The Death Pictures (38 page)

There were no children playing today. The dank and drizzle did that, dampened both body and spirit. It wasn’t just an adult thing. You learnt early how the weather affected your moods.

They jogged one more lap, faster this time. Then, both panting, he put Rutherford on his lead and they dodged across the busy Eggbuckland Road and back to the flat. Dan gave the appreciative dog a quick brush, then slipped into the shower, enjoying its steaming, pummelling warmth.

His mobile rang while he was washing his hair, but he ignored it. At this time of day it had to be work. He could call them when he got out. The landline went, then the mobile again. He swore, stuck a towel around him, grabbed the phone from the hallway table and called in.

Lizzie answered, a sure sign something was going on.

‘Dan! Get going! As fast as you can.’

Automatically he started towelling himself off. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, he thought with a tinge of annoyance, reacting to his master. ‘What’s happening?’

‘You remember Godley, the rapist?’

Of course he remembered. He’d interviewed one of the victims, hadn’t he? A hospital room, a shaking voice, a shattered life. You don’t forget that kind of anguish in a hurry. Adam had caught him though, before he could carry out the six rapes he’d threatened. He was safely in Dartmoor prison.

There hadn’t been a trial. Dan had reported Godley’s confession from the steps of Plymouth Crown Court back in the summer when he was sentenced. 17 years Judge Lawless had given him, and then with the proviso Godley could only be released if the authorities were sure he was no longer a threat to women. That could easily amount to life inside.

It had been a big story, particularly that juicy little exclusive Adam had fed him. Strictly didn’t come from him of course, but powerful for Dan to include in his report. The police believed Godley to be not just a rapist, but a paedophile too, striking only at women who had young children. Fortunately, so fortunately, he’d been scared off before he could assault them as well. Yes, it had been a hell of a story. Of course he remembered Godley.

‘He’s dead,’ yelped Lizzie.

‘What?’ managed Dan, who was trying to dry his feet.

‘Dead. Beaten to death in Dartmoor prison by some other inmates. Retribution for his crimes no doubt. Get going. I’ll get Nigel to meet you at the jail. I want a big splash. I want you to try to get inside the prison. I want to speak to the cops. I want…’

‘I’m on my way,’ Dan managed to interrupt.

Adam Breen pushed a ream of papers into his internal post tray and straightened the photo of Annie and Tom next to it. He’d finally found the belief to retrieve it from the drawer and the hope to expect it to stay out on his desk. He straightened his already impeccable tie. Life had changed.

That cold and lonely flat was a memory, one that only rarely intruded now. He couldn’t bring himself to think about how glad he was. He didn’t know if he could have faced another winter there. Instead of a microwave dinner and the TV for company tonight, he’d have fresh food, an effervescent son babbling about his day at school and a wife to sit and talk with.

He smiled at the photo of the two of them laughing together, the one taken at the Blackawton Worm Charming Festival six months ago. It was a symbolic picture. Not quite ranking alongside the sunshine of their wedding photos and the pink, wrinkled and screaming face of the newly born Tom, but not far off. It marked the real start of their reconciliation. The day he’d got Godley and felt free to rejoin his family.

He shuffled the pile of papers teetering from his in-tray and began checking a surveillance report on a gang who were suspected of people trafficking. A knock at the door came as a welcome distraction. He kept his eyes on the report and played his little detective’s game. Such a deferential knock would come from a subordinate officer, certainly not an equal or superior. It sounded female in its politeness. He’d heard no footsteps, so not hard or high-heeled shoes.

‘Come in, Suzanne,’ Adam said, without looking up.

She looked flushed, he thought, but as smart as she had been these last few months. She wore a fine check trouser-suit, a little silver jewellery too, necklace and earrings, and even some make-up. The black, air-soled shoes were the same, but even they were regularly polished now.

It was quite a change from the old Suzanne. He hadn’t said anything, but knew there had to be a man on the scene. It had changed her, made her relax, given her something to live for apart from her work. He wondered whether she’d noticed a change in him since the reconciliation with Annie.

