by Simon Hall
If there wasn’t, that left Mr – in the Assistant Chief Constable’s words – Munroe as their prime suspect. How the hell would they get anything on him? He was clever, knew they were suspicious and that they’d already been warned off him. He didn’t like to think of Brian Flood’s reaction if Munroe complained again.
If it was a match they had their man, but then what? Godley wasn’t stupid. He’d seen their interest in him and wouldn’t go out trying to rape another woman in a hurry, if at all. The DNA evidence they had was utterly inadmissible in court. And he didn’t want to go telling his bosses how he’d got it, either. So what would they do if it was Godley?
His mobile rang again. Suzanne and Claire’s heads both snapped round, stared at him. A withheld number this time. Hopeful, that could be the lab. All police numbers were withheld.
‘Hello, Adam Breen.’
‘Adam, Keith at the lab.’
A shot of excitement kicked his mind. He stood up, started pacing, nodded to Suzanne and Claire. They both edged towards him, staring expectantly.
‘We’ve got the results of that sample test you wanted,’ the technician went on. ‘The one on, what was his name? Hang on… I’ve got it here...’
‘Godley,’ said Adam quickly. ‘Will Godley.’
‘Yes, that’s it. Will Godley. Yes, we’ve got the results here.’
Adam thought he was holding his breath. Was the man being deliberately exasperating? ‘Yes?’ he prompted.
‘It’s a... hang on, I’ve got it here.’ For Christ’s sake! ‘Hang on… it’s a… match. A match.’
Adam sat down heavily on a desk, gave Suzanne and Claire a thumbs-up. They stared, then hugged each other.
‘You sure?’ Adam asked breathlessly. ‘A hundred per cent?’
‘Ohh, now, we never say a hundred per cent,’ the voice replied. ‘You should know better.’
Adam was glad the technician wasn’t in the same room. He could imagine his hands around the man’s throat, squeezing.
‘How good then?’ he asked. ‘Ninety-nine per cent?’
‘Oh, we can do rather better than that.’ The man sounded miffed. ‘It’s a very good match. If you pushed me, as I expect they will in court, I’d say ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine per cent.’
Adam thought for a moment, did some swift mental calculations.
‘So effectively it’s a million to one chance that Godley isn’t the rapist?’
This time the response was instant.
‘Oh, at least.’
Chapter Twenty
Friday night had delivered its sweet release from the cares of the week and Dan was heading down to the Old Bank to meet El. He didn’t want to think about it too much, just in case, but he was feeling good. The swamp hadn’t returned, and although he knew its mercy was only ever temporary, he was savouring the moment.
Mood swings were part of the mountainous territory of depression. But if you had to suffer the troughs, you might as well enjoy the peaks. It had been an important, productive, and even enjoyable week and he had a good drinking session to look forward to tonight funded entirely by El, his reward for finding the red-headed woman.
So much had happened. Policing, professionally, even a hint of a new romance. It’d all been stirring. Dan thought it through as he walked down the hill to Mutley Plain. He barely noticed the cars swishing by, the laughing groups of weekend revellers or the luminous full moon rising above the city.
He picked some fluff from the shoulder of the new polo shirt he’d bought. A shopping trip was a sure sign he was feeling better. It was dark blue, with a diagonal red stripe across the front and a number nine on the back. Smart, in a casual way, he thought. Just one of the positives of the week.
There was that article in the Daily Gazette the morning after the funeral. A full page they’d given it. A great story.
‘The Mystery of the Death Pictures Revealed’ ran the headline, almost making him drop the paper. Him and thousands of others, he thought, exactly as the smart sub-editor intended. Some spluttering over their breakfasts, others swearing out loud on commuter trains. It was the brackets underneath which made him relax. ‘No, not that one,’ it read.
