to us now.’

  He opened the diary at the last page. It was blank.

  ‘If we’re in here, we should be towards the back,’ Adam continued. ‘You want to have a look?’

  Dan knew they didn’t have a choice, but he still couldn’t find anything to say. A cold and familiar fear filled him. Claire sprung back into his mind again, the loss of his unborn son, the words the book could contain and the effect they would have on his life. The last few days felt unreal.

  How his world had changed in such a short time. How fragile was the hold on human happiness.

  ‘We’ve got to look,’ Adam said grimly. He started leafing through the back pages. Dan watched intently. The pages were blank, two, three of them, then ten.

  Dan felt his whole body shaking as Adam slowly turned the sheets of paper. Still they were blank. Then he came to a page with a heading, neatly written in blue ink.

  ADAM BREEN / DAN GROVES

  Dan closed his eyes. He imagined himself standing on a scaffold, the gallows waiting. It was a sunshine day and hundreds of people ringed the wooden structure, all clapping, smiling, laughing. Lizzie was reading aloud from the Book, the crowd quietened by her words. The waiting hangman took off the enveloping hood. It was Claire and her face was impas
sive.

  He opened his eyes and stared at the page. There were just three blocks of writing. A pigeon fluttered past, but he hardly noticed. He had to read the words. They blurred in his sight, but Dan forced his vision to focus.

  “Adam Breen gave strictly confidential information to Dan Groves about a police investigation into a rapist. Groves deceitfully and illegally secured a DNA sample from the main suspect under the pretence of interviewing him about police harassment. This sample was used to help convict the man. But that wasn’t enough for Breen. He also leaked information that the man was a child molester, to ensure he suffered a dreadful time in prison. The man was eventually killed in jail by other inmates – probably as a result of Breen and Groves’ actions.

  “Further – Breen appears to have told Groves the address of Leon Osmond, as retaliation for the Superintendent’s complaint about the investigation into him. This allowed newspaper and TV pictures of Osmond to appear, in connection with his corruption in evading a drink driving charge – a story already documented in these pages.

  “Breen and Groves are clearly very close, far more so than is healthy and certainly more than their professions should allow. They have worked on a number of cases together. Further investigation into exactly what happened in those should prove most interesting.”

  Dan stood up. He hadn’t realised his knees were aching. He watched a car screech around the roundabout, music pumping from inside its blackened windows.

  ‘They’ve got us,’ he said finally.

  Adam nodded heavily. ‘Yes. It’s not everything by any means, but it’s plenty enough to finish us. And if anyone looked up the rest of the cases we’ve worked on together, it wouldn’t take long to realise some of the other things we’ve done.’

  Another long pause, then Dan said. ‘So what do we do? I take it the contents of the Book have to become known? You can’t just take Sarah and Linda to court on the basis of the blackmail notes they sent to the victims they actually chose?’