Evil Valley (5 page)

Wessex Tonight,

Crime Correspondent,

And Pig Lover.

He stared at the letter, then turned slowly to the frieze which covered the wall. It was filled with images of Dan, lines of his posed publicity shots from Wessex Tonight, the awkwardness of the forced smile forming its boundaries. Inside was stuffed with a tumble of images, enlarged and photocopied cut-outs of his head, fading articles from newspapers about the cases he’d worked on, a couple accompanied by pictures of Dan kneeling beside Rutherford, the dog’s tongue hanging out as he panted at the camera.

The cutting at the frieze’s centre was from the
Daily Bulletin
, a full-page splash, detailing how Dan had solved the riddle of the Death Pictures.

‘Let’s see if you’re as good with my little puzzles,’ he muttered to the article. ‘I hope you are. Because the stakes are going to be so very much higher this time.’

He picked up another photograph from the battered old table, the final touch to the masterpiece of artwork, the pride of his collection. It showed Dan bending down, talking to a party of primary school children, their engrossed faces all rapt in attention. He’d taken the picture himself, when he’d visited the Devon County Show to meet the unknowing star of his planned spectacular doing his reluctant publicity work on the Wessex Tonight stand.

He’d even had a brief chat, nothing more than “Good morning, and keep up the fine work”, and shaken hands, struggling to contain his bubbling rapture at the knowledge of what was to come. That had been months ago, and since then he’d wondered so many times if his beautiful plan would ever really come to fruition. But now, at last, it was time.

He paused, then added the photograph to the last corner of the frieze, nodded knowingly and smiled, as if at an old friend.

They both had so much to look forward to in the coming days.

Detective Sergeant Claire Reynolds thought it was the tamest raid she’d ever led. No smashing down of doors with sledgehammers, no sweaty, constricting body armour, no running in and shouting, no desperate struggles with drug-ridden suspects in the semi darkness of paint-peeling kitchens. Just a key in a well-oiled lock and a gentle walk into a pleasantly decorated hallway.

Martin Crouch’s home was classic Plymouth suburbia; semi-detached, two bedrooms, probably dating from around 1900. It was well maintained, better than her flat, certainly. The house was a lemon yellow; the guttering a newly painted black to match the front door and wrought-iron gate. The border of roses in the garden was tidily clipped, the lawn even and smooth.

Inside was similarly ordered, a little beige carpeted hallway with a couple of photos of a young woman, a small lounge with a comfortable-looking burgundy three-seater sofa and matching armchair, a standard lamp to the side. Both faced onto a wide screen television with satellite system. A magazine on the square wooden coffee table was open on the week’s football fixtures, a couple of games circled in black ink.

In the dining room was a small wooden table with two chairs pushed tidily underneath. A blue glass bowl sat in its middle. In the corner of the room was a computer, its hard drive now removed for further investigations. The kitchen and bathroom were part of an extension and unremarkable. She studied the notes on the front of the fridge. A dentist’s appointment, a car service reminder, a postcard from Spain.

‘Weather fine, hotel good, beach excellent. Having a great time. Wish you were here, Bill and Carol.’

Nothing of interest. She wondered how long it would be in this increasingly lazy society before postcards came ready written with such standard greetings, just a quick signature required. That was if email, and text- and photo-messaging didn’t render them entirely redundant.

Upstairs, both bedrooms were tidy, the beds neatly made, both with matching duvets and pillowcases. She only knew Crouch slept in the back one from the radio on a bedside table, its glowing red digits measuring the passing time precisely. There were net curtains in both bedroom windows. She ran a finger along one of them. It was surprisingly clean for a man who lived on his own. But, come to that, there wasn’t a hint of dust anywhere in the house. Either Crouch had a very efficient cleaner or he was unusually house-proud.

She sat down on the stairs, halfway up, just as she used to as a child at home, closed her eyes, tried to think. There was nothing in this house to indicate even that Martin Crouch was a police marksman, let alone that he might have been rather too interested in guns. And nothing whatsoever to suggest he could have planned to kill someone in the course of his job. They’d been searching the house all morning and found nothing.

