The Judgement Book (11 page)

Chapter Ten

D
AN WAS LOST IN
the warm haze of a pleasant dream when he was yanked cruelly back into reality by the phone.

‘Hello?’ he managed, sleepy and startled.

‘It’s Adam. Get in here, quick as you can. And Claire as well. We’ve got the next note. Another cop’s the victim. Another bloody cop! But this time, I think we may have a break – a picture of the Worm. The media are all over us again too. We need to work out a strategy.’

The phone went dead. Beside him, Claire stirred and turned on to her side. Dan blinked at her alarm clock. Its red digits said half past six. He’d been asleep for only five hours and felt as though he hadn’t rested. The fleeting release wasn’t enough for rejuvenation. His legs ached in protest as he stretched them.

A fringe of early sunlight framed the curtains. Outside, he could hear the triumphant cries of a gang of seagulls, squealing in delight at the dawn and its rich feast of discarded take-away food from the night before. The sanctity of Sunday mornings was nothing to them. That was the trouble with Claire’s flat. It was much closer to the sea than his, and meant sleeping in was impossible. Not that that was even an option this morning.

Dan reached out and gently shook Claire’s shoulder. She mumbled something. He shook her again, a little harder this time. She turned and opened her eyes.

‘Work?’ she asked.

‘Yep.’

‘Yours or mine?’

‘Both.’

As so often, their two worlds were interconnected. Where the police were called, there were usually journalists following. Dan often thought of the similarities between their professions as the reason for his success as a detective. At a basic level, the arts were the same. Ask the right questions, read the reactions, spot the lies and evasions and pick your way to the hidden truth.

In the shower, he thought about Adam’s call. Another police victim. No wonder the detective sounded angry. The case must be starting to feel personal. How did an attack on another cop fit in with Linda and Freedman? Two police officers and an MP. Where was the pattern?

He borrowed a squirt of Claire’s special and expensive conditioning shampoo. He must remember to leave some of his own here, to keep the blue sentinel toothbrush company. He kept forgetting shampoo every time he brought an overnight bag. But at least he felt as though he was waking up.

As he dressed, he wondered what Adam really thought about him and Claire being a couple. They’d agreed not to talk about it, but he couldn’t help but ask himself the question.

Adam was protective of his officers and well aware of Dan’s disastrous history with women. They’d talked about it often enough, particularly in those long-gone days when Adam was estranged from Annie. All that was resolved now, happily. Dan found himself hoping he’d one day be as content as Adam. But his friend must be worried about what could happen between him and Claire. Dan knew Adam was fond of Claire, thought of her as a perceptive and diligent detective with a promising future.

From the bathroom, he heard the buzz of Claire’s electric toothbrush. He smiled. He even found the way she cleaned her teeth cute. He must be enamoured.

Well, he didn’t have to worry about what Adam thought or what would become of his relationship with Claire. They were getting on great and would soon be moving in together. Dan felt his mood warm and his tiredness lift. Life was good, and he shouldn’t lose sight of that. If you went looking for problems and concerns, you could always find them. Better to live for now and appreciate what you had.

He walked into the kitchen to make them some toast. They’d need the energy. Another busy day was in prospect. Dan moved some of Claire’s discarded leftovers from the work surface. He’d half-heard her get up in the night, vaguely remembered she said something about needing a snack.

A chocolate wrapper, the remains of a banana, some oat flakes, raspberry jam, natural yoghurt and the crust from a piece of white toast. He shook his head. What a bizarre combination for a midnight feast. No wonder she had a bad stomach.

Adam was waiting for them in the MIR. His face was drawn and he looked tired and pale. He’d shaved badly, with patches of bristles still shading his cheeks, and his tie hung a couple of inches down his neck. He didn’t say anything, but handed them each a photocopied sheet. They sat in silence and read the blackmailer’s note.

Dear Superintendent Osmond,

You are a despicable man. Like many of your kind, you pretend to be one thing in public when the private reality is very different.

“
You are a liar, a hypocrite, and you are corrupt. You boast of being an upholder of the law whereas in fact you have broken it and used your position to cover up that fact. You are utterly odious.

