The TV Detective (15 page)

‘Yeah,' he said slowly. ‘That'd be, err– good.'

Dan parked the car at Charles Cross, and they headed into town.

All the bars were filled with people, full of the spirit of the season, and ably assisted by the alcohol they were so eagerly consuming. Women wore tinsel in their hair, men Santa Claus hats and beards. This time next week it would be Christmas.

The sky had stayed clear and the air had grown cold and sharp with it. Groups of committed smokers huddled in beer gardens and outside doorways, taxis rushed back and forth, loading and unloading their shouting and staggering cargoes. The city echoed to the pump of music and the shouts and screams of the weekend revellers. It was no place for the sober.

Adam and Dan walked past a couple of pubs, the music too loud, the crowd too boisterous for it to be worthwhile trying to find a table. On the edge of the waterfront of the Barbican they found a bar which was a little less packed and had a decent menu.

‘It does beer,' said Dan, squinting through the misty glass at the promise of the pumps.

‘And food,' Adam replied. ‘Come on, I need to unwind.'

They found a table for two at the back. A waiter slid over, favoured them with a soppy smile and made a show of lighting the fine red candle that stood between them.

‘I can't help but suspect,' Dan said, ‘that our waiter believes we're a couple.'

Adam took off his jacket. ‘Don't. I've got enough problems on that front as it is.'

Dan kept quiet, waited, held the detective's look, but Adam quickly grabbed a menu and began studying the lines of dishes.

‘Looks OK,' he said hurriedly.

‘Yes. Looks OK.'

And for the next few minutes they discussed the menu. In fairness, it looked better than OK. The bar had just taken on a Thai chef and was offering a tempting array of dishes. The waiter, who was still smiling, brought them a couple of pints of beer, and it was fresh and tasty. Dan made a note to come back here soon. Real ale and Thai food, a heady combination.

Most of the drinkers had congregated around the bar, and where they sat it was quiet enough to talk without being forced to shout.

‘So, if nothing much is happening over the weekend, what do we do on Monday?' Dan asked.

‘Go through what the teams have found out about our various suspects' movements and alibis around the time Bray was killed. Then, by a process of elimination, try to narrow down who the murderer might have been.'

‘Do you think you'll get him?'

‘We'll get him. It may take a while, but we'll get him. Our murderer has left us one big clue, which I think will give him away.'

Adam looked at Dan expectantly, and he sensed another test. ‘The cancelled appointment. From exactly a week before Bray was killed.'

‘Spot on. That's the key to the case.'

Their starters arrived, a couple of fish soups. Clouds of delicious scent wafted from the bowls.

‘Mmm, excellent,' was Adam's verdict. ‘So, how're you finding police work?'

‘In a word, fascinating. More to the point, how am I doing at it?'

‘In a couple of words, pretty well.'

‘It hasn't been easy. I didn't exactly feel welcome to start with.'

‘You weren't, to say the least. But you're doing better now.'

Dan lay down his spoon. ‘Am I?'

‘Yep. With your coverage of our knifeman, you made a few people realise you could be useful. You've kept quiet, listened and learned, not risen to the taunts, and you've also made me some money.'

‘Have I? How?'

‘The sweepstake. As I had the power to chuck you off the case, I didn't enter it – in case, by some bizarre coincidence, you were thrown out at the very moment I'd picked and I was accused of fixing it. But I did put in my money and took the final option, the one that no one else would want.'

‘Which was?'

‘That you wouldn't get thrown off at all this week – and you haven't. So I've won. For which I will buy you a beer.' Adam lifted his glass. ‘Cheers!'

The waiter brought them some more drinks followed by their main courses, a couple of green curries. They were also delicious. A party of young men walked into the bar, looked around and quickly left again.

‘Not enough women here,' Adam observed. ‘I was the same myself at that age.'

Dan studied the detective, wondered whether he wanted to talk, but kept quiet. So far, every effort he'd made to find out more about Adam and his life had ricocheted straight off the armour plating of his defences.

The fire of the curry had prompted their glasses to empty once more, and the waiter brought replenishments. Adam took off his tie, curled it up carefully and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Dan noticed he was feeling light headed, probably a combination of the efforts of the week, a long drive today, and the beer. He would sleep well that night.

He checked his watch, held it up high and made a point of studying it at length, but still no one noticed, still less produced the requisite admiring comment. The magnificent chronometer said it was just after ten, but oddly the clock on the wall was registering ten past. The clock must be wrong, could in no way be any form of competition for the global apex of the watchmaker's art of which Dan was the proud new owner.

They talked a little more about the inquiry, the various people they had met over the last few days and finished their drinks.