‘Sit down,’ Adam said warmly. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Sir, we’ve just heard. You remember Godley, the Plymouth rapist?’

The warmth of his mood chilled. Of course I remember. Of course…

Adam could see him, sitting in the interview room, relaxed, smiling, telling him the women had arranged it with him, wanted him to attack them. The sick bastard. We got him though. We got him and spared the victims a trial. Perhaps not in the most straightforward of ways, but justice was done. And he’d managed to add that little extra element to the reporting of the time. That delightful bonus to make sure Godley had a very unpleasant time in prison.

‘Yes, of course I remember, Suzanne. Why?’

‘He’s dead, sir. Killed by a couple of other inmates in one of the prison wash rooms.’

Adam felt the breath leave him, stared silently for a second. His eyes wandered instinctively to the comfort of the photo of Annie and Tom. Dead? He could see Godley in the interview room, legs crossed, smiling.

A storm of thoughts broke in his mind. Had he killed the man with what he’d said? He’d meant for Godley to be abused. Even take the odd beating. He couldn’t deny that. But murdered?

‘Sir, I’m a little worried that…’ Suzanne’s words faltered. ‘That...’ she went on. ‘That if there’s a new investigation, then what we did will come out.’

What we did? Adam thought. What I did. It was all down to me. Telling Dan the man was a paedophile as well as a rapist.

‘Sir? Sir?!’ Suzanne urged. ‘You know, that business with getting his DNA? And the unauthorised tail we put on him.’

Oh that, the least of his concerns. He’d almost forgotten that. Angelic by comparison, and easily justified. But labelling him a paedophile?

Adam tried to keep his voice level. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about that, Suzanne. Only you, me, Claire and Dan know about that, don’t we? As far as anyone else is aware, it was just good and dedicated police work on your part. You always had your suspicions about the man, so you followed him one evening when you happened to be out and saw him behaving oddly. It was just good luck and good policing.’

He knew none of their fellow officers or superiors believed a syllable of it, but that didn’t matter. The story had just about held together. No one wanted to look too deeply. Godley had been caught, and that was enough.

Suzanne didn’t look convinced. Her fingers fidgeted with her silver necklace. She deserved more reassurance, he thought. Worrying about how they’d caught Godley was a matter for him. ‘But if you’re concerned, I will give Dan a call to make sure it stays between us, don’t worry,’ he added.

And there was something more urgent to talk to Dan about too. The other matter, the one that might have led to Godley’s murder. If that came out…

Dan changed down a gear, pulled out and accelerated the car around a tractor. You couldn’t drive far on Dartmoor without getting stuck behind one, but it had only held him up for a couple of minutes. He passed the great granite boulder of Roborough Rock and the old Second World War airfield it guarded, now a stretch of tidy, well-kept grass. It was chewed down like a lawn by the herd of overweight ponies that lingered there and begged treats from passing walkers.

He crossed the roundabout and headed out towards Princetown. Another seven minutes to the prison. Not that there was a great rush. Godley would still be dead when he got there. Despite Lizzie’s excitement, he couldn’t convince himself the man’s murder was a major story. Dan could imagine the viewers watching tonight with a shrug. There wouldn’t be much of an outpouring of sympathy for a serial rapist who got himself stabbed in prison.

The road narrowed through a patch of trees at Burrator, then opened out again. He slowed the car to 30 miles per hour. It was a notorious village for speed traps. His mobile rang. A Plymouth number, but an unfamiliar one.

‘Hello, is that Dan Groves?’ crackled through the speaker of the car’s hands-free unit.

He knew the voice, but couldn’t quite place it. A woman, cultured, well-spoken. Teasingly familiar.

‘Dan, it’s Abi here. Abi McCluskey.’

Abi! She’d beaten him to it with her call. ‘Hi there,’ he replied. ‘I was going to call you. Long time no speak. How are you?’

