by Simon Hall
‘The contents would certainly get out. The Book would be the most important exhibit in their trial. Then it becomes a public document, nicely on the record in black and white for anyone who wants to see. It’d make all the papers, radio and TV, the works. They’d doubtless report what it said about each person named. It’d be a huge scandal.’
Dan walked over to the wall and leaned back against it. A leaden weight of tiredness had crept over him. He lowered himself and sat cross-legged on a flagstone. Adam followed and sat beside him. He dropped the Judgement Book in front of them.
‘So what do we do?’ asked Dan, gazing at the diary. ‘There’s important evidence in there. Can we just rip out the page that contains the stuff on us?’
Adam shook his head sadly. ‘No. The book’s got our fingerprints all over it and our DNA too now. I should have been more careful, but I suppose I didn’t really believe we’d find it. And when we did, I just wanted to see what was in it. If a page disappeared, and the book was in my custody, it’s pretty obvious where the finger would point. Sarah and Linda would make sure it was raised in court, what that page contained.’
They sat in silence and stared at the diary. Just a book, cheap leather and paper, small and innocuous, but full of so many secrets and with a hold over so many lives.
Dan poked at it with his foot. ‘Do you need the Book to convict them?’
‘No. We’ve got more than enough evidence. I’m sure they’ll take it all to trial so they can trumpet their so-called mission and get their final blaze of publicity, but we’ve got plenty to convict them. That’s not in doubt.’
Dan drummed a couple of fingers on the flagstones.
‘Well, you and I are the only ones who know the Judgement Book’s been found …’ he began, and let his voice falter.
Adam bowed his head between his knees. Dan stared up at the moon. He wondered who would look after Rutherford if he were sent to prison. He couldn’t bear to see his friend incarcerated in the concrete and wire cages of an animal home. He’d be given away to some stranger, forget all about Dan. If only Claire was still around, she would have taken the dog in and waited for Dan to walk free again. He screwed his eyes shut to escape the thoughts.
Adam finally lifted his head. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and so subdued that Dan had to strain to hear.
‘You know, we have connived together in ways which have been both illegal and immoral. Sarah and Linda are quite right about that. But I’m convinced that everything we’ve done has ultimately been in the interests of justice. Whatever happens, I’m content I’ve always acted for the best.’
Dan kept quiet, his mind running back over all they’d been through together. He wanted to believe Adam was right, but he knew it was something he’d argue about with himself in the times to come. He tried not to wonder if that would be in a prison cell, or the dark corner of some dingy bar.
Adam got to his feet. ‘I’m going to screw this plaque back on to the wall,’ he said. ‘And I suggest you go home. It’s been a hell of a few days. But on your way back, be a good citizen and pick up some of this horrible litter that’s spoiling one of Plymouth’s most important memorials, will you? And make sure you dispose of it well.’
There was an odd silence. Both men held a look.
Dan reached out a hand to his friend and Adam pulled him up. The detective took the plaque and started screwing it back on to the wall. He didn’t look round as Dan slowly climbed the stone steps, crossed the road, walked over to the police station, got into his car and carefully drove home. The dashboard clock said it was half past one. He yawned and ran his tongue over the ulcer. It had stopped stinging.
He let himself into the flat and was greeted by a panting, yelping Rutherford. Dan knelt down, gave the dog a cuddle and felt a sudden, sweeping urge to burst into tears. He hid his face in the soft fur so Rutherford wouldn’t see the salty trails leaking from the corners of his eyes.
He got up, poured a glass of whisky, found a box of matches in the kitchen, crumpled up some newspaper in the grate of his fire and set it alight. He added a few other bits of waste paper and rubbish that he found around the living room. Orange flames rose and danced, flickering their reflections through the room. It was remarkable how fast it all burned, became only a small pile of black and grey ash.
Dan let Rutherford out into the garden and stared up at the moon as he waited for the dog to return. He walked back inside, cleared the ash from the grate, brushed his teeth automatically, got into bed and drew up the courage to close his eyes. Before he did he reached out for his mobile and looked again at the text message from Claire.
He read it, then read it once more, stared at it, debated with himself, and finally decided he would ring her in the morning.
