by Simon Hall
‘So we went in all guns blazing on an innocent man.’
‘Not just innocent, but a well-respected pillar of the community type.’
‘That’s not going to go down well.’
Adam nodded and managed a tight smile. ‘No, indeed it isn’t.’
Dan sat in the edit suite with Jenny, his favourite picture editor, and put the report together. He noticed he was humming to himself as he worked. With pictures and a story like this, it was a pleasure.
The one oddity had been that earlier call from Adam. Dan answered with some trepidation, expected pleas and then perhaps even threats not to broadcast the story. But the detective’s attitude was very different.
‘You got the lot?’
‘Yep. All the cops running in and bashing the door down. We even got the sound of the fatal shot on tape.’
‘So you’re going to put it out at lunchtime?’
‘Yes.’
There was a strange pause at the end of the line. ‘It hardly looks good.’
‘No,’ Dan agreed hesitantly. ‘But I’ve got to report it. It’s too important a story not to. It’ll be on all the other media too. I know you probably tipped me off because you wanted the public to see the police taking action to fight terrorism, but I’m sorry, I have to report this.’
Another pause, then Adam said quietly, ‘Yes. Of course. I understand. You’re just doing your job.’
‘Are you OK?’ Dan asked, puzzled. ‘I mean, I expected – well, you to be angry, or upset, or ask me to tone the report down, or something like that anyway.’
Still no reaction from Adam.
‘Are you there?’ Dan asked.
‘Yeah, I’m still here,’ the detective replied. ‘I was just thinking.’
A long breath on the line. Eventually Adam said, ‘I understand you’ve got to report the story. I appreciate all the media will want to. I’ve just got one question for you – I guess as you were the only journalist there, all the other outlets, radio, TV, newspapers, the works, they’ll all use the information you’ve got.’
‘Yeah. That’s standard. If one hack gets something no one else has, everyone reports it afterwards.’
‘OK, well, I’d better leave you to it. You’ve got all the info you need, I take it?’
Adam’s tone was distant, thoughtful. ‘I think so,’ Dan replied. ‘Unless there’s anything else you want to tell me.’
‘No, not really. Only, I suppose, one important point. Just for accuracy’s sake.’
Dan picked up his pen. ‘Which is?’
‘Just that this was an FX5 operation. They uncovered the intelligence which initiated it. They led it. It was their officer who fired the fatal shot. Greater Wessex police came along to provide back up, but it was an FX5 operation. I think it’s important that’s made clear.’
Dan nodded to himself and began writing the script. Adam was right. That was indeed an important detail which needed emphasising.
He started the report with the armed officers running up the road and bursting into the house, just one line of commentary to explain what the viewers were seeing.
‘This was a security services operation designed to follow up a lead in the Wessex Minster bombing case – but it turned into a fiasco.’
Dan paused for the sound of the commotion and the door being broken down, the combination conveying the drama to the viewers.
‘The FX5 officers were looking for a suspected terrorist,’ Dan continued, ‘but found only a well-respected and entirely innocent local businessman.’
Jenny edited in a couple of shots of the house, while Dan wrote the next line. It was the killer, the one which would take the story around the country and so effectively ignite the flames of public anger.
It always had been, and probably always would be a quirk of the British people, one Dan had often commented on, and rarely in a positive way, but which could now be very useful. The masses might tut at genocide in Africa, be a little upset by an earthquake in China, or sigh at a tsunami in India, all with the attendant loss of tens of thousands of human lives, but the slightest of injury to an innocent animal would instantly provoke gibbering, incandescent outrage.
Dan finished his script and read it into the microphone. ‘As we were filming,’ he intoned in his best sombre broadcast voice, ‘from within the house came a gunshot.’
Again he paused, to let the viewers hear the unmistakeable sound. And now Dan delivered the sting of the story. ‘An FX5 officer, apparently startled by the sudden movement, had fired his pistol – at the owner’s cat, killing her instantly.’
