The Judgement Book (12 page)

‘There is the publicity angle,’ said Dan. ‘If the Worm wants to make an impact with their crimes, an MP’s a great one to start with. The media love a story about a politician caught with his trousers down. And Freedman’s the only one who’s actually been exposed so far, isn’t he? The billboard was quite some way of doing it. But there’s been no similar move against Linda.’

‘Perhaps because the Worm knew she was dead, so didn’t need to,’ said Claire.

‘Yep,’ agreed Dan. ‘And we don’t know what’s going to happen with Osmond yet, do we? How he might be exposed.’

Adam nodded at them. ‘Good thoughts. We’re getting an idea how our man works.’ He caught Claire’s look. ‘Or woman,’ he added. ‘So, what about leads? We’ve got our priest. But what else? How about the riddles? Eleanor and Michael, that’s your department. You’ve got a new one to solve.’

Adam pointed to the copy of Osmond’s blackmail letter and explained how it had arrived. The pair got up from their seats and looked at it. Dan noticed Michael pressed his face almost up to the note, as if he was scrutinising each word individually.

‘“So then, your riddle,”’ Eleanor read softly. ‘“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.’”

‘Any thoughts?’ asked Adam eagerly.

‘Numbers again,’ mused Eleanor, walking dreamily back to her seat, hands on her flowing skirt, the climbing tulips again. It was a clue she’d got up in a hurry this morning thought Dan, the first time he’d seen her wear the same skirt two days running. She and Michael must have received the same early call as he and Claire.

Eleanor settled herself down, crossed a languid leg. ‘Numbers …’ Her voice changed, became sharper. ‘Yes, I think I might have an idea how this code works. I’m pretty sure in fact. Give me a few hours.’

Adam couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Really?’

She smiled kindly. ‘I’ll need access to a library, but I suspect it’s not too tricky, this riddle. Perhaps even deliberately so. The key’s in the sentence before the numbers. “Now tel me the answer to this”. Misspellings are often a giveaway in codes.’

Adam stared at the note on the felt board. ‘You mean the “tel”? Just a mistake, surely?’

‘I don’t think so. Our blackmailer doesn’t strike me as the type who makes mistakes.’

She walked lightly out of the room, her skirt flowing behind her. Michael followed with a nervous grin. He hadn’t said a word, just watched and listened like an overly disciplined child, the kind a Victorian parent would have approved of.

‘Well, that’d be a turn-up,’ said Adam, when the door had closed. ‘If we’ve solved three parts of the five in the riddle, that could be the breakthrough we need.’ He suddenly looked less tired. ‘So, what else have we got?’

‘Did anything come of the dig into Linda’s life?’ asked Claire.

Adam shook his head. ‘No. We went through all her colleagues, but no one was really close to her. We found some friends’ numbers at home and on her mobile phone accounts, but apart from the priest they didn’t turn up anything. We checked her finances and there was no hint of any problems there either. So what the Worm had over her is still a complete mystery.’

Dan waited, and then said quietly, ‘Sex.’

Adam tapped Linda’s picture. ‘Yep,’ he said, ruefully. ‘That’s about all I can imagine. It’s the usual reason. Maybe she was seeing a married man, or something like that. But if so, surely there’d be some hint of it? And would that be bad enough for her to kill herself, and not want the blackmail note to be found? What it said must have been awful, for her to keep it from us.’

‘Something kinkier than a married man?’ prompted Dan. He tried to ignore Claire’s disapproving look.

Adam nodded. ‘You mean like male prostitutes? Or fetishes? Something like that? Again it’s possible, but we’ve got no evidence. I think we’re better off working on what we do know, not speculating on what we don’t.’

Claire stood up and stretched. Dan was relieved to see the colour had returned to her face. She was keeping that protective hand over her stomach, but she looked much better.

She turned to Adam. ‘What about forensics, sir?’

‘Not much there. We got a few bits of skin off the first note, but they don’t match anyone on the DNA database, so we’re looking for a new offender. There was one oddity. The labs found faint traces of cooking oil on the note.’

‘Cooking oil?’ queried Dan.

‘Yes, in small traces,’ replied Adam. ‘It suggests the note was written near a kitchen. But that doesn’t help us. All houses have kitchens.’

Claire asked, ‘What about Osmond’s note?’

