The TV Detective (12 page)

At least she had the decency to refrain from sarcasm, however justified it might be.

‘Yes.'

She smiled and leaned forwards for Dan to kiss her cheek, just as he reached out to shake her hand. To try to compensate, he took her hand and kissed that instead, then saw what an idiot he must look and kissed her cheek too.

‘It's OK, I won't work my way anywhere else for now,' said the World's Funniest Man.

Her smile didn't falter, and Dan hoped she was one of those wonderful and highly sought after women who took pity on men's bumbling inadequacies, and perhaps even found them entertaining rather than just emetic. The laws of supply and demand meant they were always rare finds; naturally being in heavy demand and short supply.

‘It's – err – nice to meet you,' added the professional journalist, demonstrating his great mastery of words.

‘It's good to meet you too.'

Dan tried to take a surreptitious look at his date. He'd already registered that she was tall, as he hadn't had to stoop to kiss her. She was wearing jeans and a tight black top, which still bore a couple of creases from the packaging and hinted that it was bought newly for the occasion. But Kerry's most striking feature was a scarce and mesmeric combination. She had blonde, shoulder length hair, with looked natural, but brown eyes.

His brain seemed to be registering that she was, in summary, very attractive.

This impression built as quickly in Dan's mind as a sculptor forming a figure from a mighty block of stone. And just as subtly, apparently.

‘Are you OK?' she asked, her head tilted to one side.

‘Oh, yes, sorry. Just thinking.'

‘Well, shall we go? It's cold out here.'

‘Yes, yes, sorry.'

She stepped back to the taxi, while Dan locked up the flat. By no means for the first time in his life, he chastised himself on his talents with women and used the seconds to try to regain some composure.

In the taxi, Dan realised he only had a few pounds in his wallet. Trying to borrow some from Kerry would hardly be ideal, so he asked the driver to stop at the cashpoints on Mutley Plain. An acknowledging grunt, the universal language of taxi drivers, indicated assent.

The cab pulled up in the bus stop, right next to the sign saying, “Strictly no Waiting, Taxis Included”. Dan hopped out, and walked straight into Adam.

‘Oh, hello,' he said.

‘Hello.'

‘What are you doing here?'

Adam sounded tetchy. ‘Getting some cash, surprisingly.'

‘Sorry, stupid question.'

‘Yes, it was.'

This was a very different Adam from the smart and cool professional of the daytime. He'd taken off his tie, but was still wearing his suit, and the stubble around his face was thick and dark, the effect being to make him look like an unemployed banker. Despite the chill of the evening, and the ever present hint of rain, he wore no coat.

‘You off for something to eat?' Dan asked lightly.

‘Yeah.'

‘On your own?'

‘Apparently.'

‘See you tomorrow then?'

‘I expect so.'

Adam was away, walking rapidly into the night. Dan watched him go. The detective's shoulders were hunched, and he was stalking along with a slouch. Around him, groups of people smiled and laughed, but his expression was dour. He was clutching a newspaper, and disappeared into a bar.

Behind Dan, the taxi's horn hooted. He turned and walked back to the cab.

The date, if such it could be titled, was starting to improve. Dan had a pint of beer in his hand, the Waterside was busy, but without it being overwhelming, just sufficient to create a contented rumble of chatter, and they'd been given a good table, right at the back, overlooking the Sound.

Dan wasn't surprised. He'd used one of his favourite tricks to make sure they were well looked after. When he'd phoned the restaurant to book the table, he asked for the manager to call him back later, ostensibly to discuss the wine list. When the call came he switched it to his answer machine.

“Hello, this is Dan Groves of
Wessex Tonight
. Sorry I can't take your call at the moment, but please leave a message and I'll get back to you.”

It was guaranteed to make tradesmen, or car mechanics, or any form of business wary of trying to con him, and instead provide the best service they could.

He'd also rediscovered the briefly missing art of conversation. Kerry asked about his hobbies and he'd talked of Rutherford, going out walking, and his search for the Ted Hughes Memorial.

‘I know it's on Dartmoor somewhere,' Dan said. ‘It's just a question of finding it. And as there are 368 square miles to work through it's proving quite a challenge.'

She laughed. ‘You must have managed to narrow it down a bit?'