I know what happened on your little celebration in December. It was a lovely night out, wasn’t it? You and your wife, toasting the birth of your first grandchild and the impending arrival of Christmas. A beautiful evening, and just cause to celebrate. So you chose one of Plymouth’s finer restaurants. Who would begrudge you that?

Except you went a little too far, didn’t you, Superintendent? You love that Jaguar car of yours, don’t you? And you live out in the country. You could have easily booked a cab. A man in your position could afford it without any trouble. But you chose not to. You decided to drive in, and you got a little carried away.

You assured that poor wife of yours, Janey, that you would only have a glass or two of wine. But you couldn’t stop at a glass. You had to have a bottle. And then another. You could always get a taxi home, you said.

But then comes the end of the night. Getting a cab is a hassle, isn’t it? And you don’t want to leave your lovely car in the middle of Plymouth. It could get vandalised, stolen even. Who’ll know if you drive home?

But it wasn’t your lucky night, was it Superintendent?

Some of these traffic police are smart. A patrol spotted you. You were driving just a little too carefully. You made the officer suspicious. And so he pulled you over.

You get out of the car, and suddenly our traffic policeman has a problem. You’re one of his superior officers. He doesn’t need to make you do a breath test, does he? He can smell the drink. He knows.

You see the confusion in his eyes, Superintendent, and you suggest a way out of this tricky little problem. Perhaps he could forget all about the last few minutes and go about his business, while you drive very carefully home. And when he applies for that sergeant’s position which is coming up, well, you can’t promise, of course, but you can make sure his application is viewed most favourably.

And there’s one postscript to this tale of woe, Superintendent. What’s this I find in my research on your illustrious career? That for the past six years, you have been in charge of Greater Wessex Police’s Christmas campaign against drinking and driving. And here you are, quoted.

‘
Drink driving is a scourge. Anyone who takes to the wheel after drinking deserves society’s strongest condemnation. It’s akin to taking a loaded gun out and not caring who might get hit by the bullets. It kills. It wrecks innocent lives. We must stamp it out and we will stamp it out.’

What fine words! But, I suppose you forgot to mention that drink driving is fine if you’re a high-ranking police officer who fancies a few and can’t be bothered to get a taxi home. An understandable omission. It would spoil the quote rather, wouldn’t it?

So Superintendent, we have established you are a thoroughly despicable man. The question is, what do I intend to do about it?

You’ll be expecting me to ask for cash. Wrong, totally wrong. I don’t want your filthy money. My only interest is in exposing you. You and your rotten kind.

You’ll know by now that you are not alone. You could hardly have missed your detectives running around so amusingly in their pursuit of me. Your sordid secrets fill my beautiful Judgement Book. But there are others there too. You are the third, but you will not be the last. I’ve chosen two more to share your fate. Is that any comfort to you?

You do not deserve this, but I will give you one chance. I confess I am enjoying my game. I give you one hope to save yourself. The following riddle, if solved, will give you a word. If you can solve it, place a personal advert in the Western Daily News’ Births, Marriages and Deaths section, starting with the word that forms the solution, and going on to use your surname.

So then, your riddle. As a clue, I give you this advice. It might help you to think back to last Sunday to solve it. Now tel me the answer to this.

1112, 7257, 1173, 22584

For your information, and for your detectives, I re-emphasise this. The solution to the riddle, combined with those to the other four, will take you to the hiding place of the Judgement Book.

Good luck.

The three of them finished the note at the same time. They looked up, all quietened by what they’d read. The flagpole outside the window rattled.

Claire drew in a hiss of breath. ‘Osmond, eh?’

Adam said knowingly, ‘You’ve had dealings with him?’

‘Only a few, sir, ages ago. From when I was in uniform.’

‘And?’

‘Well, I …’

‘Come on Claire. You’re amongst friends. If it’s any help, I can’t stand the man, and it’s a common feeling around here.’

She nodded. ‘He was the one who came closest to making me quit. When I was a probationer. He bawled me out because I filled in a fixed penalty notice wrongly. It had me in fits of tears. Some druggie had been shoplifting. I gave him a ticket, just like we were supposed to. But the shop complained that was too lenient and demanded to see the paperwork. The manager wanted to take the case to court, but I’d put the street name on the form in the wrong box and it meant he couldn’t.’