‘Time to get the bill, I think,' Adam said, and took out his wallet. Dan glimpsed a picture of a young boy, perhaps six or seven years old, smiling from a photograph.

‘My son, Tom,' Adam explained. ‘A little terror sometimes, but a great lad.'

Dan studied the picture. ‘Aren't they all terrors at that age? He looks like you.'

‘Yes, so people say. I'll probably take him to the football at the weekend.'

‘Plymouth Argyle?'

‘Yep. We usually re-enact the match afterwards. I have to go in goal, of course.'

‘Of course. Well, that sounds fair enough to me. It's a father's duty to be peppered with shots.'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you planning anything much else at the weekend?'

‘Not much,' Adam said quietly. ‘Not a lot, no.'

They paid the bill, thanked the smiling waiter and left him a good tip. He deserved it,he'd had plenty of exercise at their behest. It was early enough to make getting a taxi straightforward, most people were still in the bars, not yet heading for clubs or home. They hailed a black cab, piled in and settled into the seats.

‘Mutley Plain please,' Adam told the driver.

‘I thought you lived in Peverell?' Dan queried.

Adam stared out of the window. They passed a couple of police officers trying to break up a fight, and a group of women clustered around a young girl who was being violently sick against a wall.

‘Yeah, I sometimes live in Peverell,' Adam said finally. ‘What I mean is …'

His voice tailed off. The cab stopped at some traffic lights, then rumbled forwards again.

‘Well, what happened is this,' Adam continued. ‘Annie, that's Tom's mum, and I, well we …'

They reached Mutley Plain, the strip of bars and clubs buzzing with a procession of people.

‘Anywhere along here guv?' the driver asked.

‘Yeah, just here'll be fine,' Adam replied.

The taxi stopped and the detective climbed out. ‘Look, I'll tell you another time,' he said. ‘See you Monday.'

He patted Dan's shoulder, turned and walked off into the night, disappearing up a side street. Thoughtfully, Dan watched him go. He was almost sure that as Adam got out of the cab his eyes had looked red and tearful.

Chapter
Thirteen

D
AN HAD PREPARED AS
best he could for the date, making sure to shave well, brush his teeth comprehensively, shape up his hair, even apply a little manly fragrance, and remind himself to be attentive and amusing, but primarily interested in her. It was an intimidating list, but he thought he might just about be able to carry it off.

Rutherford however had made no such vows. The moment he met Kerry for the first time he jumped up and planted a couple of muddy paws on her jacket.

‘Yuk!' she gasped. ‘Thanks very much!'

Yet again in his life, Dan found himself apologising for his dog. They'd only just picked her up and already made a less than outstanding impression. When Rutherford had been calmed, Dan and Kerry exchanged a brief kiss, got into the car and set off. From the back seat the dog kept up a low whining for almost the whole of the hour's drive.

‘He does that when he's excited,' Dan explained. ‘And the prospect of having a new friend and being out on Dartmoor for hours is more than enough to set him off.'

‘That's fine by me. I love dogs.'

In fairness she sounded as though she meant it, and at the mention of the word Kerry was rewarded by the thrusting of a wet nose into her neck.

It was another fine day, the sun again dominant in a clear sky. They drove out of the city and onto the moor, passing Yelverton and the turn to Arthur Bray's house. Dan found himself thinking about the old man's shotguns, wondering whether the father could have killed the son, or if the murderer was one of the others they had met last week.

‘Are you OK?' Kerry asked.

‘Yes, fine thanks. Why?'

‘I just thought you were muttering to yourself.'

‘Err, no. Just, err – humming. A little tune. As it's such a fine day.'

She smiled in that way people do when they meet someone who they think to be unbalanced and want to distract the said suspect from the fact that they're trying to edge away.

How well the date was going. Not fifteen minutes in, Rutherford had already carried out a muddy assault and slimed her with his nose, and his master had started talking to himself about a murder investigation.

It just had to get better from here, or it would be yet another Christmas in his familiar single state.

‘So, how's your week been?' Dan asked.

‘Oh, fine. Lots on, as ever, but nothing special. I had my hair cut yesterday.'

So she had. Dan muttered an apology and tried to retake the lost ground with some lavish compliments, but he feared that after initially missing the new style his tongue would be seen more as lead than silver.

‘I had some pain-in-the-backside customers,' she went on, ‘but that's pretty standard for the human race. How was your week?'

Dan told her a little about the Bray investigation and the trip to Brighton. He made a point of rolling up his sleeve.

‘I did some Christmas shopping while I was there,' he said meaningfully, turning his wrist back and forth so the Rolex caught the sunlight.