Dan lay back on the bed, switched off the light, but knew he wouldn’t sleep. He let a series of slow minutes slip by, took the phone, found Claire’s number and called it.
Each ring felt like a step towards a crossroads of his life.
Epilogue
THE COUNSELLOR SAID TO write it all down, everything I feel, as honestly as possible, and she’ll talk it through when we meet next week. I’m not sure about this at all, but, here goes.
Deep breath –
He’s still there, in my life, but I can only see him in the distance. He’s like a castle on the horizon. The keep is tall, the walls are made of thick stone and heavily defended. And around those walls are more walls, more rugged stone, all topped with barbed wire and ringed with a wide moat.
He’s that far away, and he protects himself so well. But just occasionally I can reach him. And sometimes he reaches out to me.
We haven’t spoken. Not since that night, five months ago, when we said too much. But there is the odd text message. I know it doesn’t sound much, but, for him, it is. And so it is for me too.
What’s important is that there’s still a link, a connection. It’s fragile, but it’s there.
I think I’ve come to realise the castle isn’t just keeping me out. It’s imprisoning him too.
I’d like to help him escape it. But I think only he can do that. So I wait. It’s all I can do.
Even now, these months on, I still find myself looking down at my stomach and running a hand over it. I can’t go back there, to that dreadful day, and it’ll be a very long time until we can talk about it, if, perhaps, ever. I’m still not really sure why it happened. But I hope he doesn’t think he’s the only one who was so very wounded.
And even more filled with regret.
I keep going, day by day. I try to focus on my job. Some days are better than others. The most recent have been a welcome distraction.
The trial of Sarah and Linda finished last week. Both were jailed for twelve years. When the judge passed sentence, Sarah just laughed at him. But Linda looked stunned. I wonder if I could see some remorse in her face for all that she did.
There was an extraordinary moment when, giving evidence, Sarah told the court where the Judgement Book was hidden. All the reporters stampeded out and ran down to Charles Church, all except Dan. He just sat there, on the press bench, with his head bowed.
We heard later that the journalists didn’t find the Book. It must have been yet another of the blackmailers’ games. That’s one of the most enduring mysteries of this case. What became of the Judgement Book? Perhaps some day we’ll get to know. But I’m not really sure I care.
Mr Breen is still the Detective Chief Inspector here, and has been given a commendation for his work on the inquiry. Those complaints against him, by Osmond and Robinson were found to be baseless, and quite rightly so. He was doing his job on a very difficult case, and doing it well.
The death of that Iraqi boy was investigated by the military. I’m not the only one who wonders just how thorough and committed an inquiry it was. They concluded there was insufficient evidence for anyone to be charged. Well, surprise, surprise. When I heard that, I did wonder whether Sarah and Linda had a point in what they were
trying to say about the “establishment”.
Sinclair was investigated by some colleagues in the financial crime unit, and was jailed for five years. He’s in Dartmoor Prison now, and doing his best to make amends, working in the education service and teaching other inmates how to read and write.
As for Osmond, I don’t quite know what to say. He never returned to work, instead he took early retirement. The gossip is that the High Honchos did a deal to save a scandal, and to protect the poor cop who caught him drink-driving. It was an awful situation for him to be put in.
For what it’s worth, I’d like to have seen Osmond publicly disgraced, but I think the way it was handled was about as good as it could have been.
So, work is going fine. The flat’s fine. My friends are fine. Everything’s fine.
The only problem is him. And what happened between us, and why, and whether it can ever be worked out.
I have to believe there’s hope. There’s always hope. While there’s belief, there’s hope. And believe me, there is belief.
So, that’s it. That’s how I feel, as honestly as possible.
And that was where I was going to end this, all ready for my first counselling session, whatever good it may do.
But now comes the twist, the little sting in the tale.
I’ve just had a phone call. An urgent one.
For the first time in five months, I’m going to see him again. We’re being thrown together on the biggest inquiry either of us has ever worked on, a terrorist atrocity in a sacred place.
We’ll be investigating a dreadful case. We’ll have to see each other. At last, we’ll have to talk.
And I’m wondering just what the next few days will bring.
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