‘With forensics now.’

There was a soft knock at the door. It sounded hesitant.

‘Come in,’ called Adam. Arthur’s greying head appeared and he ambled in, almost like a penguin. He was carrying a sheet of paper.

‘Got that photo for you, Mr Breen,’ he said. ‘Taken from the CCTV, as you requested. It’s the best shot we could get.’

Adam grabbed the sheet and laid it carefully down on a desk. ‘It’s not great …’ began Arthur, but Adam interrupted. ‘OK, Arthur, thanks. We’ll take over now.’ The technician nodded and slipped back out of the door.

They studied the picture. It was monochrome and grainy, as if sprinkled with salt and snow. A streetlamp threw a flare of white across the top. In the centre, a hunched figure was bent over the doors of the police station. It wore a baggy top with a hood, which was drawn tightly around the face. A baseball cap sat on top of the hood, the peak pulled down low. A scarf covered the mouth up to the nose, and a pair of large, black-lensed sunglasses hid the eyes. The figure looked about five feet seven or eight tall and with an average build, but it was almost impossible to tell through the thick clothing.

‘Damn,’ Adam moaned. ‘I suspected as much. He’d have guessed he’d be caught on CCTV. It’s just about useless. You can’t make out anything.’

Claire angled the picture towards her. ‘I think you’re right, sir. I can’t even tell if it’s a man or woman.’

Dan stood back and heaved himself up on to his customary window ledge. It was always the place he found best to think, perhaps because of the panoramic view across Plymouth.

He looked out at the ruined church below. Its white stone was glowing in the spring sunshine. The traffic encircling it was light, and above the grumble of cars he could hear a symphony of Sunday bells summoning worshippers to churches across the city. For a moment, it was as though the long derelict Charles Church had been resurrected, regained its voice and rejoined their choir.

It was just after ten o’clock. Dan yawned. It felt like he was already at the end of a working day, but there was still so much more left to do. He’d have to file a story, as well as dealing with the demands of the investigation. How were they going to handle all the media, and still leave an exclusive angle for himself, to appease Lizzie? Not to mention finding some way of presenting the report that could help the inquiry.

Life was beginning to feel very crowded.

Dan sensed Adam looking at him. ‘You OK?’ the detective asked. ‘You look a little out of it.’

‘Just thinking.’ He paused, rubbed his forehead, then added, ‘I’ve got an idea. What about if we call another press conference? The nationals wouldn’t normally carry the same story twice so soon. But if we tell them we’re going to reveal a picture of the blackmailer, I think they’d go for it. And you can use it to appeal to anyone who might recognise the person in the picture.’

‘Not a bad idea,’ mused Adam. ‘It would get all the interviews done at one go, and leave me free to carry on with the real work.’

‘How do you fancy pushing it a bit further?’ asked Dan. ‘Trying something unusual.’

Adam straightened up from the CCTV photo. ‘Like what?’

‘Well, I think you’d agree that so far the Worm’s been setting the pace. We’ve just been left to trail around after him.’

Adam nodded ruefully. ‘Can’t argue with that.’

‘And so far our Worm hasn’t made a single mistake that might give us a chance to catch him.’

‘Agreed again. But what are you getting at? Come on, time’s against us. Get to the point.’

Dan held up his hands. ‘Just bear with me, I’m thinking it through as I talk. How do you think the Worm might react if you insult him at the press conference? Give the media such tasty quotes that they’d definitely use them. Maybe we could make our Worm angry and he might do something stupid, perhaps even make a mistake and give us a chance to get him.’

Adam stared at him thoughtfully. ‘Done. I like it. It’s certainly worth a try. And if it doesn’t work, at least it’ll be us taking the initiative for once. Good thinking.’

The detective made for the door, but then stopped and turned back.

‘What’s the price?’ he asked. ‘What exclusive are you after this time?’

Dan hesitated. ‘I’ll think of something,’ he managed, trying to keep his face set.

He quickly debated whether to mention it now. No, wait a minute. Let’s get the press conference arranged first, then talk about it.

He was fairly sure Adam would go for the idea. But Dan was much less certain about Claire, and it was her that he needed for it to work.

Chapter Twelve

I
T SHOULD HAVE BEEN
an easy Sunday morning drive to the outskirts of the city. It turned into an ordeal which haunted Dan for months.