Dan whistled through his teeth. ‘He bawled you out for that? It’s a tiny mistake. Easy to make.’

‘Maybe, but it doesn’t feel like it when you’re just starting off in your career. It was the first time I really met Linda. I was sitting in the canteen, trying not to cry, and she came and chatted to me. She talked me out of quitting. She even went to see the shop manager to smooth it all over.’

Adam nodded. ‘Osmond’s not exactly known for his touchy, feely style. He’s an ex-army officer and still thinks he’s in the forces. I’ve had a few run-ins with him myself. He thinks every problem’s solved by shouting at it. He’s a walking anachronism.’

‘So,’ said Dan. ‘You think the drink driving allegation in the note’s true?’

Adam didn’t reply, just gave him a look.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Dan, who couldn’t think of a more eloquent contribution.

‘Quite,’ replied Adam, his voice quiet and strained. ‘My already impressive list of problems just grew longer. Now I’ve got a very serious allegation against a senior and belligerent officer to mix in with my already tortuous blackmail case. Osmond doesn’t know yet. He’s on his way in. I’m going to talk to him, then he’ll be suspended pending an investigation.’

‘How come he doesn’t know about the note yet?’ asked Dan.

‘The letter was put through the post box here at the police station at about five o’clock this morning. On it was written “To Supt. Leon Osmond. Enclosed, the latest chapter of the Judgement Book.” They called me when the duty sergeant found it.’

Claire raised an eyebrow, then said, ‘And what about this picture of the Worm?’

‘As you know, the front office here isn’t manned throughout the night,’ replied Adam. ‘But there is CCTV on the entrance. I think we’ve got an image of our blackmailer delivering the letter.’

‘Breakthrough?’ Dan asked.

‘I’d like to hope so, but …’

‘But?’

‘Let’s wait and see. The Worm’s smart. I can’t imagine him smiling up at the camera in a nice pose for us.’

The detective wiped his shining forehead with a sleeve. ‘Just to add to my burden, the media have twigged the link between Linda’s suicide and Freedman’s and are baying for interviews. You’ll have to work out a way of dealing with them. I’ll do another press conference, but that’s it. The High Honchos have been on my back twice this morning, demanding results. I can’t afford to lose more time. And I’ve now got to confront Osmond, and that won’t be pretty.’

Dan was about to reply when Claire suddenly retched, threw her hands to her mouth and ran out of the MIR. He stared in disbelief, then jogged after her, down the stone stairs to the toilets. From inside he could hear more retching.

‘Claire? Claire!’ he called. There was no reply. He stared at the thick wooden door and wondered what to do. He hardly wanted to walk into the women’s toilets at a police station. He pushed the door ajar and called her name again.

The retching subsided. ‘I’m OK,’ she shouted from inside. ‘Just feeling a bit under the weather. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

Dan walked slowly back up the stairs. The two flights felt a long way. The tiredness was back with him.

‘She’s OK, just feeling a bit queasy,’ he said, in reply to Adam’s quizzical look. ‘She ate some odd food last night. Chocolate, bananas, toast, weird stuff like that. I expect it’s just caught up on her. She says she’ll be back up in a minute.’

Adam blinked a couple of times and stared at him. ‘OK,’ said the detective eventually, and in a strange tone. ‘But if she’s feeling odd, make sure you look after her. And I mean look after her well.’

There was a silence, before Adam continued, ‘Right, time to confront dear Superintendent Osmond.’

He stretched his arms, took a long breath, pursed his lips and walked slowly out of the MIR.

Chapter Eleven

A
DAM SAT ALONE IN
his office, door closed, fingers on his temples thinking. He was going through his plan, testing it, checking it.

He had an idea, but it was risky.

The criminal psychologist’s report lay on his desk. Doctor “Sledgehammer” Stephens was so named within Greater Wessex Police because he suffered an antipathy to subtlety and an irresistible desire to make sure his views were conveyed with painful clarity. His thoughts on the blackmailer were couched in none of the usual caveats and equivocations so beloved of his profession.