‘Yes, fine thanks.’ She didn’t sound as if she wanted to chat. ‘Listen, I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you. You remember at Joseph’s funeral I said there might be another clue if no one had got the riddle?’

The road broke through the canopy of the tree line and opened out onto the moor, but Dan kept the car at just over 30. It was foggy up here on the high ground, he didn’t want to hit a pony or sheep. Their road sense was hopeless.

‘I certainly do.’

‘Well it’s six months next week, and Joseph said if no one had got it by now I was to give out a final clue before I revealed the answer.’ Abi hesitated, seemed to struggle to go on. ‘He wanted me to give the clue to you. He liked you, you know, particularly after that interview you did with him. Are you interested?’

Blimey yes, he thought, great story. It all comes at the same time, doesn’t it? The old buses complaint holds true for news too. It’s been a dull time lately, mundane stuff to keep us ticking over. Then two real stories in one go.

He thought of the Death Pictures again, his notes and prints lying undisturbed for months under his bed. He’d almost forgotten them, but couldn’t deny the occasional wondering about what the answer might have been. Many nights with sleep elusive, he’d tried to imagine a way in to the riddle. Why was it suddenly back in his mind, bothering him again? Because the time was running out to crack the puzzle and he hated being beaten? Maybe it was time to get them out and have one final try…

‘I certainly am interested, Abi. I’m on Dartmoor at the moment doing a story. Can I call you later? We can arrange something for tomorrow.’

‘Fine. Tomorrow would be great.’

The road flattened out into Princetown. Dan realised he hadn’t noticed any of the last five minutes of the drive. His mind was still awash with the Death Pictures. With one call, Abi had demolished the dam he’d built to hold them at bay.

He looked around as he turned off the main road towards the prison. Most of the lines of weatherbeaten houses were built from grey Dartmoor granite. The brooding rock gave the impression it would much have preferred to stay part of the land than be quarried out for construction. On a mist-lingering day like this, the village had a sullen air. Its centrepiece, the great Napoleonic prison was even more determinedly dour.

Dan pulled the car up outside the main gate, glad to see Nigel there. His was already filming.

‘What’ve you got?’ Dan asked, joining him and thinking how much colder it was up here on the moor.

Nigel curled a lip. ‘Not a lot. Maybe a couple of useful bits. I got an ambulance leaving. I guess that was called in case the victim had any chance. It might even have had the body in. I also got some people coming in who looked like detectives, but then again they could have been anyone. Apart from that, I’ve knocked off a few general pictures of the prison for you.’

It was always the same with these stories. A lack of pictures was the problem. They’d dutifully called the Home Office to ask if they could film inside the prison and interview the governor. The answer had been fast, straight, simple and entirely what they expected. ‘No.’ It always was. In times of trouble, officialdom drew up the drawbridge.

That left him with the pictures Nigel had just filmed and some of the library material of the hunt for Godley. No interviews either, and not much in the way of reliable information. It wouldn’t be a long report. Unless he could talk to someone who might know more of course... He left Nigel standing by in case anything else happened, retreated to the warmth of his car and called Adam.

‘Hello, Dan. How can I help you?’ The detective sounded subdued, sombre even. Unlike Adam. Annie and Tom problems? He couldn’t be upset Godley was dead, surely.

‘Hi, Adam. I’m up at the prison covering the Godley murder. You’ve heard I take it?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve heard.’

‘I just wondered if you knew any more. I’m having trouble getting any information.’

‘I don’t, no. All I know is that he was killed in a washroom, with a knife.’

That’ll do for a bit more detail Dan thought, noting it down. It’s more than we’re getting from the prison.

‘You won’t be put on this one then?’

‘No.’ Adam was still very quiet and Dan struggled to hear. ‘I did the original case, so someone else will have to investigate what happened to him. Otherwise there’ll be a concern I might be prejudiced from what I know about the rape inquiry.’

‘Understood.’ Should he ask? Adam was his friend, wasn’t he? ‘Mate, you sound really down. Are you OK? Is it Annie?’