She shuffled up against the immaculately painted white banister to let one of the search team pass. Crouch himself was still back at Charles Cross police station. Not under arrest, they had no evidence to justify that. He was there helping voluntarily with inquiries, that was the official line. He’d given them a key to the house, just routine they’d said. But he knew he was under suspicion. Of course he did. They hadn’t gone through it with him yet, wanted to get a clear picture of what had happened last night before they put it all to him. That would be for tomorrow.

She looked out of the window above the stairs. It wasn’t a bad view from here. You could see Dartmoor off to the north, even as far as North Hessary Tor, the hill with its great transmitter mast. Dan had told her it was put up to bring TV pictures to Plymouth and the surrounding area, despite the arguments that it would mar Dartmoor’s natural beauty. For a society so addicted to television, it was an easy debate to win.

They were due to go for a walk on the moor at the weekend, her, Dan and Rutherford. Some decent time together was long overdue. Even now, a year and more on, they hadn’t really had enough of a chance to work out whether their relationship had a future. They got on well, had fun, enjoyed each other’s company, but … but what?

The love word hadn’t been mentioned, had it? And the relationship had never really been tested, the strength of the bond between them. They’d have to talk about it. She wasn’t getting any younger, didn’t want to be wasting time in long drawn out dead-end flings any more. She still wasn’t sure she wanted to have kids, but if she did she didn’t want to be too old to enjoy them growing up.

Would she still be able to manage a day off? Not the way Whiting was going. He was working like he was driven, sending officers out on a series of simultaneous inquiries like a Catherine Wheel shooting off sparks. She deserved some time off, but it was difficult to say no when you were asked to work, not if you wanted your career to stay afloat.

‘Claire, you’d better come and see this.’ One of the forensics team was looking up at her from the foot of the stairs.

‘Found something?’ she asked, getting up.

‘Two things. One possibly good, one not in the slightest.’

He guided her into the lounge. ‘Out there,’ he said, pointing through the window.

‘Shit!’ she hissed. On the pavement outside stood a TV camera, pointing straight at the house, the man next to it focusing his shot. ‘Any guesses who he is?’

‘One of the boys says he recognises him from another job he was on. Local TV, Wessex Tonight.’

‘Shit,’ she repeated, sitting down on the armchair. Not just that their search of the marksman’s house was going to be on the news, but the inevitable question; how did the media get to hear about it? Only a couple of people in the force knew she was seeing Dan, but if the gossips started, the finger would point straight at her. She hadn’t told him, but that wouldn’t count for much. She could imagine the High Honchos talking; “Keep Claire out of anything sensitive, can’t trust her to be discreet you know. She’s seeing that damned reporter bloke.”

She’d have to talk to Dan about it at the weekend. That and the rest of their relationship, whatever that meant.

Not now though, she was working on an important inquiry. ‘You said you had two things to tell me about. What was the other?’

‘This.’ A white-gloved hand held out a small piece of paper. ‘It was stuck behind the framer’s label on the back of one of the photos in the hallway. It was well hidden. I only found it by accident. I took the picture down, put it by the stairs but it fell over and this slipped out, just a corner but enough to see.’

She looked at the fragment of paper. It was the size of a fingernail, and in black ink was written carefully IWGU/66

‘What was the photo?’ Claire asked.

‘It was a young woman, in her mid 20s. His daughter maybe? Was that important?’

‘Maybe.’ She made a mental note to check on Crouch’s family, twirled the tiny piece of paper in her fingers.

‘Any guesses about this?’ she asked.

‘Looks like a password to me. Probably for a computer. For something very important that needed to be encoded and safely hidden but which he didn’t trust himself to remember.’

Dan had no idea who he was about to meet, or what he would be talking about, but it was a familiar feeling. At court cases, road accidents, the scene of a killing, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to approach them, choke back the tears and find some moving words for the victim. That, or vitriol for the villain. The TV camera could be both great help and hindrance. If someone was angry and wanted to vent their rage, hit out at an innocent target, they’d usually make for it. But if someone wanted to pour out grief the camera acted as a magnet, and a useful one.

