The TV Detective (16 page)

The three-year quest was over.

A day may develop its own momentum. A bad one can get worse, deteriorate markedly, and then proceed rapidly downhill, a good one can just keep on improving.

Happily for Dan, Saturday December 19th fell into the category of the latter. And how.

He hardly noticed the walk back to Belstone, the growing chill and the gathering darkness, nor did he have even a sense of Kerry and Rutherford's weariness, still less his own. He drove them back to Plymouth in a daze.

He had finally found the Ted Hughes memorial.

When they got to Kerry's little end-terrace house in Crownhill, it was only her question, ‘What are you doing now then?' that prompted Dan to realise he had thought nothing of the evening, or how to end their date. He wasn't even sure how it had gone. In truth, he could remember little apart from finally finding the stone. His inspired response of, ‘Don't know,' led her to reach across, turn off the car's engine and lead him and Rutherford to her front door and usher them inside.

In the kitchen, Dan sat and sipped at a mug of hot tea. Rutherford chomped hungrily at some biscuits, then lay down beside the radiator and closed his eyes.

The dog was right. It had been quite a day.

Kerry fussed around, occasionally stopping to softly slip a lingering kiss onto Dan's neck. She made the odd comment about feeling chilly, being covered in mud, and how she could very much do with having a good long soak in a hot bath to warm up, added a couple more kisses, then emitted what sounded like a frustrated sigh and disappeared.

Dan wondered what was wrong. Upstairs, he thought he heard the sound of a bath running.

He sat down beside Rutherford, ran a hand over the dog's head and was rewarded with an appreciative whine. Perhaps it was time to get off home. He'd probably said something stupid, or offended Kerry in some way. It wouldn't be the first time a relationship had ended in such circumstances. Tact and diplomacy could be foreign lands to him.

It was a shame. Dan suspected he was growing quite fond of her. Nice place too. He vaguely appreciated it was a cosy house, small and modern, but impeccably kept and comfortable. Outside was a little garden, also trim and neat. He could happily have spent some time here.

Dan tried to distract himself by thinking about that piece of paper on the wall of the MIR. His initial idea was the string of numbers, 992 619, could be a grid reference. But to that suggestion Adam had rolled his eyes theatrically.

‘The thought had occurred to us,' he said, heavily. ‘No go. It's a quarry in the East Midlands, which of course got us all excited. We thought it would be the ideal place to dump some bodies. So we sent a mob of searchers up there. They spent days but didn't find a thing, not a hint of anything at all.'

Dan nodded. ‘Yeah, I thought a grid reference might be too literal. Bonham wasn't daft, was he? And he liked to taunt you. It has to be something more subtle, more cryptic.'

Adam had agreed, but then added, ‘Like what?' And to that, Dan had no answer.

He tried to think more about what the solution to the puzzle could be, but little was really registering with Dan, apart from one resonant point. He let his mind run back over the day and whispered it quietly to Rutherford, lest for fear he might scare the sacred fact away.

Finally, after all that time and searching, he had found the Ted Hughes memorial.

‘Come on then dog,' he said, standing up and heading for the door. ‘It's time we were getting home. I'll shout goodbye as we leave.'

It was only when Kerry returned, dressed just in a towel, holding out her hand to lead him upstairs and talking about the bath being hot, ready, and filled with bubbles that The Great Romantic understood that yet again he had missed a whole barrage of hints.

Chapter
Fourteen

I
T WAS THE WEEK
of Christmas, for some the start of the slow wind-down to the holiday; for many others the break had already begun. The roads were noticeably quieter, no bored children staring from bus windows, and fewer commuters, faces resigned in misty car windscreens. Even the weather was playing along with the seasonal upturn in spirits, a high- pressure system, beloved of the
Wessex Tonight
weatherman, lingering over the country and bringing its attendant blue skies and sunny, chilly, days.

Christmas was on the Friday, meaning an extended run of time off for many. The expressions of the people Dan passed as he drove to Charles Cross seemed softer, perhaps with the anticipation of release from the routines of work, and the chance for some justified over-indulgence. This was no ordinary Monday morning, grimmest of the week's grind.

It was coming up to nine o'clock and Dan had parked at the back of the police station. His arrival prompted less mirth than before, just a couple of half hearted jibes. Perhaps even the Christmas spirit had infected the police, or maybe the novelty of the TV detective was wearing off.

Dan checked his reflection, made sure his hair was orderly and tie straightand was about to head for the door when his mobile rang. It was Lizzie, and the festive feeling had clearly evaded her so easily it might have been travelling at speed on a custom built bypass.

