The Judgement Book (4 page)

‘What’s a ten then?’ asked Adam. ‘Spontaneous human combustion?’

The doctor edged out of the room, holding his back. ‘Something like that. But this was a good effort. Not as dramatic as plunging off a building or throwing yourself in front of a train, but just as effective and certainly less messy. Nine out of ten for him. Goodnight.’

Silifant stepped carefully down the stairs, one hand still on his back. He’d injured himself playing golf. That in itself was something of a mystery. It wasn’t the easiest game in which to maim yourself, hardly replete with physical risk. He was one of those men whom it was impossible to accurately age, but was probably somewhere between 50 and 65. Adam tried, but usually failed, not to hope the figure was closer to the retirement age. Silifant had become the local police doctor by simple virtue of the fact that no one else appeared to want the job.

Adam thought he heard a faint sobbing from below. Mrs Freedman and their daughter Alex, being comforted by a police Family Liaison Officer. The usual pathetic attempts to soften the shattering shock. An endless supply of cups of tea, a uniformed stranger’s arm around the shoulder. They did their best, but it never worked. What could?

Detective Sergeant Claire Reynolds stood in the doorway behind him, her hands intertwined over her stomach. ‘Who found the body?’ asked Adam, still staring at the frozen form.

‘Mrs Freedman, sir. She came upstairs to find her husband like this.’

‘Any possible doubt about it being a suicide?’

‘Not that I can see, sir. The house was locked up, very secure and there’s no sign whatsoever of a break in. I’ve called out Scenes of Crime to check the place to be certain, but I don’t think there’s any doubt. And there’s a note too.’

Adam sighed, nodded, picked at a stray fibre which had the temerity to have attached itself to his suit. ‘So, what does the note say?’

‘I haven’t touched it, sir. It was left in the Freedman’s bedroom. Mrs Freedman read it, then threw it down on the bed. I thought I’d wait for you to have a look. What I told you on the phone about blackmail and that Judgement Book thing came from Mrs Freedman.’

Adam pursed his lips, then said, ‘Let’s see for ourselves then. It’s time to delve into the despair of a dead man’s soul.’

Chapter Three

T
HE
F
REEDMANS
’
BEDROOM WAS
unremarkable, the sort you’d find in a million family homes. A couple of built-in wardrobes, a dresser and a chest of drawers. A double-glazed window looked out over the back garden. Adam pushed open a curtain. A spill of light from the windows downstairs revealed it was immaculately kept, bordered with neat earth beds.

The walls of the room were painted cream. Two sets of pine bedside cabinets, a digital radio and alarm clock on one. His side, Adam thought. It was usually the man who had the gadget. The clock’s glowing red numerals said 9.46.

He picked up the note, holding it carefully by its top corners so Claire could read it too. The handwriting looked shaky, but was painstakingly legible, as if produced by a child trying to impress a teacher.

Dear Yvonne and Alex,

Please forgive me. I’ve been the most stupid and selfish of men. I hate to have to tell you this, but I’d rather you heard it from me than the newspapers. I know that’s where it will end up. I’m so sorry.

In a moment of weakness, on a conference, I spent a night with a young prostitute. I don’t expect you to understand and I don’t try to excuse my behaviour, but I’d had a few drinks and couldn’t stop myself. I can still hardly believe I did it. I’ve never ceased hating myself for it. But even worse, somehow, someone got to know about it. I’ve been blackmailed.

The blackmailer didn’t ask for money, but seemed to want to humiliate me. In an odd way that was worse than some outrageous financial demand. The power he had over me was a torture. He set out very clearly in a letter what I had done and said that if I wanted to save myself, I had to solve a riddle. It was as though he was enjoying toying with me, watching me suffer. I can’t describe to you the depths of the pit of despair I’ve known in the last few days.

Forgive me if I’ve been behaving strangely, but recently I’ve been doing little except trying to solve the riddle. I’m afraid I have failed and the time limit the blackmailer set is up. I have no doubt he is about to expose me, so this is the way out I’ve chosen. I could see no other. At least this way the screams of scandal will be brief. The press will not have the fun of chasing me down the street every time I venture out and the blackmailer will be denied the enjoyment of seeing the pictures. Most importantly, you two will be spared it.

Again, I ask for your forgiveness. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you what I had done and what I’ve been going through in person. Despite all this, please never doubt that I love you both very much and wish I could have been a better man for you. Please try to find it in your hearts to forgive me.

My love always,

Will

PS. I know the police will have to become involved. To them I say this: Please do everything possible to catch this person. He has taunted me with the knowledge of my own stupidity and weakness, and used his power over me in a sick and ruthless way. He has also told me that four other well-known people have behaved in similar immoral, criminal or corrupt ways, and that they too will suffer the attentions of what the blackmailer calls the “Judgement Book”. Please try to help these people, find this Book, and destroy it.