‘Yes, that's true. I got hold of a copy of Ted's will. It asked that a memorial to him be placed on the moor, between the sources of the rivers Taw, Dart, East Okement and Teign. He loved the area. So I found the sources, and plotted the mid point between them, but it isn't there.'

‘How come?'

‘I think because Ted gave his friends discretion about where to put the memorial, so they chose somewhere that would be most appropriate for him.'

‘And what does it look like?'

Dan sipped at his pint. ‘That's part of the trouble. All I know it that it's a granite stone, carved with his name. And, as you can imagine, there are more than a few bits of granite on the moor.'

Their meals arrived and they started eating. They'd both gone for steak, Kerry asking for hers to be cooked rare, prompting Dan to nod in approval. His was blue, and after the usual argument with the manager, and her pleading of food safety regulations, he'd finally got his way by promising not to sue them if he should die.

While they ate, Kerry told him some more about herself. She was a local lass, had moved away from Plymouth only to go to university in Leeds, now worked as a manager at the regional electricity company. She was in charge of customer service, which meant much biting of the tongue and faked and forced diplomacy.

Dan kept her talking, which had two advantages. One, he was hungry, his steak was proving good, and he didn't want his mouth distracted from the business of eating it. Two, a lesson he'd learnt early in life was that commonly, to make someone think they were having a good time, the best method was to get them chatting about their favourite subject. Which in the case of most people, was themselves.

Dan noticed he was finding Kerry's eyes increasingly attractive, but they were also stirring a dangerous memory. The hazel shade was the same as Thomasin's, the woman he'd met in his final week at university. He'd known straight away about the strength of his feelings for her and tried to build a relationship. But the merciless clock had worked against them. They'd left for new places, many miles distant, her to study to become a solicitor, Dan a journalist, and they'd slipped inevitably apart.

It had never stopped feeling like unfinished business, one of the most dangerous sensations of life. And since then, all those years ago, he still managed to compare every woman to her.

No wonder his relationships never lasted.

Well, tonight he would not be doing so. He was resolute about that. Absolutely determined.

But Kerry's eyes were so very like Thomasin's.

Dan forced his mind back to tonight and ordered them some more drinks. She liked white wine, crisp and dry, sipped it demurely, left just a hint of lipstick pattern around the glass, picked out by the background lights.

‘Tell me about the online dating thing,' he said. ‘I just thought I'd give it a go and was lucky enough to meet you. Have you tried it before?'

She put down her fork, smiled. ‘Once or twice.'

‘And?'

‘I've been on a couple of dates.'

‘How did they go?'

‘One bloke was …'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, exactly the sort you fear. He slurped his drinks, dripped food on his jacket, kept chewing his nails all night, and talking about his hobby.'

Dan reminded himself once more to watch his table manners.

‘And his hobby was?'

‘Building scale models of cruise liners.'

‘How fascinating.'

‘Quite.'

‘So no second date?'

‘Very perceptive.'

‘And the other guy?'

‘He was much nicer. A guy who works at the Further Education College. But he'd only been divorced for a few months and he was a bit intense.'

‘Do you think it works, computer dating?'

‘I think it gives you better odds than stumbling around bars, meeting people at random. At least this way you know you've got something in common before you decide to get together.'

She excused herselfand went to the ladies. It was fortunate timing. As Dan was staring out of the window a large rat walked nonchalantly along the harbour wall. He put down his fork and gazed thoughtfully at the food.

When she came back, they talked about their careers, friends, families and aspirations. She enjoyed holidays abroad, didn't know whether she wanted to have children, would like to write a book and get an allotment so she could grow her own vegetables. Dan talked a little about some of the bizarre stories he'd covered, and was surprised when the barman called time.

‘I've had a lovely evening,' she said, as they hailed a cab.

‘Me too. I'm sorry if I disappointed you by not making models of cruise liners, but a man has to accept he can't be everything.'

‘Maybe you can work on the cruise liners for next time? I'm not due to be working at the weekend.'

Dan didn't hesitate. ‘Then let's get together. I'll come up with a plan and text you.'

The taxi rumbled them home. Sitting together, in the back, their legs brushed a couple of times and neither hurried themselves to escape the contact. The city was alive, people rushing between pubs and clubs, making the most of the dying hours of the living night.

At the flat, Dan pecked her on the cheek and went to get out of the cab.