Jenny let out a hiss. ‘The bastard,’ she spat. ‘How could he? The poor cat.’
Behind her, Dan couldn’t help smiling. The old adage about revenge being best served cold came to mind. It was true to an extent, but no doubt conceived in the times before television news. These days revenge was at its best by far when broadcast.
He concluded the report with a couple more pictures of the house, and a final piece of commentary. ‘The man who lives here, local businessman Tariq Nazri, was too upset to be interviewed. But he has released a statement saying he is shocked and appalled by what happened, and intends to sue the people responsible – FX5.’
Dan sat back, sketched a couple of contented doodles on his notepad and watched Jenny edit the final pictures.
The lunchtime battle with Lizzie beat a little of the lustre from Dan’s mood, but not too much. It was a rite of passage for any Wessex Tonightreporter, one which had to be accepted and faced.
Her verdict on the world exclusive, cat-killing FX5 terrorist raid story was “acceptable to reasonably good”. More of the same was required for tonight, along with any updates, new angles or interviews.
‘I’ve got an idea I’d like to think about trying,’ Dan ventured when the list of demands had eased.
A stiletto grated into the newsroom carpet. ‘What?’
‘The police think the Islamic Centre may have had a part in the bombing. I’d like to try some secret filming there. You never know what we might find. They could be preaching hatred and holy war.’
‘Have you got any evidence of anything like that?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Exactly?’
‘Alright then, at all.’
‘So it’d be a fishing expedition for what you can find?’
‘Or an investigation.’
She pointed a sharpened fingernail at a copy of the Editorial Guidelines on the newsroom shelf. ‘Volume one, Chapter one, page one – no secret filming without first having evidence of wrongdoing. Haven’t you read it?’
A large and newly updated copy arrived on Dan’s desk every year, and always proved most useful. Three had been used as kindling for a fire. One was propping open the kitchen door in the flat. Two more were elevating the screen of his computer, their giveaway spines turned from public view, naturally.
‘I guess that’s a no then,’ he said.
‘Well spotted.’
‘OK, what about this? The cops think there might be a computer element to the case. I’d like to have a word with some people I know about how the internet can be used for radicalising, that kind of thing.’
An eyebrow raised. ‘Acceptable. So long as you keep on top of the raid story and don’t go disappearing into the police investigation like you have before.’
Dan nodded his way to the newsroom door. A score draw, not a bad result when taking on the might of Lizzie’s forces. He made the call and drove down to Devonport, the historic naval district of Plymouth, home of warships, a vast military dockyard, and also the favoured haunt of some strange, underworld creatures.
The flat was even more full of monitors, keyboards, hard drives, speakers and circuit boards than the last time he had been here. There was scarcely room to move without upsetting a ramshackle pile of technical equipment. It smelt of an unpleasant mix of solder and damp and all the curtains were closed, the presence of a pattern of intricate spiders’ webs sug
gesting they hadn’t been opened for some considerable time.
‘Have you got something against daylight?’ Dan asked the two young men sitting together at the console.
‘You never know when they’re watching you,’ the one with the longest hair replied, without turning around. ‘You can’t take any chances in this life.’
They started giggling. Dan shrugged and looked around for somewhere to sit. The sofa was covered with computer magazines. He moved one, found a third of a congealed pizza in a box underneath and put the magazines back.
‘Hey, I’d forgotten that,’ said the man with the slightly less long hair and reached over and took a slice. He offered the box to Dan. ‘Want one?’
It was an easy offer to refuse. Dan had never tried greening pepperoni, and now didn’t feel like the time. Copper might be encouraged to turn green to make an elegant architectural statement, but meat verdigris was a far less appetising prospect.
The two men at the terminal chomped away happily on the newly discovered food detritus. They called themselves Flash and Gordon, and refused to answer to any other names. Dan reflected ruefully that his last few days had been spent in a world where the name given by the person you were speaking to was the least likely to be anything approaching the one with which they had been born.