Their first warning of the crash was an agonised screech and squeal, as if an animal was being tortured. It took a couple of seconds to realise it was a car’s brakes locking in their futile effort to prevent the impact. A booming smash and a sickening metallic grinding echoed across the street. Then there was silence, the empty seconds as powerful at the cacophony which preceded them.

A red car had crumpled head on into the thick stone pillars of the library. In the front, through the white web of shattered windscreen, Dan could make out the figure of a person slumped over the wheel. The car was so badly damaged it looked like one of those he’d seen piled high in teetering, wrecked towers at a scrapyard. A snake of smoke rose dark and threatening from underneath. A couple of people had stopped, spellbound in their shock, a young woman with hands at her mouth, a middle-aged man starting to stumble towards the wreckage.

Facing them, half up the pavement was an old blue Ford Escort. Gouged streaks of silver ran along its side, as though the talons of a great beast had swatted it. The car sunk sideways on a flat and shredded front tyre. One headlight had splintered, diamonds of plastic patterning the pavement. A horn blared above the pumping beat of a stereo. The front doors sprung open, two young men jumped out and began running towards the city centre.

‘Pull up,’ snapped Adam. Claire did, swerving the Vauxhall on to the pavement. ‘Claire, you’re a first-aider, aren’t you?’

‘Yep.’

‘Go look after the victim. Dan, with me. Let’s get the villains.’

Adam sprinted off after the two men, his hard soles clattering on the flagstones. Instinctively, Dan followed. His heart was beating so hard he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. But his mind was clear, sharply aware of his fear. He was a TV reporter, not a cop, however much he liked to dabble. He had never been a brave man, and was acutely aware of it.

The two men turned down a side alley, one half-stumbling and cannoning into a brick wall. They were about fifty yards ahead, ducking and weaving between parked cars. Dan was relieved to see they didn’t look tall or muscular.

Adam pushed past two old ladies, shouting an apology over his shoulder. His exaggerated politeness when dealing with the public extended even to the heat of a chase. One woman waved an arm at him. The alley opened into another street. One of the men veered left, the other to the right. Adam didn’t hesitate. He ran left.

‘With me or take the other guy,’ he called. Dan didn’t hesitate either. He followed Adam. They were closing, their prey only twenty yards ahead now. The man took a fast glance back, increased his pace, turned sharply down another lane.

They followed, careering around the corner. The joyrider passed a line of green and brown wheelie bins, threw out an arm, pulled a couple down. They thudded into the pavement, one lid falling open, spilling tins and bottles.

Adam wheeled elegantly around the debris. Dan slowed, jumped, made it but caught his knee on the corner of one of the bins. He yelped in pain, stumbled, but managed to right himself.

‘You OK?’ gasped Adam.

‘Yeah … think so.’

In front, the man glanced round again, saw them closing. He sprinted across a road, ignored the blaring horn of a car, ran up the concrete ramp of a multi-storey car park and disappeared into the gloom. They were only a dozen yards behind now.

‘Police officer sonny,’ Adam shouted breathlessly. ‘Stop! Now!’

The joyrider kept going. He looked only eighteen or nineteen and had short dark hair, which shone with gel. Dan surprised himself how well he was keeping up in the chase. Little sleep and feeling so tired only a few minutes ago, now it was as though he could run for miles. Adrenaline was amazing stuff.

A couple of people shouted from their car as they ran past, but Dan couldn’t make out the words. The multi-storey was mostly empty, too early yet for the onslaught of the day’s shoppers. It smelt of stale piss. He wondered what they must look like, two middle-aged men wearing jackets and ties chasing a young lad.

The man ran through a swing door to the stairs. He slammed it hard behind him, the crash thundering around the hollowness of the car park. Adam barged through. He was just yards behind. ‘Stop!’ he shouted again. ‘Stop, police!’

The figure blurred as it jumped down the stairs, then he was off, running again. He had the advantage of wearing trainers, but Adam wasn’t letting up. He jumped too, skidding and stumbling at the bottom as he hit the concrete floor. Dan quick-stepped down the stairs and caught up with Adam. He was panting hard.

‘Keep going,’ the detective hissed. ‘Not him letting get away now.’