‘Hello,’ he said, walking slowly up to the group of people and putting on his best warm, but not happy, smile. ‘I’m Dan Groves from the local TV News. I’m reporting on …’

He struggled for the words, knew what he said might be upsetting, could even lose him something important ‘ …what happened here,’ he ended lamely.

The men looked at him, stony faces, said nothing. Tears were still flowing down the woman’s cheeks and she was whimpering.

‘Can I help you in any way?’ asked Dan. ‘I got the feeling you wanted to talk to me.’

Still none of the group spoke. Then, suddenly, one of the men pulled something from his pocket and slapped it hard against Dan’s chest. He flinched back, raised an arm, ready to defend himself, aware that Nigel was by his side, holding up the camera like a shield.

But no attack came. Seconds ticked by with nothing happening. Only the bizarre scene frozen.

‘It’s OK Nigel,’ he said, as calmly as he could, but trying to keep his voice from shaking. ‘It’s OK.’

The arm hadn’t moved, was holding the object against Dan’s chest. He looked into the man’s eyes, didn’t see any wildness, just sorrow. He relaxed a little, looked down. It was a photo, crumpled, but the unmistakeable face of a man.

‘It’s OK,’ Dan repeated. ‘I think you’ve lost someone special, haven’t you?’ He lifted a hand, laid it on the muscular forearm.

The pressure on his chest eased. ‘My brother-in-law,’ the man said. ‘My brother-in-law and my best friend. And her brother,’ he added, putting an arm around the woman. ‘We’ve come to tell you what a great bloke he was. All we’ve heard so far is that he had to be shot because he was violent and a wife-beater. Well, that’s bollocks. Utter shite. We’ve come to put the record straight.’

Dan sneaked a look over his shoulder. The rest of the press pack hadn’t seen what was going on, were too busy gossiping and comparing notes on the story, bitching about Whiting. He could feel an emotional interview coming on, full of tears and anguish. Powerful TV, but even better if it was their exclusive. Nigel had the camera, microphone, tripod with him, they didn’t need to go back to their cars.

‘Let’s go and have a chat,’ he said to the man, taking a risk and putting a chummy hand on his shoulder. ‘I think we should all go and sit down, have a coffee, and you can tell me what kind of a man he really was. I’d like to hear that. Would you mind giving us a lift?’

They drove a couple of miles to a small country hotel, just outside Saltash. The manager wanted a hundred pounds to borrow the conference room for an hour. Dan could imagine Lizzie’s reaction when he tried to claim it back on expenses. She was notoriously tight with company money, still hadn’t stopped needling him about the sixty quid he’d paid to two prostitutes, strictly just for an interview, of course.

It was that which got him here in the first place, the reason he was moved to crime reporting from his fondly remembered days as the environment specialist. And that had led him to meet Adam Breen and help the police solve the murder of Edward Bray. Then it was the extraordinary riddle of the Death Pictures, a secret message hidden within 10 paintings by a dying artist attempting to right a long forgotten wrong. And it was during that time he’d started seeing Claire, whatever that might lead to.

The old cliché about it being a life-changing moment was very true. And what a ridiculous one too, paying prostitutes for an interview. How life could turn on a second’s whim.

‘So then?’ The manager’s voice brought him back to the hotel reception. ‘I think a hundred quid’s a fair price for the room. Do we have a deal?’

‘I’m sorry, my editor just wouldn’t allow that.’

‘OK then. Well, if you’ll excuse me …’

‘Perhaps I can help in some other way?’

‘Like how?’

‘Like … how about us accidentally filming with the hotel’s name in the background of the interview? Only about half a million people will see it.’

And here they were, Nigel setting up the camera, him trying to think what to ask a woman who’d just lost her brother to a police marksman’s bullets.

Richard – or Richie – Hanson was his name. He was 44 years old and a teacher at a local primary school. He’d lived in Cornwall all his life, moving away only for three years to Plymouth for his teacher training. Dan studied the photograph, the one that had been pinned to his chest, while Nigel filmed it.

He was smiling at the camera, holding aloft a pint of beer and a set of darts. The photo was taken in a local pub where he played for the darts team. He was a lean man, ruffled blond hair, a thin face, small round glasses. Dan thought he looked a little like John Lennon, and wondered if he’d chosen the glasses to enhance that.