Adam laid the note gently back down on the double bed. He breathed out heavily. Claire said nothing. From downstairs, there was another muffled sob. Adam pointed to a couple of streaks on the paper, icicles of ink where the writing had smudged and blurred.

‘Tear marks,’ said Claire quietly.

Adam nodded slowly. ‘He was crying as he wrote. And he was a decent man, you know. He did a lot for this city. He helped us stop plans for a hostel for sex offenders being set up in a street not far from my house. And he championed a police sports project which turned a load of kids away from crime when the council didn’t want to know. He’ll be missed.’

The detective’s voice hardened. ‘Get the search teams in. Get them going over the house. Begin in whatever room he used as a study. Get the Square Eyes technical boys in too. They can start on his computer to see if he’s been using it to try to solve this riddle. We’ve got to find the note this blackmailer sent him.’

He hesitated, ran a hand over the dark stubble on his cheeks. ‘I’m going to talk to Mrs Freedman.’

Yvonne Freedman was sitting in the living room in the corner of a beige sofa, her legs scrunched up tight to her body, her arms wrapped around them. Her eyes were narrow slits, edged red and angry. Alex sat in a matching chair, staring at her mother. She wasn’t crying, and there was no sign she had been.

Yvonne was a little younger than her husband, around 40 or so. She had chin length, ruffled blonde hair and was probably beautiful, but it was impossible to tell through the fog of her misery. Her face was swollen and sallow. She hadn’t changed from the white dressing gown she was wearing when she found her husband’s body.

Alex had inherited her father’s dark looks. Her eyes were brown and her complexion smooth and Mediterranean, the kind that makes other women stare in jealousy. A spray of auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders. She looked a little overweight Adam thought, but that could just be teenage changes. She wore blue jeans and a red-and-white striped rugby shirt. A square silver stud shone in the side of her nose.

WPC Helen Masters, the Family Liaison Officer, pulled a high-backed wooden dining chair from under a table and Adam sat down. It was unforgiving and uncomfortable, the sort you might offer to a guest who you hoped wouldn’t stay too long. He shifted in the seat, took a few seconds to phrase his questions as gently as he could.

‘Mrs Freedman, I’m sorry to have to talk to you now,’ Adam began. ‘I know how much you’re suffering.’ Her mouth started to open, and he continued quickly, didn’t want to get into a discussion about her husband’s suicide note. ‘I just need to ask a couple of questions.’

Yvonne nodded, a barely perceptible shift of her head.

‘Did you have any inkling at all that anything was wrong with your husband? Did he raise anything you thought unusual? Do anything strange?’

A pause, no reply but a slight shake of the head.

Adam thought his way through the note. ‘Was he spending a large amount of time working?’

Yvonne’s tired eyes closed, but she managed a tiny nod.

Adam waited for her to look back at him, then said softly, ‘Was there anything unusual about that? More time than normal?’

‘He was always working.’

The harshness of the voice was a shock. It came from Alex.

‘That was what he did,’ she went on, spelling out each word. ‘He worked. That was all he did.’

On the sofa, Yvonne Freedman bowed her head and began crying, soft flutters of breath, then shaking sobs. Alex glared at her and snorted unpleasantly.

WPC Masters sat down beside Yvonne, reached for her hand, held it gently, whispered some soothing noises. The momentum of the new widow’s misery was growing. She was struggling to breathe through her tears.

Adam studied her, folded his arms. He knew they would learn nothing more from Yvonne Freedman tonight. ‘I’ll leave you now,’ he said quietly, getting up from his chair. Like most men, despite years of experience, he’d never grown competent at handling a woman’s crying. Besides, tears were an unassailable defence against questioning.

He softened his voice, but laced it with a warning. ‘I will need to speak to you again though, and soon. Probably tomorrow morning. For now, just one more thing.’

Adam paused, turned to Alex. Given what they knew about Freedman’s liaison with a teenage prostitute, testing the relationship between father and daughter was important.

He said as gently as he could, ‘I know he was your dad, but were you particularly close?’

Yvonne Freedman looked up, her mouth falling open, but all that emerged was a whimper. WPC Masters placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. Alex opened her arms theatrically and shook her head. ‘Close?’ she asked contemptuously. ‘How close can you get to someone you never see?’

Adam didn’t answer, took a couple of steps towards the door. Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘Where did your dad do his work? Did he have a study?’

‘Out there,’ Alex said sullenly, pointing to the hallway. ‘By the kitchen.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Adam. ‘You should both try to get some sleep. A police doctor will help you if you need a sleeping tablet.’

He held her look. Alex shrugged and mumbled something under her breath.

‘I’m sorry?’ asked Adam, taking a step towards her.

‘I said arsehole,’ she spat, her dark eyes suddenly wide. ‘He was an arsehole. My father. An absolute arsehole. OK?’