‘Try again,' she said, and this time he kissed her lips.

He hesitated, wondered what to do, but she said, ‘Now you can go,' pushed him playfully outand closed the door, but wound down the window. ‘See you at the weekend.'

‘I look forward to it.'

Dan let Rutherford out into the garden, had a wash, then sat up for a while, listening to some music. He lay on the great blue sofa, thought back over the day, and had an idea.

For the past three or four years, he'd resolved annually to keep a diary. Dan was never quite sure why. Perhaps it was a sense of the passing years, a need to record something of his life, or maybe just pomposity, but he'd been determined to do it. Every year he'd gone out to buy himself the requisite journal, and every year duly failed to fill it in. All the books were in his bedside cabinet, gathering not memories but dust.

He fished out the volume for the year that was coming to a close, crossed out the dateand instead inscribed carefully on the front, “Diary of my new life.”

Inside, he wrote a title. “Case one– Edward Bray,” beneath which he added a brief outline of how the businessman was killed, and then, “I'm SURE Gordon Clarke is hiding something. And for that matter, so is Adam Breen.”

Chapter
Ten

A
S IF FOR AN
early Christmas present to the long-suffering land, a weak winter sun had risen in the sky. It was hardly warming and rejuvenating, more skulking than dominating, but at least it was a break from the greyness and the rain of the last few days and very welcome.

It was dark when Dan woke, and cold, the clearing of cloud over the nighttime hours allowing what little precious heat the city had accumulated to seep away. He wrapped himself in the duvet until the central heating grumbled into life, then took Rutherford for a run around Hartley Park.

It was one of those rare mornings he witnessed the precise moment dawn breaks, the first slice of the red sun edging into the new sky over the hills to the east. Dan stopped and watched, clouds of his drifting breath growing in the clear morning air. Rutherford sat beside him and watched too.

Some spectacles can still all before them.

Dan was due at Charles Cross at ten. He briefly debated whether to pop into the newsroom first, but that would be to invite an attack from the strange editor beast that lived there, so instead he used the spare hour to do some much-needed shopping.

The city was quiet, the assistants he met puzzled that someone could need to begin their purchasing so early. But in a men's store Dan found a kind, older chap who eyed him with some expertise and perhaps a little well-disguised pity. He suggested a range of shirts, jackets and ties which might suit Dan, and duly relieved him of several hundred pounds.

It was only when he was loading the clothes into the car that Dan realised, had he waited a couple of weeks, until the sales, he would have saved himself a considerable sum. Still, at least he would have a wardrobe to, if not compete, then at least keep pace with Adam, albeit very much as a straggler in the fashion race.

The detective was waiting in the MIR when Dan arrived, at five to ten exactly. A couple of other officers, sitting at the back of the room, held a brief whispered conversation, before one rolled a piece of paper into a ball and threw it theatrically into the bin. Dan sensed another loser in his sweepstake.

Adam had his back turned and arms foldedand was studying the felt boards. Today's suit was navy blue with a faint, almost imperceptible chalk stripe and the shirt was crisp and pure white.

Even from this range, it easily eclipsed the new ensemble in Dan's boot.

‘Morning, probationer detective,' Adam said, without looking round.

Dan wasn't surprised, but he was nonetheless interested. ‘How did you know this time?'

‘That it was you? Your footstep. It's a little trepid, like someone who isn't quite sure they should be here. It's very different from the other officers. Right, let's go.'

He handed Dan the car keys. ‘To the hospice. This should be interesting. From what we're hearing the relationship between Edward Bray and Eleanor Paget could be a stormy one.'

As was his habit, Adam hardly spoke in the car. He leafed through his papers, made the odd noise of interest and scribbled down a couple of notes.

Last night's encounter on Mutley Plain was not mentioned. Dan briefly debated whether to raise it, but decided against it. It felt like a classic non-event, something which could not be discussed. This morning, the detective was back to his smart, efficient and decisive self, and that was the end of it. There was no other Adam Breen, only this model.

It was a fine morning to visit the hospice. The sun had risen higher in the sky, turning the Sound into a silver sheet. Several people were out walking in the grounds, a couple being pushed in their wheelchairs, blankets wrapped around them.