“I consider blackmailer HIGHLY DANGEROUS”, Stephens had written. “Clearly very DRIVEN in his actions. Obvious PSYCHOPATHIC TENDENCIES – that is a person who has no empathy or sympathy for others.”

‘Yes, I know what psychopathic means,’ muttered Adam.

“Burning sense of GRIEVANCE and INJUSTICE. This person has a SELF IMPOSED MISSION which he is utterly dedicated to carrying out. He WILL NOT STOP until caught.”

Not for the first time, Adam reflected that Stephens had managed to tell him little, if anything, that he didn’t already know or suspect. He flicked tetchily at the report, pushed it into a filing tray.

The phone rang. The desk sergeant, as instructed, telling him Osmond had pulled in to the car park. Adam got up from his chair and jogged down the stairs. He needed to have the initiative. It was going to be a bitter confrontation, quite probably simply a shouting match. He had to see the Superintendent’s reaction to his revelation before the man had a chance to gather his thoughts, refuse to answer and walk out.

Osmond could easily hide in taking legal advice about the drink drive and corruption allegations. They were perfect barriers to questioning, allowing him weeks to consult, gather his thoughts, prepare his defence. But there were three blackmail notes now, and two dead victims. The threat of another two victims to come. The inquiry was too urgent. It couldn’t afford to stall.

It was too much to expect Osmond to confess. But all they had to be sure of was that there was truth in the claims against him. And fast.

Adam reached the bottom of the staircase and headed for the back of the station. It was quiet, Sunday morning, skeleton staff. The night shift had gone home to recover after the familiar hours of arresting drunks. Charles Cross always seemed hollow on a Sunday. It was the only day of the week there weren’t shouted conversations echoing around the corridors and the continual pounding of heavy police feet on its long-suffering staircase. The sounds were the station’s heartbeat and it felt lifeless without them.

Adam forced his mind back to Osmond. He had to concentrate. The word that came to mind was ambush.

He was setting a trap.

The superintendent was hauling his bulk out of his car, locking it. He was even checking to make sure the central locking had engaged, rubbing a smear off the side mirror and checking his reflection.

Adam waited.

Now Osmond was almost at the door. He walked with a slight hobble, a legacy of his military service, or so he liked to say, but in fact the product of falling off a ladder when doing some DIY. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his security pass and the clumsy grappling exposed the bulging roll of his stomach. He wore a crumpled old single-breasted navy suit, his usual.

‘Superintendent,’ Adam said, as brightly as he could. ‘Thank you for coming in. I very much need your help.’

‘What the hell is this about, Breen?’ the man grunted. ‘It’s Sunday. It’s supposed to be my day off.’

‘I’m sorry, you were the only person I could think of who could help me.’

Osmond made to walk along the corridor towards his office, but Adam stopped him.

‘Would you mind coming to my office please? I’ve got something there I need you to look at. It is urgent.’

Osmond huffed, but followed Adam’s guiding arm and started up the stairs. He was embarrassingly overweight for a police officer and was panting within a few steps. OK, it didn’t matter so much when your patrol was only ever a desk, but it couldn’t be good for the public to see such a fat cop.

The superintendent’s face was embroidered with a tiny network of broken veins, the faint trickles of blues and reds that marked many of the old school of senior officers. Slaves to the ritual opening of a special drawer in the inner sanctum and the chink of a whisky decanter. There were less of his kind now, but some still inhabited forgotten corners of remote police stations, unmoved by change, waiting only for retirement.

His dark hair was greasy and thin and his ears oversized, as if they’d been designed to match the figure he had grown into. He was about fifty, but looked older.

‘Please do sit down,’ said Adam pleasantly, offering Osmond one of the padded visitors’ chairs. The superintendent lowered himself heavily onto it.

‘What’s all this about then, Breen?’ he huffed again. ‘Whatever it is, can we get it over with? I’ve got lots of other things I’d rather be doing.’

Adam opened a drawer and took out a photocopy of the blackmailer’s note.

‘This arrived here this morning,’ he said calmly, passing it over. ‘It was addressed to you.’