10.20. They were on air in five minutes. Dan had to get ready for the bulletin, even if he had nothing to say. Deadlines don’t negotiate.

Adam would call, he knew it. But the detective was leaving it damned late.

Dan squeezed the moulded plastic tube into his left ear, tucked into the back of his shirt the cable that connected it to the radio receiver on his belt. The link crackled, then buzzed.

‘Testing the line to Dan at the outside broadcast,’ came the harassed voice of the director. ‘This is Emma in the Wessex Tonight broadcast gallery in Plymouth. Oh, for God’s sake, where are you OB?!’

Dan gave a thumbs-up to the camera. ‘Hearing you loud and clear,’ he said, taking the microphone Nigel was proffering.

There was a groan of relief. ‘About time! You’re top of the bulletin and we’re on air in just under five minutes. Standby. The next time we talk to you it’ll be for real.’

Dan felt the adrenaline run, tingling his body and quickening his breath. Live broadcasting, always the most exhilarating part of his job, but by far the most dangerous too. Get it right, and you were admired and respected as cool, composed and authoritative, the man who brought the big news to the hundreds of thousands watching and waiting, hanging on your words of wisdom. But get it wrong, and it was a very public humiliation.

He wondered what the hell he was going to say. All he knew was the thinnest of information from that rushed conversation with Adam. Freedman was dead, suicide, linked to some sex scandal and blackmail. He had no details and no confirmation. What if there’d been a misunderstanding?

It happened. The fire of breaking news could shoot off a thousand sparks of misinformation.

You learn that fast as a hack. First reports were often garbled. In the early minutes of a story, often the only certainty was uncertainty.

What if Freedman was watching and walked out of the house, very much alive, to demand to know what on earth Dan was talking about?

He didn’t like the thought of the consequences. Zero credibility and a laughing stock would be the best possible outcome. Unemployment was more likely. Lizzie wasn’t a forgiving editor, far from it. He glared at his mobile, but it remained obstinately silent.

‘Shift to your left a little Dan please,’ called Nigel, from behind the camera. ‘There’s a tree branching out the top of your head at the moment.’ Dan took a step to his side. ‘That’s better,’ said Nigel. ‘Got the house nicely behind you if you want to refer to it.’

So, what to say? He’d have to couch his words, pad it out and fill as best he could. He could definitely say the police had been called to Freedman’s home earlier that evening. And that detectives were inside at this moment, beginning an investigation into … what?

That was the key question. Whether he could he go further and talk about death, suicide and blackmail. It was the juicy part of the story, what made it so very newsworthy, but the biggest risk.

Nigel flicked on the small but powerful light on top of the camera. Dan blinked a couple of times to allow his eyes to adjust. Three minutes until he was on air. He took a deep breath to calm himself and closed his eyes to focus.

His mobile rang.

Dan jumped, grabbed at his trouser pocket and dropped the phone. Swearing, he scrabbled on the ground, trying to find it in the black and white lines of the shadows.

‘Will you stop clowning,’ came Emma’s piqued voice in his ear. ‘We’re on air in two minutes. Stand still, man.’

Dan found the phone and answered it. His hands were sweaty and shaking. Adam.

‘Wow, am I glad to hear from you. We’re on air in minutes. Some ultra-quick questions. Is Freedman dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sure?’

‘Very.’

‘Suicide?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘Bath.’

‘Left a note?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I say anything about blackmail without harming your investigation?’

A pause on the line.

‘Dan, one minute to on air,’ yelped Emma. ‘Drop that bloody phone and look at the camera.’

‘You can say the police are investigating whether Freedman was being blackmailed,’ replied Adam calmly. ‘Nothing about the sex bit though. I want to keep that quiet for now.’

‘OK. Got to go, will call you later.’

‘Thirty seconds!’ came the director’s voice again. ‘Drop that phone Dan!’

Dan turned his mobile off and threw it to Nigel. Experience took over. He felt suddenly calm, his mind clear.

Remember the golden rule of broadcasting. If in doubt, just KISS. Keep it short and simple.

‘We begin tonight with some breaking news,’ came Craig, the presenter’s voice in his ear. ‘We’re getting reports of the death of a prominent local MP in strange circumstances. Our Crime Correspondent Dan Groves joins us from the Plymouth home of Will Freedman. Dan, what more can you tell us?’

‘Craig, extraordinary developments here tonight,’ said Dan, putting on his most sombre tone. ‘A senior police source tells me Mr Freedman has been found dead in his bath and that he committed suicide. A note has been recovered and detectives have begun an investigation. One of the most important elements of that inquiry is to discover whether Mr Freedman was being blackmailed. Now, this news will cause great shock. As you’ll appreciate, Will Freedman is a very well known local MP. He’s highly regarded in his Plymouth Tamar constituency, a prominent campaigner for traditional family values and is also reckoned to be one of the rising stars of the Traditionalist Party.’