There was no point arguing. He’d tried that the last time they met and was greeted with hysterical giggles. It was a year ago, when he was covering a story about a hacker breaking into the computer systems of the dockyard. They’d emailed him, invited him to the flat and given Dan an insight into how easy it could be, all anonymously of course.
And all punctuated by incessant giggles.
The place was as dirty now as it was then, perhaps more so, but a couple of new posters had been added to the walls. They advertised the merits of computer operating systems Dan had never heard of, and seemed to be based more on the Greek alphabet than English.
Both Flash and Gordon were young, probably in their mid twenties, and both had very long hair and the kind of unhealthy, pasty complexions which befitted the nocturnal. They both wore jeans, trainers and glasses.
They might as well have also worn T-shirts emblazoned with the word Geek. The casting section of the drama department could scarcely have provided better examples.
‘So, how can we help you, Dan, Dan, the TV man?’ Flash asked, still without looking around from the monitor.
Dan swallowed his annoyance. ‘I’ve got a case to work on and there’s a suggestion computers might be a part of it.’
‘Is it this terrorism one?’
‘Yes.’
As one, they span on their swivel chairs and chorused, ‘Cool!’
Dan sighed. He felt like a children’s TV presenter giving a personal show. He explained about the list of numbers and names in Ahmed’s phone.
‘And they don’t correspond to real people?’ Gordon asked.
‘No.’
‘So there must be some code, or message, or something important hidden in there?’
‘That’s the theory.’
Another chair spin, another chorus of ‘cool!’ When the latest burst of giggling had subsided, Flash said, ‘But you haven’t got the list?’
‘No. I just needed to get an idea of what kind of thing could be hidden in there.’
The computer emitted a beep. Flash turned back to it and beat out a furious rhythm on the keyboard.
‘Hexadecimal,’ Gordon announced.
Dan blinked hard. ‘What? What the hell is that?’
More giggles.
‘It’s a number base system computers use,’ Gordon said, when the hilarity had subsided. ‘It means you don’t just have to stop when you get to ten, like we’re taught at scabby old school. You can count up to 16. I sometimes use it to get myself to sleep at night.’
Dan didn’t want to think about that. ‘So why do you reckon it might be the key to the list?’
Flash giggled. ‘That’s cute. Real banana head. You’re so dim for a TV man.’
Dan hid a groan. ‘No, I’m just normal. Something you two clearly don’t suffer from. If you wouldn’t mind explaining?’
‘Letters and numbers!’ Gordon chirped, holding up his hand for a high-five from his oddball friend. ‘If you want to count past nine, you have to start using letters. So hexadecimal uses A for 10, B for 11, C for 12 and so on. Letters and numbers all together. That’s your code cracked, Dan, Dan, the TV man.’
They performed another spin on their chairs and once more chorused. ‘Cool!’
Dan quickly let himself out of the flat, accompanied by the sound of giggling.
The evening was going to be a quiet one. Dan needed to be fresh for the coming morning. He was rejoining the investigation. Adam was back in charge and had called earlier.
‘Can you come over to Exeter for ten? I’d like to go through a briefing and then we’ll talk to Ahmed. I want to see what you make of him. Your strange interviewing skills could even give us a way into him.’
Dan didn’t bother trying to hide his delight. ‘Sure. The spooks are off the case then?’
‘They’re still around, but only in an “advisory” capacity. After the debacle of that raid, the powers that be had no choice, really. But don’t start thinking we’ve won yet. This is a hell of a case, high-profile and very sensitive and we’re being carefully watched. There’s real pressure on for results.’
Dan added what he’d discovered about Parfitt and Kindle, then hung up and sat on the sofa, staring out at the evening sky. His mouth felt parched. He got up, headed for the kitchen, opened the beer cupboard and gazed at the multicoloured array of comforting cans.