She smiled, and this time it was genuine. ‘Oh, that's cute of you. I did wonder what to do being as we've only just met, but that means I can confess I've bought you a little something too.'

Dan smiled too, hoped it didn't look pained, rolled his sleeve back down and made a mental note to get a present for Kerry.

Much of the rest of Devon appeared to be Christmas shopping too. The road heading into Plymouth was busy with cars, the way out onto the moor far quieter. They reached Tavistock, took the back way through the town, past the cattle market where Dan had covered many a story on the annual Dartmoor pony auctions. The road broke out onto the open moor, a great green valley and a running stream to their side.

‘This is beautiful,' she said. ‘It's a lovely idea of yours to come for a walk. Thank you.'

‘It's my pleasure. I thought it'd be fun to do something different.'

Another half an hour's patient driving through the moor's 40 miles per hour speed limit and they were in the village of Belstone. Dan parked the car on the green, by the old stocks, opened the door and the explosion of Rutherford detonated. He ran back and forth, sniffing at benches, cars and bushes, before returning. Dan slipped the lead over his neck and they set off, south, following the River Taw.

‘So, where exactly are we going?' she asked, as they walked along a narrow road, towards a five-barred gate.

‘Good question. I hope to a place where the memorial might be. You remember I told you Ted Hughes asked for this block of granite inscribed with his name to be placed between the sources of four rivers?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, we're going to that area. I've walked a lot of it already, looking for the thing. We're going to try another part, right up by the source of the Taw. It'd be great to find the memorial, but if we don't it's a lovely walk anyway.'

She almost managed to hide her qualm. ‘How far is it?'

‘Just a few miles.'

‘And what kind of ground?'

‘There'll be a bit of scrambling over the odd boulder, a little climbing and some bog to look out for, but otherwise fairly straightforward.'

To her credit, Kerry didn't look deterred. She did take a glance at her fingernails, manicured and impeccable, and Dan wondered if this was really the kind of date she would choose. Her walking boots also looked suspiciously new. Her hair had been down, no doubt to make sure he wouldn't miss the new style, as he duly had, but now as the breeze gathered strength she tied it up.

Dan remembered his mental checklist and opened the gate for her, making sure to close it behindthem. They walked through some trees and emerged into a shock of view, a great natural amphitheatre, a mile or more of plain bounded by rising tors.

‘Wow,' Kerry said.

‘I'd say wow about sums it up. This is Taw Marsh.'

The wind puffed and ruffled, playing with their clothes as they stood and stared. The sun had risen into the southern sky, pouring its yellow winter light down onto the land and casting a silhouette of a distant hill. Dan pointed towards it. ‘That's Steeperton Tor. The blocks on the top are military huts. It's where we're heading.'

They walked on, Rutherford leaving them to sniff along the course of the river. A couple of sheep watched warily, but the dog showed no interest. The track started to fade into the moorland, a marker of where most Sunday walks ended. The ground was hard and cold underfoot.

The Taw too began to thin, to become no more than a brook, its rushing waters cascading north towards the Bristol Channel.

‘I always find it remarkable,' Dan said, ‘how it can be so tiny here, near its source, but only around 30 miles away at Barnstaple it's such a mighty river.'

A pack of Dartmoor ponies was grazing at the grass, a mix of greys, chestnuts and browns. One lifted its head, let out a low whinnyand tossed its mane. The ground was pitted with the crescent imprints of their hooves.

The path started to unwind against them, the gradient growing. Soon, they were both panting with the effort. Rutherford ran circles around them, showing no signs of any breathlessness. They stopped for a rest, looking back on the Marsh, the thin ribbon of the mercury river winding through the green baize.

Dan found Kerry's hand in his. ‘It's stunning,' she whispered.

‘I think we might make a walker of you yet,' he replied. ‘This is what it's all about. The wonderful tranquility.'

As if on cue, a plane droned overhead, cutting through the peace of the moor. They walked on, forded the river, hopping from rock to stone and followed a military track as it climbed up the side of a tor.

‘Where are we heading for?' she panted.

‘The source of the Taw. We won't get that far, but it's about the only place left I haven't looked. And from the odd hint I've been getting from Ted Hughes' friends, I'm sure the memorial is in that area.'

‘They give you clues?'

‘Yes, and I think they enjoy it. They know I'm looking and I think they want the memorial found now. It's been quite a few years since Ted died and it was placed here, and they want people to be able to visit it. Occasionally a letter, or sometimes a little note, will arrive at the studios with a clue in.'

‘You should write about it. It's a lovely story.'

‘If I find the thing I just might do that.'