Osmond took the piece of paper and began to read. Adam watched him intently. The man’s eyes worked their way down the page. If what he was reading was true, he was good, very good. No real reaction so far. He thought he saw a twitch of Osmond’s cheek and a blink, but that was it.

The room was still. The clock on the wall ticked loud.

Osmond was halfway though the note.

Still nothing definite. Nothing to give him away.

Not yet.

Adam shifted in his chair, tried to do it silently. He didn’t take his eyes from Osmond’s face. The man was still reading, almost finished now, continued to show no reaction. There was nothing to indicate that what the blackmailer had written was true.

‘Pathetic,’ grunted Osmond, dropping the piece of paper onto Adam’s desk.

He flicked at it dismissively, then switched his look to Adam. ‘You called me in here because of that? The pathetic ravings of someone I’ve banged up, no doubt. Some small-time criminal with a grudge.’

Adam held the man’s stare. There was still nothing to suggest he was even worried, let alone guilty. But he was an experienced cop. He knew how to handle pressure. He could be bluffing.

Adam steadied himself, then said, ‘You’ll appreciate this note forms part of an inquiry into a very serious crime, one which we believe has led to two people taking their own lives. So, it’s my duty to ask you if there is any truth in the allegations.’

Osmond struggled up from his seat. ‘How dare you!’ he roared, and his voice was surprisingly loud.

‘This is contemptible. I am your superior officer, Breen. I was policing this city when you were pissing your nappy! I am going home.’ A pause, then more sinisterly, ‘When I return to work, I will decide whether to lodge a formal complaint against you.’

Adam stood to face Osmond. ‘So you deny the allegations completely?’

The Superintendent turned for the door. ‘I have no intention of lowering myself to even reply,’ he hissed. He was sweating, his face furrowed and red.

Adam studied him, thinking fast. That anger sounded genuine. Osmond could be totally innocent.

But … he didn’t deny it. Just blustered.

‘Superintendent,’ Adam heard himself say. Osmond stopped, half in, half out of the doorway. ‘What?’ he grunted. ‘You want to apologise? Not a bad idea, Breen. It might just help your cause if you did.’

Adam stared at him. There was the slight hint of a tic under Osmond’s eye.

‘Superintendent,’ Adam repeated, his voice soft. Osmond took a step towards him. ‘One final thing.’

‘What?’

Adam held his look. Neither man spoke.

The pit was yawning. It was only a question of luring the victim towards it.

But what a risk.

Finally Adam spoke. ‘Leon.’

‘What? How dare you, Breen! I’m Superintendent …’

‘Leon, please. I’ve always looked up to you.’

The flattery quietened him. Osmond was listening now, suspicious but intrigued, despite himself.

Vanity, such an irresistible lure.

‘Superintendent, you’ve been a cop here for years, and the things you’ve done for this city …’

‘Just get on with it, Breen. If you’ve got something to say, say it.’

Adam nodded, kept his voice calm. ‘Sir, between us and out of respect for you, before you leave I think it’s only fair to warn you we have a witness who saw you and your car pulled up by the traffic officer on Exeter Street.’

Osmond glared at him. ‘It wasn’t Exeter Street …’ he began, then stopped himself.

And now there was a stark tic, jumping and angry under his left eye, hammering away, sending tiny waves through the pasty flesh.

‘You bastard,’ Osmond hissed, his face flushing fast. He turned, hobbled out of the office and slammed the door.

Dan was surprised to realise it was the first time he’d been alone in the Major Incident Room. He walked along it, past the desks with the blank and silent computers and to Adam’s beloved felt boards. The picture of Freedman stared out at him. Dan couldn’t stop himself from shuddering. What a way to die. Alone in a bath, your family downstairs, oblivious.

The door crashed open and Adam burst into the room. He looked as though he’d been in a bar room brawl, his eyes wild, hair tussled. Dan didn’t say anything, just gave him a questioning look. Adam walked to the boards, pinned up a copy of Osmond’s blackmail note and a small photograph of the Superintendent. It had been cut from a newspaper and showed him standing by a police patrol car, holding a breathalyser.

‘It’s true,’ was all he said.

There was a silence. Dan tried to keep his face impassive, but the detective must have noticed the hint of an expression. Or perhaps Adam just knew him too well.