They waited in a long and echoing tiled corridor before a creaking of the old wooden staircase announced the arrival of Eleanor Paget. They shook hands. Her grip was firm, but with just a hint of perspiration, despite the cool of the day. Dan sensed the nervousness in her, and knew from Adam's thoughtful look that he did too.

Paget asked a passing nurse to get them some cups of tea, the tone of her voice making it clear it was one of those polite requests which is actually a command. The man looked alarmed to be stopped, then relieved to hear the mundanity of the issue. He didn't demur in the slightest and sped to do her bidding.

Paget led them to a small office, just a desk and a couple of chairs and apologised for its size.

‘I like it to be modest,' she explained. ‘All the room we have here should be devoted to the guests. I think a grand office in a charity gives off entirely the wrong signals.'

She was a tall woman, in her late thirties, perhaps early forties. Her hair was dark and the cut layered and obviously expensive, her clothes fashionable, smart and equally stylish. On the surface at least, she was a model of modern femininity: calm, self-assured and precise.

Dan immediately found himself thinking she had to be a long shot for a murderer, given her chosen profession of caring, then chastised himself for jumping to conclusions.

‘Anyone can be a killer,' Adam had said yesterday, in one of the little speeches Dan had quickly come to understand he was fond of giving. ‘Doctors and nurses have killed, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, children and parents. Murderers can be old and young, black and white, religious and atheist. That's all a matter of history. If something snaps in the mind, be it a fast process or slow, anyone can kill.'

Dan was tempted to ask if he could write that down, but feared being seen as facetious.

‘How was your relationship with Mr Bray?' Adam asked, after a brief preamble about how the hospice was faring.

Paget stared into space, then said, ‘I hope you appreciate, this is going to be difficult for me. He was extraordinarily generous to us. In fact, without his help, we would not be here now. It's as simple as that. So I don't in any way want to denigrate his memory.'

‘But?'

‘But, naturally I don't want to mislead you either. And Edward Bray was not an easy man to work with.'

‘Go on.'

She hesitated. ‘I think he found the difference between running a business and a service hard to comprehend.'

‘In what way?'

Her lips thinned. ‘Well, firstly, he seemed to think that because of his generosity, he had a right to influence how the place was run. It was made clear to him from the outset, even before he'd given us all that money, that he didn't, but I don't think he heard. Or perhaps he didn't want to hear.' She paused again. ‘So he would try … to bring his weight to bear.'

‘Is that an understatement, by any chance?' Adam asked quietly.

She nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘He tried to tell you what to do?'

‘Yes.'

‘Persistently?'

‘Almost unceasingly in fact.'

‘And you resisted?'

‘Yes.'

‘You had rows?'

‘Yes.'

‘Often?'

Another hesitation. ‘I wouldn't say often.'

‘But they weren't uncommon?'

‘No. They weren't.'

There was a silence. Outside, an electronic bell warbled. Fast footsteps echoed up the corridor. There was a hesitant knock on the door and the tea arrived, the nurse parking the cups on the desk and making a hasty retreat, as if this sanctum was a place to be feared and avoided. The way the man behaved reminded Dan of the feelings
Wessex Tonight
staff experienced when summoned to Lizzie's office. It was never a call to be told how jolly well you were doing, and how wonderfully delighted with your work the editor was.

‘So, was there anything specific you disagreed about?' Adam prompted, after they'd each picked up their cups.

Paget managed a brief, humourless smile. ‘Mr Bray could disagree with just about anyone on almost anything.'

‘But anything in particular?'

‘Well – I suppose the development of this place. For years, we've had vague plans for renovation. Nothing spectacular, just a bit of modernisation. But he had a real passion for changing it. He walked round with a clipboard, assessing how we worked, then he presented me with a report recommending changes.'

‘Significant changes?'

‘Fundamental ones. His analysis said we could accommodate a third more customers – we try to use the word guests, or occasionally perhaps patients, but he would always say customers – if we changed the dimensions of people's rooms.'

‘Made them smaller?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you said?'

‘I said no, of course. It would mean a great deal of disruption to people who are nearing the end of their lives. You can't treat them like that. They come here to die in peaceful surroundings, not in the middle of a building site. The trouble with Mr Bray was …'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, if you want me to be absolutely honest, he saw everything as a business. How to cut costs, how to be more efficient, how to produce more television sets, or cans of beans, or whatever. And you just can't treat dying people like commodities.'