Further down the track the inevitable happened. For Dan, it was only a surprise that it had taken so long. Rutherford plunged into the river, was paddling madly against the current, thrashing the water into a froth, but making no headway whatsoever. He turned and let it wash him downstream, his mouth hanging open in his smiling face.

The dog swam with the flow for fifty yards, then spotted a gap in the bank, clambered out and sprinted towards them.

‘Run!' Dan yelled, but Kerry, inexpert in the ways of mad hounds, was far too slow. Rutherford leapt up, then shook himself into a blur, a rainbow spray of riverwater covering her.

‘Oh, lovely,' she gasped, trying to brush off some of the droplets. ‘Thanks dog.'

Dan was choking, tried to hide his laughter. ‘Occupational hazard,' he gasped, through the mirth.

The banks of the river grew steeper, granite blocks clinging to the sheer slopes. They weaved and clambered their way through, Dan quickly checking around each boulder for any hidden inscriptions. There were none. He looked at his watch. It was just after one o'clock. He scanned around, found a rock with a flat top and stopped.

‘Time for some lunch,' he said, producing a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of water from his pocket and placing them on the improvised picnic table. They shared the food, throwing the odd titbit to Rutherford, and following them with a couple of dog biscuits. A pair of crows swooped from the clear sky and were rewarded with a crust.

Kerry bent down, tied up a shoelace. ‘How much further are we going?'

‘Not much. We want to get back well before it gets dark. Can you manage another half an hour or so?'

Dan noticed he was still finding the combination of the blonde of her hair and the brown of her eyes enticing, particularly in the flattering sunlight. They tidied up the debris of their snack and walked on. There were fewer boulders now, but Dan still made a point of walking around each to check it. If the memorial was anywhere, it would most probably be here.

‘It could be any of them?' Kerry asked.

‘It could be, but from the hints I've been getting it's one boulder on its own, in a place which would have appealed to Ted.'

‘And where would that be?'

Dan shrugged. ‘That is the question. He loved the moor, and he was a keen fisherman. So, I'd say anywhere with a good view, preferably close to a river or stream.'

‘So around here would be ideal?'

‘That's what I'm thinking. But I've got my hopes up before and not found it. Three years I've been looking for the thing. Three years! It's about the longest running story I've ever tackled and I still haven't put it to bed.'

The river was little more than a trickle now, mostly hidden by the clumps and tumps of wiry moorgrass. The land opened up, the tors slipping away, and the ground grew boggy and uneven, filled with pits and holes. They trod carefully, the mud sucking at their shoes. There were few boulders here, just the occasional one rising from the green plain and mostly camouflaged with lichens and moss.

‘It won't be one of those,' Dan said. ‘The hints are that the memorial was brought here from another part of the moor after it had been inscribed. Those have been here far too long.'

‘So what do we do now?'

‘Call it a day, I suspect. We're right up by the source of the Taw now. Another area hunted and no success. Ah well, it was a lovely walk, but I think it's time to turn back.'

Kerry's face was flushed and she couldn't hide the relief in her voice. ‘If you insist.'

They stood together and slowly turned, taking in the entire panorama. A couple of layers of cloud had formed in the sky, softening the sunlight. Shadows were starting to form on the land, shading patches of the moor with grey and black.

Rutherford wandered off towards the river, sniffed his way along it, then disappeared behind a small hillock covered with grass. Dan squinted through the sunshine. On the top he thought he could just make out a block of stone.

‘Hey!' he said. ‘Hey!'

‘What?'

‘A little hill with great views, overlooking the source of the Taw. Come on!'

He was away, moving as quickly as he could over the ridged ground, the excitement spurring him on. Sticky bog pulled at his feet, but he kept going.

Dan tried to calm himself, prepare for the inevitable disappointment. This was by no means the first time he thought he'd found the memorial. And time and again he'd been wrong.

Rutherford loped up, following his path, Kerry a little behind them. The boulder looked just the right size, around six feet or so in length.

He felt his excitement growing. Dan was sure he could see writing on its face.

Or perhaps it was just the projection of his hope.

He half stumbled, righted himself, kept striding. Kerry was calling something about being careful, but he hardly heard.

The sun was lower in the sky, casting its flames over the moor, making him screw up his eyes against the glare, but he was almost at the hillock. Dan began striding over its side, clambering at the grass, pulling himself up.

His feet slipped and he tumbled back, found his grip and lunged forwards again, onto the top of the mound.

He stopped, stared.

It was only when he found the strength to take another couple of steps forwards, run his hand over the stone, feel the physical truth of its existence that Dan finally believed it.

There, in front of him, was a grey granite boulder. On it was inscribed the name of Ted Hughes, OM– for the Order of Merit he was awarded – and 1930–1998, the dates that marked the sweep of his extraordinary life.