Half of the article was devoted to a report on McCluskey’s funeral. There were quotes aplenty from the mourners and quite a few from Abi too. The other half was the mystery El had solved, the two previously unknown women featured in the pictures. One of El’s snaps of each was positioned next to the corresponding painting for the readers to compare. The likenesses were striking. The text held a few words of explanation about how the women knew McCluskey and was full of none-too-subtle hints about the nature of their relationships.
Dan had called El to congratulate him.
‘Well done, mate, great splash. It looks really good. You must be delighted.’
‘I am, Dan. It’s one of the best stories I’ve ever done. I’m going to have it framed and stuck up on me wall. And thanks for your help too, I couldn’t have done it without you. The drinks are on me.’
He’d managed to dissuade El from hitting the town that evening. Work-night drinking tended to finish him off for the rest of the week and Lizzie wasn’t a sympathetic boss at the best of times. Self-inflicted illness made no headway whatsoever into her understanding. They’d agreed on Friday night. El wouldn’t say how much he’d made from the pictures beyond that it was quite a few thousand pounds.
Dan had covered the funeral in roughly the way he’d outlined to Nigel, but added a sequence at the end of the Death Picture containing Joanna and some of the interview with her. They were the only media who had the angle, sending Lizzie into the closest she came to unbounded delight.
‘Very well done. That was a great exclusive,’ she’d said at that evening’s post-programme meeting. ‘I knew it was a good move putting you on the story.’ News editors, he thought. Their strategy in brief; claim credit for all successes, disown any failures.
The Death Pictures were out of sight under his bed again, but still playing on his mind. He’d got them out again a couple of times this week and studied them closely, to see if he could make any more headway. He could sense thousands of others doing the same. He had that familiar feeling McCluskey was laughing at him, but he did it anyway. What was there to lose?
He’d gone to the library, looked up streets with missing house numbers and found what he expected. Canterbury Street, just off the city centre, a section in the middle left flat and undeveloped as a memorial after the Blitz of Plymouth. There was a photo, but it was an old one and Dan couldn’t tell if it was the street in Picture Three. He had promised himself he’d go to the supermarket after the library, but a familiar growing excitement overrode that. He jogged down the stone stairs into the street, got into his car and set off.
As he pulled into the street, he knew straight away it was the one. McCluskey’s work was scrupulously accurate. There was no chough, but apart from that it was the same. And there was the manhole cover, half lifted in the picture, now flat in the road. Dan felt his excitement grow. He parked the car untidily – more abandoned than parked really, he thought – got out and walked quickly over to it.
The street was quiet, so he stood on the pavement and stared at the cover. Was he really going to have to get down on his knees and lever it up? A memory of the embarrassment at the Advent Project intruded sharply into his mind. Not again, surely not again. Was McCluskey trying to humiliate him? But what would he think if he read in the paper next week that the solution had been found here and he’d given up? He couldn’t risk it.
Dan walked back to the car and found a couple of hefty steel spanners in the boot. He checked up and down the street. No cars coming, no one about. He kneeled down and began levering up the metal slab.
It was heavy, but after a couple of hard pushes, it gave. Panting, he sat back and t
ook hold of the edge with his fingers. But he was sweating and it slipped. He dropped it again and swore. A crashing metallic clang echoed around the street like a discordant cymbal, but still no one came to see what he was doing.
Dan got back up, counted to ten and prized it open once more. He bent down and looked inside the drain. There was nothing. No note, no envelope, nothing taped there at all, just the darkness and pungent rotting smell of sewage. He checked again. Nothing.
He was about to drop the cover back into place when he looked at it. Sprayed on its inside face in small but neat yellow letters was a word. ‘No!’ Dan stared at it for a second in disbelief, swore again and glared angrily up at the sky. That bloody man McCluskey.
That had been bad enough, but just as he was about to hurriedly leave, an old man had emerged from the door of a house on the opposite side of the road.
‘Ere, boy!’ he’d called in a pure Plymouth accent, waving a stout walking stick. ‘You’s the twenty-third arsehole to do that now. We’s been counting and we’s thought you should know.’