They burst through another door, back into the car park. The man was just ahead of them, but he was moving more slowly now. He was fumbling in his jacket.

Adam sensed the danger, slowed too. ‘Watch it,’ he panted, reached out a warning hand.

The joyrider turned. He was holding a knife. He held it out, pointed it at them. Adam stopped instantly, Dan just behind.

‘Drop it, sonny,’ growled Adam. ‘Don’t make it any worse for yourself.’

‘Fuck you, copper!’ came the panted reply. ‘You want me – come get me.’

Dan couldn’t take his eyes from the knife. The blade looked about nine inches long, and tapered to a viciously sharp point. It was shining dully in the half-light of the car park. He wondered what it was like to be stabbed or slashed. He imagined a pain like being burned by a scalding iron, not just through his flesh but inside his body, slicing into organs and arteries, and then the darkness of impending death.

‘There’s two of us,’ grunted Adam. ‘We’re both handy in a scrap and you’re surrounded. Drop the knife and give yourself up.’

Dan just managed to stop himself looking around for the mythical back-up. He tried to control his shaking, pull himself up to his full height and look mean. He forced his gaze from the knife and stared into the man’s eyes. They seemed vague and unfocused. Drugs? Shit, he hoped not. If he was high, what was he capable of?

The blade of the knife was wavering slowly up and down. The joyrider’s hand was wrapped tightly around it, his knuckles white. There was a blurred ink tattoo across his fingers. It looked like it spelled out “Mum”.

Adam edged forwards. ‘Put it down now, sonny,’ he commanded. ‘It’s bad enough for you as it is. Keep that knife on me any more and I’ll make sure you go down for a long, long time.’

The man stared at him. He was sweating heavily, his white T-shirt streaked with grey stains of dampness. He hadn’t shaved and the speckling of dark whiskers made him look desperate. Still he held the knife out in front of him, just a few feet from Adam’s face.

‘Last chance, sonny,’ he said, more calmly now. ‘Knife down or very big trouble indeed. Your choice.’

The man looked quickly around. Checking for some way to escape. There was nowhere. They were in the lower floor of the car park. The concrete walls penned him in. The only way out was the stairs, behind them. He was cornered. If he was going to try it, he had to come through them.

‘Fuck you!’ he screamed, and lunged at Adam. Dan jumped back instinctively, his hands shooting up in front of his chest as if to ward off the blow.

Adam sidestepped the lunge, caught the joyrider’s arm in his hands and twisted it hard behind his back. The knife clattered to the floor and lay there, still.

It was one of the most beautiful sights Dan had ever seen.

The man bent double under the pressure of Adam’s armlock. He started screaming streams of wild abuse, his free arm flailing helplessly behind him, trying to get a grip on the detective. A foot kicked backwards at Adam’s legs, but he dodged it easily.

Adam checked carefully around. Dan wondered what he was going to do. He smiled unpleasantly, then wrenched the man’s arm again. A shooting crack echoed from the grey concrete walls of the car park.

‘Resisting arrest,’ said Adam calmly over the man’s agonised screams. ‘You saw it. I had no choice but to incapacitate him.’

Never had the interior of a car felt so welcome.

Dan didn’t care for driving, associated cars with pollution, pointless macho competitiveness, endless traffic jams and the ugliness of the lines of parked metal boxes blighting every street. But this Sunday morning he was very glad to be in the sanctuary of a car, insulated from the world of joyriders and knives.

‘So then, on to Father Maguire,’ said Adam easily from the Vauxhall’s passenger seat. He looked remarkably relaxed, arm resting on the open window, enjoying the morning breeze. ‘We’re going to be a little later than planned, but I think he’ll understand, given the circumstances.’

Dan eyed his friend, wondered how well he really knew him. The detective had clearly enjoyed the chase, the danger, and the injury he’d inflicted on the joyrider. They hadn’t talked about what happened, and Dan sensed it was one of those subjects which would never be mentioned. A classic non-event, it simply didn’t happen.

He was a little concerned he wasn’t more shocked by what Adam had done. With the adrenaline pumping, facing a man who’d be happy to stab them to escape, the survival instinct had taken over. Even now, feeling calmer, he was mildly surprised, perhaps taken aback, but that was all. Adam had always been passionate about justice. Dan thought he understood that meant the detective wasn’t above enforcing a little justice of his own.