Tonight was going to be dry, but sometimes a man needed a drink. It was fair enough. It had been a good day. That exclusive on the raid had even forced Lizzie to profess herself “quite pleased” at tonight’s programme review meeting. He was back on the inquiry and the spooks were banished, for now at least.
A good day deserved a good drink to celebrate. Or maybe two or three.
Rutherford padded into the kitchen and sat down. Dan was almost sure the dog gave him a meaningful look. Slowly, he closed the cupboard.
‘Are you trying to tell me something?’ Dan said. ‘OK then, let’s go have a quick run, shall we?’
They jogged over to Hartley Park and ran a few laps. It was a beautiful evening, but Dan noticed he couldn’t think about anything apart from the case. He wondered if the hexadecimal idea could come to anything, whether he would see Sierra and Oscar tomorrow and what their reaction to him might be.
Night was stretching across the city, the countless lights of the thousands of streets and homes shining in the darkness. The evening air was gentle and warm. It was Claire’s favourite time of the day. When they were together, she would love to take Rutherford for a walk around now. Sometimes Dan would have to insist she waited for him to get home so he could join them.
Claire. And he would be seeing her tomorrow.
Dan speeded up the run, began sprinting. He could feel his heart pounding and lungs burning with the effort. Rutherford ran effortlessly alongside, his mouth hanging open. Dan tried to think of Sarah Jones and last night, but the memory wouldn’t take hold.
He slowed to a walk. It was time to go home, read a book and have an early night. Tomorrow was a big day.
Chapter Fifteen
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN a man thing, it might just have been a part of their friendship, or perhaps it was dictated by the pressure of this case, but the handshake Adam gave Dan lasted longer than usual. They stood in the front office of Heavitree Road Police Station, watched by a couple of bemused officers and members of the public.
‘Good to have you back on the case,’ Adam said.
‘Good to be here,’ Dan replied, with feeling.
They walked through the long corridors to the Bomb Room, Adam leading and moving at speed. ‘We’ve got a lot to get through today,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I want to see all our suspects. We
’ve got to start making some serious progress.’
The police station was busy, people continually emerging from offices and side doors. Dan expected every one to be Claire. He had his speech prepared, had worked on it last night and again this morning while he took Rutherford for a run.
He would look her in the eye and tell Claire – I know this is difficult for you. It is for me too, don’t doubt that. But we’re working on a big case. It’s too important to allow personal feelings to get in the way. We can’t afford to be distracted. I know you’re professional enough to do that. I will be too.
Adam pushed his way through a couple of swing doors. ‘We’ll do Ahmed first,’ he said. ‘He’s still our prime suspect. Then we’ll go see Parfitt. I’ve got a little surprise for him, which should make for an interesting reaction.’
‘What?’
‘Wait and see.’
Dan swallowed a snarl. ‘I do find your love of delayed gratification irritating.’
‘As do I your tendency to melodrama,’ Adam replied smoothly. ‘So, as I was saying. After Parfitt – and his surprise – we’ll head back over to Plymouth to do the Islamic Centre and Kindle. We’ll brainstorm the case in the car on the way.’
‘With me driving, I suppose?’
‘Yep.’
Adam strode into the Bomb Room. Dan found his eyes flicking around it. A man at a desk on a phone. An older woman at the back going through some files. A couple of uniformed police officers looking at a clipboard. Another man working at a computer. Traffic rumbling past.
He checked again.
Even looked behind.
Twice.
No Claire.
Dan heard himself let out a long breath.
‘Right,’ Adam was saying. ‘Before anything else, I’ve got that puzzle for you.’ He pointed to the board with the list of names and numbers from Ahmed’s phone. ‘Any ideas?’
Dan studied it. He wondered for how long he should pause. Sufficient to make it apparent he was thinking hard, but also a short enough interval to be impressive.
Vanity was one of his oldest and most loyal friends.
‘Hexadecimal,’ he announced finally, and was rewarded by Adam’s blank stare.