Dan could smile now, walking down to the pub on a spring weekend evening for a free night out, but he didn’t at the time. No, he certainly didn’t. There was plenty more cursing of bloody Joseph bloody McCluskey, a good run with Rutherford and a couple of tins of beer before he calmed down.
The pictures were back under his bed again.
He was almost at the Old Bank and stopped at the bank next door to get some money from the cashpoint. He shouldn’t need any if El was true to his word, and he usually was. But there was just the one potential complication tonight. A very pleasant one too.
He’d dropped in to Charles Cross to see Adam, but the Chief Inspector was busy with a call, so he’d waited. He only wanted a coffee and a chat, an update on how the rapist investigation was going. Given what they’d agreed, Dan wanted to talk to Adam in person, not even risk a telephone call. The word his mind wouldn’t let go of, that he could imagine a barrister spitting out in court as the two of them stood trial, was conspiracy.
‘This conspiracy, members of the jury, to try to entrap a man for the crime of rape… this conspiracy between two men who are supposed to be upholders of the truth…’
Dan sat in the MIR and waited. Claire Reynolds was the only officer there. She’d asked him about how he’d seen the solution to the Edward Bray case and they’d got chatting.
They compared notes on the places they went out in Plymouth. Roughly similar: the less raucous, more upmarket ones. They were getting on well, he thought. He was applying the old Groves charm and it seemed to be working. She wore no ring, wedding or engagement. And she had such a lovely smile.
But Adam had warned him off, hadn’t he? And Dan could see the danger. How could he miss it? No, it was best not to go there, Adam was quite right.
‘So how come I haven’t seen you out, given we go to the same places?’ he asked, noting he’d completely failed to listen to his own good sense.
‘I’m not out that often,’ she’d said. ‘I get really tired after work some weeks and I don’t know all that many people here yet either. But I do like a good night out.’
She hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend. Surely she would have by now? It was the standard female defence if they suspected unwanted attention.
‘Yep, I know what you mean,’ Dan replied. ‘Something to relieve the tension of the week. A good blow out.’
‘Yes… I often wish I knew more people so I could go out more often.’
That was a hint surely? It had to be. And her body language was good. Lots of smiles, she’d angled herself to face him, no sign of folded arms or defensiveness. But Adam had warned him off. And he was usually right. Oh, what the hell, it was an opening and he liked her. Get on with it. Deep breath, best smile, try to appear nonchalant…
‘Well, if you’re at a loose end, you’re always welcome to join me and some of my friends for a drink one evening.’
Some of my friends? What was he talking about? Would it be one of those ‘come out with me and some of my friends’ nights, when mysteriously the friends failed to show up? They’d happened before, sure enough.
‘Thanks, I’d like that,’ she’d said, still smiling. ‘Take my mobile number and give me a call or text me when you’re out.’
Shit, she was interested. She was! He’d had to curl his toes hard in his shoes to stay calm.
He’d sent her a text earlier to say he was going into town with a friend for a few beers, and would she like to join them later? The answer had been quick. Not a brush-off he thought, just honest. ‘Busy at mo with big job on, but could be out later. Do fancy a drink. Will let you know. x’
He liked the kiss at the end, Dan thought, as he walked into the Old Bank. So a possible complication tonight, but a welcome one.
Dan looked around and spotted El in his customary corner with what looked like a bottle of champagne in front of him. Almost worth a photograph in itself. El produced a sleazy grin and waved his glass.
Claire Reynolds wondered if she’d have a chance to wear the new top she’d bought yesterday lunchtime. It was midnight blue, a good colour for her, a few subtle spangles around the neckline to add some life. It was tight too, flattering her figure, stomach in, breasts out, especially if she wore one of her new bras.
She’d told herself she wasn’t shopping to impress, just needed some new bits with the summer coming on. And she’d been working hard, it was time she spoiled herself a little. But she did like that reporter, didn’t she? Not the best-looking guy she’d ever known, but he had that knack of making you laugh, and that went a long way.
