Evil Valley (3 page)

He rinsed his mouth with the anti-plaque wash to news of a threatened strike in the Health Service. That shouldn’t matter to him either, but it might to those he planned to visit. He noticed a slight smile in the mirror at the thought.

He picked up the portable radio and carried it into the kitchen, made his sandwiches to news of another terrorist attack in Israel. Two rounds, wholemeal bread. He’d had cheese and tomato today, so tomorrow’s would be tuna and cucumber. An apple and a pear in the lunch box too, along with a bottle of fresh water.

Twenty past midnight, his watch said. Life was exactly on schedule, as ever. He never took the watch off, checked its accuracy each day by the Greenwich time signal, another habit his time in the forces had brought. Another good habit.

Time for bed. Ten minutes laying there, in the dark, then the radio off when the news had finished. Seven hours of sleep, exactly what years of experience and training had taught him his body required.

He lay down, closed his eyes, breathed deeply. Now some breaking news, the presenter intoned. Just a few lines of copy, only thirty seconds of information, but enough to have him sitting upright again, reaching blindly for the light switch.

A man, shot dead in Cornwall by police marksmen. It was believed to be the result of a domestic row. An investigation would be carried out. It was the second such shooting by Greater Wessex police in five months.

His life changed then. It was the long-awaited moment. The beginning of the end. They had done it again. The vicious, murdering, bloodthirsty bastards, killing with their usual easy impunity, never a regard for the effect it had on the lives of those left behind. But, this time, they would be sorry. Now, at last, they would finally be brought to account for what they had done.

He hardly slept that night, the angry memories erupting in his head. The night Sam had saved his life, despite the slashing, puncturing wounds he’d suffered from the merciless knife. His gratitude, the first time he could remember crying since he was a boy, how’d he’d looked after Sam, nursed him through those critical days. How they’d been together until the night Sam had again tried to save him, but this time could not, and had paid with his life.

The dark rage made him brittle as he lay in his bed, unmoving, eyes open, staring at the ceiling but seeing nothing. Even the golden, creeping dawn didn’t stir him. The insistent alarm only forced itself into his consciousness after its twelfth set of escalating electronic chimes.

7.25. He reached out, stopped it, but still lay there. It was time. It was sooner than he’d expected, but he was ready.

It was finally time.

Chapter Two

D
AN GRABBED THE HANDLE
above the door, checked his seatbelt. Nigel had passed his advanced driving course three months ago, and the results could be alarming. The car rocked as they cut straight across a blind bend on the wrong side of the road. Streetlights blurred past. Dan had to resist the temptation to close his eyes.

‘We won’t produce much of a story if we’re dead,’ he muttered.

‘Perfectly safe,’ Nigel barked. ‘You should always straighten out bends. I’d have seen headlights if anything was coming.’

He changed down a gear, accelerated to beat a turning traffic light, indicated, pulled off the main road.

Two police cars and a van blocked the entrance to a cul de sac, a double line of flickering blue-and-white tape stretched across the road. A couple of constables patrolled their sentry duty along it. A gaggle of onlookers stared, pointed and gossiped excitedly. A couple were still in dressing gowns despite the chill, a sure sign of the most mawkish, the ones who didn’t want to risk missing anything.

Nigel parked the Renault, half up the kerb, by one of the police vans and they clambered out. Dan scanned around, noticed the street was called Haven Close, nudged his friend, pointed to the sign. Irony always made good pictures.

Nigel set up the tripod, slotted the camera on top, Dan helping. Seconds counted. The quicker you got to a scene and started filming the more action you captured.

Even better, night-time shots always looked dramatic. Nigel panned the camera, picking up the images. Wider views of the whole street, the officers on duty, the onlookers, close-ups of the police tape, officers and cars. Good stuff. And they were the first hacks on the scene. Even better.

Just one problem nudged Dan. The house where the shooting happened was hidden around the bend in the road. They’d have to get pictures of it somehow, but he could think about that later. Some reliable information first. Two police shootings in five months, this was going to be a big story.

He checked his watch. It said just before 11, so probably about ten past. Not for the first time he cursed the back-street Brighton jeweller who’d sold him the cheap Rolex. It hadn’t taken long to work out why it was such a bargain, but it looked flash and so couldn’t be discarded.

All the Wessex Tonight news bulletins were done for the day, but the 24-hour news channel would want copy filed as soon as he could work out what was going on, the News Online site too. The days of continuous bulletins meant modern deadlines were unrelenting. When Dan had become a TV reporter it was one programme a day, at six o’clock. Now a report could often be demanded as soon as you got to a location. They’d have to work fast.

Start with your best bet, your most indiscreet and trusted source. A senior detective who’d be happy to answer any questions after the time they’d spent together investigating the murder of the notorious businessman Edward Bray, the hunt for the serial rapist stalking Plymouth and their efforts to crack the riddle of the Death Pictures. They’d become good friends, not that anyone else knew that. It wouldn’t help either of their careers. Dan fished his mobile out of his pocket.