Adam jotted down a couple of notes. As ever, the detective's questioning had been sharp and precise, cutting to the core of what he wanted to know. But there was something missing. To Dan, it felt as though the obvious target had been peppered with hits, but there was something just behind it, more subtle yet still important that they hadn't touched, the image behind the mirror's glass.

Adam raised a couple more points, about the people who worked at the hospice, the guests and their families, anyone who might have had a particular disagreement with, or reason to dislike Bray, before he came to an issue which he introduced as his final one.

‘Please don't take this the wrong way, but what were you doing on Monday evening at about six o'clock?'

Paget answered quickly, and Dan could see she had been prepared. ‘I was out running. I often go for a jog about that time of day.'

‘Whereabouts?'

‘Around the grounds. And a bit of the cliffs too, if I'm feeling like it.'

‘Even in the rain?'

She nodded. ‘Yes. I go whatever the weather. I find it helps to give me thinking time.'

‘And did anyone see you when you were out?'

‘No, I don't think so. Not surprisingly, there weren't many others about that night.' She thought for a second, then said, ‘Actually, I think Sally saw me.'

‘Sally?'

‘She's one of our guests. She likes a walk around the grounds too and goes out in most weather.'

Adam thanked herand got up from his chair. Dan rose too. There remained a ghost in the interview, he could feel its presence, but they still hadn't mentioned it. He wanted to ask, but he was here on trust and had been told very straightforwardly to keep quiet. He could feel the sweepstake running, almost as if a commentator was describing its progress in the background.

And he very much didn't want it to end yet.

Adam opened the office doorand stepped out into the corridor. Dan shook Paget's hand, made to follow, then paused. On the wall hung a photograph, a group of patients in the summertime, all smiling at the camera, a couple even waving.

Sweet opportunity beckoned.

‘Do you take photos of all your – err, guests?' he asked.

‘Those who are happy to, yes. It's all part of their memory.'

Adam was standing in the corridor, looking back, arms folded across his chest, one polished shoe tapping on the tiles.

The commentator's voice grew louder.

‘It's a nice idea,' Dan said.

‘We think so.'

‘Almost like school or college photos.'

‘Almost.'

From the dense presence of the detective in the corridor came a cough sufficiently pointed to be used as a spear.

Dan wondered if they were on the sweepstake's home straight. But he'd prepared the ground and he'd gone through the build-up. He knew he had to ask.

‘Was Edward Bray's mother a guest here?'

Adam took a step forwards, back into the doorway of the office. Paget glanced at him. The look was fast, nervous.

‘Is that relevant to your investigation? I mean, when Mr Bray made his contribution to us we did agree on confidentiality. He wanted us to say only that the hospice would survive, thanks to his generosity, and nothing more. I appreciate now that he's dead the agreement no longer applies and I want to help you, but …'

Her voice tailed off. Dan let his eyes slide to Adam. The detective's face was impassive. Seconds ticked past. Finally, he gave a small, very slight nod.

‘In that case, I can tell you– yes,' Paget said. ‘Mrs Bray was a guest here. Now, can I help you any further, or may I get on with my work?'

Adam's eyes slowly edged to Dan.

‘There is just one more thing,' he said, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. ‘Do you know what was the cause of the friction between Edward Bray and his father?'

Paget let out a slow sigh. ‘Yes, I do. But in this case I'm sure it's not relevant to your inquiry …'

‘It was to do with Mrs Bray though, wasn't it?' Dan interrupted. ‘It was something about the mother's death that caused the estrangement between father and son.'

She hesitated, went to speak, stopped herself. Finally, she said quietly, ‘Look, I understand your interest, but I think if you really must find out about that you should take up the matter with Arthur Bray, not me.'

* * *

It felt a very long walk back to the car. Adam was silent the whole way.

Dan opened the door, got inand sat waiting for instructions. None came.

A couple of birds landed in one of the bushes bordering the hospice, hopped and chattered to each other.

Adam took out his papersand wrote a note. Dan shifted awkwardly in his seat, squinted against the morning sun.

He thought he could hear the commentator, announcing the winner of the sweepstake. Some cop would be going home considerably richer tonight.

Still, at least he'd learned a fair amount about detective work, and how major investigations were carried out.