He said he’d text or call when he was next out. She couldn’t risk it being that weekend and her not having anything new to wear. And then he had texted her, and here she was, stuck in this cold and cramped parked car again. Waiting and watching, not a hope of any partying later and not much of catching their man either by the look of it. Just waiting and watching.
They’d kept Godley under surveillance since they knew he was their man. If they couldn’t arrest him, they could do the next best thing. It was unauthorised and illegal, but she was confident it was right. She was proud to have been taken into DCI Breen’s confidence.
‘How do you feel about the law, Claire?’ he’d asked over a coffee in his office. An informal ‘how’s the promotion going’ chat, Mr Breen had called it. ‘It’s our master, but do you think it sometimes restricts us too much?’ he continued. ‘Should we always obey it to the letter?’
She hadn’t quite known what to say. It felt like one of those impossible questions from a job interview. ‘It depends on the circumstances, sir,’ she’d replied. ‘I joined the force to do what was right.’
She’d tried to read his expression, but Adam Breen’s face was set. Then he raised a hand, tightened his tie and she knew she was on target. He’d got up from behind his desk, checked the office door was securely shut and no one was around, then explained.
She didn’t know where that DNA sample had come from, but she did know Godley was the rapist. That was all she needed. Now it was just a question of getting the evidence against him. Subtly and discreetly, or just plain deviously. It didn’t matter.
It was only the three of them and it was taking its toll. Adam wouldn’t allow her or Suzanne to watch Godley alone, so they were both sitting at the end of his street, in the inconspicuous old CID Astra, waiting and watching. Mr Breen one shift, she and Suzanne the next, strict orders to call him if they were onto something. How much longer could they keep it up? She felt leaden with fatigue. She stifled a yawn, prompting a smile from Suzanne.
‘Have a sleep if you like, Claire. I’ll keep an eye out. You don’t need to be awake, just so long as you’re here.’
She cuddled up into her fleece and rested her head back on the seat. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but at least she c
ould close her eyes. It was half-past eight, darkness encroaching slowly over the land. She thought of Dan, out having a drink, enjoying himself, talking to other women, no doubt. He was a charmer. She wondered where he was. Leaning against a wall, sipping at a pint, laughing, telling some of those anecdotes of his.
An urgent whisper from Suzanne interrupted her thoughts. ‘Claire!’
She sat up. Suzanne was pointing ahead. A dark figure was leaving the house. Godley. Was it her imagination, or did he look furtive, sinister? No, it must be wishful thinking. He’d been out many times while they’d been watching, to the shop, the pub, or just for a walk. But she scrambled out of the car, walking well back on the opposite side of the street. It had to be her doing most of the tailing. Godley had met Suzanne, would recognise her straight away, even in the dark.
Suzanne started the engine and prepared to follow. They’d swap intermittently. Claire tailing him for a while on foot, Suzanne going past in the car, safe in its anonymity, Claire resuming the trail. He mustn’t spot them. He’d be warned off, then they’d never get him. If he saw them, it was all over. That was, if he went any further than the corner shop this time.
When they’d started tailing Godley he’d been suspicious, continually stopping, looking over his shoulder, switching direction. Not so much now, he’d relaxed a little, but they still had to be careful. Claire followed quickly, her trainers soundless on the pavement, all thoughts of a night out and new clothes evaporating in the heat of the hunt.
Nine o’clock and he was feeling light-headed already. It was that bloody cheap champagne. And there was no respite either. They’d taken a taxi into the city centre and made it to the Exchequer Bar, next to St Andrews Church. El had ordered cocktails. Not a cocktail each, that was far too restrained. Before them stood a towering jug of technicolour pina colada. He was glad he’d bought those headache tablets when they’d passed a garage earlier. He suspected he’d need them, come the morning.