‘But!’ he added. ‘No reporting, no story. Not yet, anyway. We’ve got too much on with the investigation. That has to be the priority.’

They both gazed at the boards and the photographs staring back at them. Freedman, Linda Cott, now Osmond. Dan saw Adam going through the same thoughts. What linked them? What was the golden thread that connected two police officers and one MP? And when they found the link, who was the blackmailer it would lead them to?

The door opened again, gently this time and Claire slid in. She moved slowly and looked pale. Dan raised his eyebrows and she lifted a calming hand, then lowered it and rubbed her stomach.

Adam watched as she gingerly sat on the edge of a desk. ‘Being sick in the morning,’ he said, thoughtfully. Claire nodded. ‘Something unusual in the stomach area?’ he went on. She closed her eyes and nodded again. ‘Better see the doctor and talk it over with him. I’m sure Dan will take you. It sounds like it might be something that could last for quite a few months.’

‘Of course I will,’ Dan replied, indignantly. ‘But usually with sickness they just tell you to drink lots of water, eat simple foods and it’ll pass. That’s what I’d do.’

Adam sighed heavily. ‘I’m not sure that’ll work here.’

‘Well, what do you suggest then?’ Dan said. ‘I didn’t know you’d suddenly become a doctor, as well as a cop.’

If he expected a feisty response, it didn’t come. Instead Adam looked pitying.

‘You know what I don’t understand about you?’ the detective asked. ‘It’s how you can be so smart in so much of life, but your emotional intelligence barely registers a blip on the meter.’

Dan was about to retaliate, but Claire spoke first. ‘I’m OK,’ she interrupted forcefully. ‘I’ll talk to Dan about it later. We’ve got a Worm to catch first.’

Adam stared at her. ‘Fine. I understand. OK then, let’s have a brainstorming session. I want to look at exactly what we’ve got and work out where we’re going.’

He pointed to Freedman’s handsome face, captured in the studio photograph. ‘He’s where it started. Linda’s the second element.’

Adam moved his hand to the next board and her picture. She was a plain looking woman, almost the definition of nondescript. Mousy coloured hair, shoulder-length with a fringe, thin face, but somehow kind and trustworthy. It was her eyes that won belief, grey-green and clear, but with a nascent web of crows’ feet spreading from each corner. She wore no make-up or jewellery in the picture. It looked like a blown-up police photo from her warrant card.

‘And Osmond is our third,’ Adam continued, pointing to the other board. ‘He’s not going to say anything more to us. We’ll let Professional Standards investigate the allegations against him. We’ve got the note though, and that’s the third piece in our puzzle. So, let’s look at what connects Osmond, Linda, and Freedman.’

The detective pulled up his tie, checked his reflection in a window, made certain it was straight. Dan hid a smile, knew there was some good news coming, as sure as if Adam had written it across the boards.

‘We already have one lead, and it could be a good one,’ he said. ‘Late yesterday, the inquiry teams found that Linda and Freedman shared the same priest. So, could this all have come from the confessional? From the priest himself, or someone who overheard what was said? We’ll see this Father Maguire when he’s finished his service.’

Claire took out her notebook and unfolded her copy of Freedman’s blackmail note.

‘The letter to Osmond is almost exactly the same format as Freedman’s, sir,’ she said. ‘Word for word, much of it. The Worm’s working to a template.’

‘And the information in it sounds like it’s taken from a conversation again,’ added Dan. ‘That’s still my hunch.’

There was a quick, polite knock and the door opened and Eleanor and Michael walked in. Adam greeted them and they sat down, Michael on the edge of a desk, Eleanor on a chair. Dan made a point of pulling it out for her. He’d had enough of Adam’s criticisms of his chivalry.

‘So then,’ continued Adam. ‘First, what do we make of the order of victims? An MP, then two police officers. Anything strike you?’

They looked at each other.

‘I couldn’t see much in it either,’ Adam went on. ‘I reckon it’s what we originally thought. The victims are connected by being some kind of authority figure. That fits with what the Worm goes on about in the letters. That stuff about exposing you and your rotten kind.’