‘Evening, Dan.’ Detective Chief Inspector Adam Breen sounded unruffled by the late-night call. ‘I was expecting to hear from you. Before you ask, yes I am the duty detective, and yes, I am working on the shooting. But there’s not much I can tell you.’

‘Hang on,’ Dan replied, wedging the mobile under his chin and trying to write some notes with his other hand. He stood back from where a pack of journalists was starting to gather, wanted to keep any juicy details to himself. ‘Go ahead.’

‘This didn’t come from me, of course.’

‘Naturally.’

‘We got a 999 call here earlier this evening, about nine o’clock. It sounded like a nasty assault, possibly involving a weapon, so we scrambled an armed response vehicle. The marksmen had to kick down the door to get in. Following that a man was shot dead. I can’t give you any more details because I’m just here holding the fort. As it’s a fatal shooting by the police the Independent Police Complaints Authority are coming in to investigate.’

‘Great, that’s really helpful Adam, thanks. At least I’ve got enough to put something sensible in my report.’

‘One more thing you should know Dan. The man the IPCA are sending is notorious in police circles. We call him the Smiling Assassin. Be wary.’

He cut the call before Dan could ask anything else. Who the hell was the Smiling Assassin? It sounded like something from a film. And Adam’s voice when he said it, those words spat out as if he’d tasted something rank.

He rang the London newsroom and passed on the information. As Dan had suspected, it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near. They demanded a report, right now, on the phone. The pressure to be first with any breaking news was intense. They’d use a photo of Dan and a map of where the shooting had happened to cover his words.

‘With you in two mins,’ came a voice. ‘After this package on NHS reform.’

Dan scanned around him, tried to work out something sensible to say. When you didn’t have any pictures to show the viewers a TV reporter had to think like his radio colleagues and create the images with words.

‘One minute, standby.’

Dan scribbled a couple of notes on his pad. Even with Adam’s information, he knew very little. Some padding was called for, and a little drama.

‘Breaking news now,’ came the presenter’s voice down the phone. She sounded animated. Breaking stories were the very soul of the 24-hour news channels.

‘A man’s been shot dead by the police in Cornwall. Our reporter Dan Groves joins us live from the scene, in the town of Saltash.’

‘Cue!’ came the director’s voice.

‘Around me here is a scene of intense police activity,’ Dan began. ‘The house where the shooting happened is in a quiet residential neighbourhood of the small Cornish riverside town of Saltash. Tonight, its usual tranquillity has very much been banished. There are scores of police officers here, and the scene has been cordoned off while forensics tests are carried out. Armed police were called here at around nine o’clock this evening after reports of an assault in a house, probably involving a weapon. A senior police source tells me the marksmen were denied entry to the house and had to kick in the door. Following that the man was shot dead, but the circumstances of that shooting are not clear. An independent investigation is already getting underway.’

Dan was thanked and the bulletin was on to the next story, something about a hunt for whales in the Far East. They would have recorded his report as it went out, could replay it for the next few hours. That would keep them off his back for a while. Precious time to get on with the story.

The press pack was gathering, a couple of newspaper reporters, some photographers, a TV crew and a radio reporter, fiddling with her microphone. Dan tugged Nigel away and they walked over to the onlookers to do a couple of vox pop interviews.

They gathered wherever there was trouble. Sightseeing ghouls, human vultures unable to resist the sweet lure of death. Their replies were always the same, ‘Oh, it’s terrible … shocking … who’d have thought it … in such a lovely quiet area as this too …’ But they could never quite disguise their enjoyment. Still, their interviews added useful colour to pad out his report.

‘What next then?’ asked Nigel. ‘I’ve got as many pictures of the area as you’ll need.’

‘We wait,’ said Dan. ‘At some point, someone official will have to come out and give us a statement. When we’ve got that, we’ll have enough to fill a report for tomorrow’s breakfast bulletins. Then we can go home and get some rest, though it’ll be back here early for more of the same.’

Dan kicked at a stone, thought his way through the story. People and pictures were the golden keys to TV news. Their interviews with the onlookers would do for the human element. Officialdom would comment when it finally deigned so to do, as was its way. They had plenty of shots of police activity, but needed to see the house where the shooting happened. That was the next priority. But how?

A chubby face, wild hair, a looming grin and an enormous telephoto lens suggested there may be an answer. Dirty El, shameless paparazzo, was heading over and he looked pleased with himself.

‘Hi Dan! You’re late. I was wondering when you’d get here.’

‘Ah, El. I should have known you’d be here first. One of your seedy little contacts tip you off, did they?’

El wasn’t at all abashed. ‘It’s a profitable investment, making sure some hard-working officers of the law receive the golden bottles of single malt Christmas gifts they so richly deserve.’

‘Get anything good? The police aren’t letting us near the house and we need to get some shots of it.’

El’s grin widened and he hopped from foot to foot. Dan sensed one of the photographer’s dreadful rhymes was about to be born. He wasn’t disappointed.

‘If poor El can’t fly,

But he yearns for the sky,

He must try out a spoof,

To get him up on the roof,

And pep up his cash flow to high!’