They’d marched the man up to Charles Cross and Adam booked him in to custody.

‘Reminds me of my old days on the beat,’ he said. ‘I don’t get to do enough of that kind of thing any more.’ The detective smiled as the joyrider directed another tirade of abuse at him. ‘Enjoy your time in prison,’ he said cheerily. ‘Hope the arm doesn’t heal too fast.’

The traffic division had taken over the investigation into the crash. Silifant was called to check on their suspect’s dislocated shoulder. He gave it eight out of ten for painfulness, prompting Adam to nod in a satisfied manner.

Dan stayed quiet and hoped he’d kept a straight face when Adam explained how the man had resisted their attempts to arrest him. The other lad was still free, but the traffic officers thought they knew who he was and were confident he’d soon be picked up.

Claire had tended to the woman in the smashed car. Ms Joanna Watson had been taken to Plymouth’s Tamarside Hospital for a check-up. She was suffering shock, but her injuries were superficial, just a few cuts and bruises. She’d been on her way to church and was upset but remarkably forgiving. Ms Watson even intended to say a prayer for the two joyriders.

‘I didn’t mean anything sexist or any of that kind of nonsense by leaving you out of the fun of the chase,’ Adam told Claire. ‘I’d be happy to hunt suspects with you anytime, you know that. It was just that as a first-aider, you were better off with the crash victim. Anyway, we have to be a little careful with you, don’t we?’

From the back of the Vauxhall, Dan craned his neck to look at Claire. She seemed fine now she’d got over the sickness of earlier. What was Adam talking about? He was always protective of his staff, but this was getting excessive.

Dan sat back across the rear seats and tried to breathe deeply. His heartbeat had just about returned to normal but his throat still felt dry. He couldn’t quieten the memory of that knife pointing at him. Sometimes he forgot he was just a journalist, shadowing a criminal investigation. The confrontation had reminded him he wasn’t a police officer and had no desire to be.

Whenever there was conflict overseas, his friends asked if he was going to cover it. The Second Gulf War was the last occasion. They all seemed to think that being a war correspondent was the peak of a journalist’s career. He felt a little ashamed explaining that he didn’t fancy it at all. For Dan, it was no contest. Sleep in a tent in a desert, baking hot by day, freezing by night, with the ever-present risk of being shot at or bombed. Or live in his beautiful Victorian flat, always cosy and comfortable, sleep in his super-king-size bed, his faithful dog by his side, all in reassuring safety.

Claire drove them to Crownhill, on the northern edge of Plymouth, turned down to the old village of Tamerton Foliot and parked the car outside St Joseph’s Church. They walked up crunching gravel to the dark, arched wooden doors. Dan wondered if they should be respectful and knock, but Adam just pushed them open and strolled in. Behind them, a white swirl of cherry blossom followed, ushered in by a playful breeze.

A man stood beside the altar, bent over a rack of fat red candles. Triangular flames flickered from their ranks, silhouetting his cassock. Many of the candles had brief notes underneath. The church was quiet, a couple of worshippers praying in a corner, but otherwise deserted. It was warmed in a spectrum of light, the flooding sunshine tinted by the rich colours of the stained glass windows. Dan noticed himself trying to tread softly. The feeling of reverence was pervasive.

The man stood up to face them. He was short, with silver hair, balding on the top, about fifty years old. He greeted them with a warm smile, revealing a chink of gap between his front teeth. Combined with the chubbiness of his cheeks, it made him resemble a beaver.

Adam went to speak, but the priest put a finger to his lips, pointed to the kneeling couple and led them outside. They shook hands and Adam introduced them.

‘I’ve been thinking about your call,’ said Father Maguire. ‘You’ve given me quite a dilemma for a Sunday morning, when I should be thinking about him above.’ He raised his eyebrows towards the blue sky. ‘I know what you want, of course. And I know you’ll appreciate it’s something I’ll find almost impossible to give. The confessional is sacrosanct. It’s a foundation of our beliefs.’

‘I understand,’ replied Adam. ‘But it’s my duty to ask you about it anyway. So far, you are the only link between two of the three people who have been the subject of blackmail demands. You’re sure you’ve never met Leon Osmond?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘OK. Well, as you know, both of the other victims have gone on to kill themselves.’