Dan sighed. ‘Translation?’

‘They wouldn’t let poor El through the cordon either. But I have the advantage of this beautiful long lens,’ he giggled, stroking it lovingly, ‘and the old El charm and guile of course.’

‘What did you do?’ asked Nigel. El’s creativity in pursuit of a lucrative picture was legendary.

‘See that house over there?’ The photographer pointed to a semi-detached, modern building across the road. ‘Notice anything useful about it?’

Dan studied the house. It looked absolutely average, except for the roof.

‘Have you been up in that skylight?’

‘Bingo!’ cried El, his grin widening. ‘Full house for the man on the TV. Got a lovely shot down the street to the house where the shooting happened. Lots of cops and forensics people outside too. I reckon I’m the only snapper with it. Should be worth a few quid to the papers.’

‘How did you get them to let you use the roof?’

‘Never underestimate the old El charm.’

‘Details?’

‘Well, the guy wasn’t too keen at first. But then I saw he had a For Sale sign up. The house had been on the market for a few months and there hadn’t been much interest, so I said – how about some professionally done photos, perhaps with a nice warm tint from one of my clever filters? I humbly suggested they’d make the place look a whole lot better in a brochure. He nearly bit my arm off.’

‘El, you’re a filthy genius,’ said Dan, with a sly glance at Nigel. The cameraman pursed his lips. He knew exactly what his friend was thinking.

‘I don’t suppose you could introduce us to the guy, could you?’

‘You are being a pain today,’ said Nigel, as they thanked their host, and walked back over to the cordon. ‘First guns, now heights. And you know I hate them. But you were right, the pictures were good. Right on the limit of what I could get with the zoom, but lots of activity, white-suited forensics people coming and going, and a few cops hanging about too.’

‘Good stuff,’ mumbled Dan who was chewing a ham sandwich he’d charmed from the man’s teenage daughter with the promise of a day’s work experience. He’d forgotten he was hungry until they were standing in the attic and he had a moment to think.

One of the policemen on the cordon beckoned to the pack. They moved fast, some jogging over, some striding. Positioning was all in an ad hoc press conference. You needed to be close to the speaker to be sure of getting good shots and sound quality.

‘The Independent Police Complaints Authority Commissioner has just arrived,’ the officer said. ‘He’ll make a brief statement for you lot in a few minutes.’

The pack formed a semi-circle in front of the police tape. Nigel and the other cameraman were in the middle with their reporters beside them, holding the fluffy, gun-shaped microphones. Next to them were the radio reporters, two now, and then the photographers and newspaper journalists. There was the usual pushing and shoving as hacks jockeyed for position. It was often called a media scrum, but was sometimes more like a ruck.

‘All right, calm down,’ called the policeman. ‘I’d rather be doing crowds at football matches than trying to keep an eye on you lot.’

Some of the hacks were stamping their feet to keep warm, others rubbing their hands. They sky was still clear and the temperature falling fast. Dan’s back was aching from the earlier enforced captivity behind the garden wall. He massaged it with a fist.

A man strode around the corner of the road, smartly suited. He was tall, about six feet, and wiry, but seemed powerful with it. A bald strip ran over his crown, the remaining hair surrounding it cut so short it was almost invisible. His lips were pursed but his face was set in a semi-smile, making him look smug. The Smiling Assassin, it had to be. A cluster of microphones was thrust under his nose and he surveyed the crowd.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, and his voice was high and sibilant, making Dan think of how talking snakes were portrayed in children’s books. His teeth were oddly small too, like a child’s. ‘Thank you for coming here tonight. I’m Marcus Whiting, the Independent Police Complaints Authority Commissioner for the south-west of England. I will be carrying out the investigation into what happened here.’

A newspaper reporter’s mobile phone started ringing and Whiting’s eyes flicked to him. ‘Phones off while I’m speaking,’ he hissed. ‘That’s one of the rules of the game.’ The man glared, but fumbled in his jacket and the noise stopped. Whiting watched, then continued.

‘You’ll want whatever information I can give you, but please remember, it’s very early in our investigation so there’s a limit to what I can say. Two police officers arrived here at just after nine o’clock this evening following an emergency call. They are members of the Greater Wessex Police Armed Response Team. They forced their way into the property. Exactly what happened then is currently being examined, but I can tell you that one of the officers fired two shots and the male resident of the house was killed. A female was also in the house. She is unharmed, but very distressed.’

He paused deliberately, waited for the hacks to stop scribbling. ‘I am in charge here, but will be assisted in my inquiry by a team of detectives which Greater Wessex Police have been asked to provide. It is my duty to establish exactly what happened in the run-up to the shooting and when and why the fatal shots were fired. My report will go to the Crown Prosecution Service for them to consider whether any charges should be brought as a result of what happened here tonight.’ His eyes again flicked over the pack. ‘I would stress that is standard procedure, and does not it any way imply any wrongdoing by the officers involved. Any reporting which omits to mention that would be highly misleading. I hope you are clear on that point, as it is a very important one.’