‘Right, today I want a story. After that jolly awayday gadding about in Brighton last week I want a story, I want it exclusive, I want it good and I want it now. You got that? It's quiet on the news front, with all these selfish people having time off for Christmas. No one's even committing any crimes! So I want a story. Well, what are you hanging on the phone for then? Go find me one!'

Dan sighed, made some reassuring noises and hung up. There was always the discovery of the Ted Hughes memorial to offer, but he'd decided to keep that quiet for now. The Bray case was too fascinating for any distractions. Plus, in the week before Christmas he wasn't ready to hike back up onto the moor with Nigel, laden down with camera and tripod, to film the stone. They could broadcast the story in the new year, when the weather started to improve and people were looking for new walks to try.

Just as Dan was about to put the phone away it warbled with a text. Kerry.

“Morning! Hope you have a good week and those nasty people don't work you too hard! It's Christmas! I'm off all week!! If you want your little present, pop round anytime! xx”

Even more exclamation marks than before, Dan noted, and also added kisses. No doubt to mark the development of their relationship. He'd made no attempt whatever to resist joining her in the bath on Saturday, and even less the short journey from the bathroom to her bed. But, come Sunday morning, Dan had felt the familiar fear building.

Overnight, the two wardrobes in her bedroom had transformed into the pair of ogres so dreaded by the mainstay of the male species; expectation and commitment. Dan hurriedly got up, pleaded the need to look after Rutherford, and left.

There had been no communications on Sunday. Despite Dan suffering a series of bouts of wrestling with his conscienceand his decency and gallantry, the fear of moving at speed towards the hazardous land of coupledom had triumphed, and he hadn't sent her a message. He was planning to do so today – honestly, Dan told himself, he was – but she had got there first.

Which meant he now had to come up with a reply. And a Christmas present. And some form of decision about whether he wanted to spend any part of the festive holidays with her.

Not to mention finding a story for his insatiable editor.

The sunshine of the morning's mood dimmed.

It was almost nine o'clock. Adam had said he wanted to start work on the Bray case again at nine, and that meant the hour itself, not a few minutes past. Dan headed for the police station doors.

* * *

Adam held up his arm and stared pointedly at his watch. ‘It's ten past nine,' he said.

The clock on the wall concurred. Dan checked his new Rolex. There must be some mistake. It said the time was just on the hour. Surely such a superlative, stylish and elegant, not to mention expensive, timepiece could never be wrong. But, from the look on Adam's face he sensed now wasn't the moment to argue, so he sat on the edge of a table and muttered an apology.

‘Time isn't money in this business,' the detective added tetchily. ‘It's more important than that. Time is justice. The longer a case runs the more difficult it gets to solve. So let's get on with it.'

The daytime Adam was back, committed investigator, orator and leader, not to mention something of a grouch. It was such a contrast to the more subdued and emotional model of Friday night. There was another oddity about the man today, too. For once, he hadn't shaved well, the shadow of his beard was patchy, he looked tired, and his shirt was – remarkably– not impeccably ironed.

Adam pointed to a couple of new boards which had been added to the MIR. They were filled with the names of the suspects.

‘Study them,' he said. ‘Take it all in. Then we'll have a chat about what you think we should do next. I'm going to get a coffee. You've got ten minutes.' He tapped his watch. ‘That's ten minutes
exactly
.'

The first name on the boards was that of Arthur Bray. He had no mobile phone, so there was no opportunity to trace his movements a week ago, when his son was murdered. He claimed to have been at home at the time of the killing, but there was no one to verify that. He had the means to kill Edward, with his cabinet of shotguns, and possibly the motive, with their festering disagreement, the “divorce”, as he had described it.

So, Arthur Bray remained a suspect.

Eleanor Paget's claim to be out jogging at the time of the shooting had been verified, but only to an extent. Dan's experience of interviewing eyewitnesses had taught him early that five different people who all saw the same event could give five very different accounts of what had happened. Thus it was with police work.

Sally, the guest at the hospice who Paget said saw her jogging had been spoken to, and thought she could remember it. But she was an older lady, almost eighty, and taking some powerful painkillers, which made her recollection hazy. No, she couldn't be certain it was Eleanor Paget she saw. The rain was heavy and visibility poor. And as for timings, she thought it was sometime before six o'clock, but couldn't be sure.

It was only a fifteen-minute drive from the hospice to the lay-by. Paget could have made it, carried out the killing and got back without anyone noticing. She had the motive, those rows with Bray, and possibly the means if she had got hold of a shotgun. But she would have needed an accomplice, if that call telling the police about Bray's body had indeed been made by someone involved in the murder.

A footnote, in Adam's handwriting, added that this was thought probable, but by no means certain. It could, as Dan had said, have been made by a man who witnessed what happened, but didn't want to get involved, for whatever shady reason.

Paget did own a mobile phone, but analysis indicated it had been at the hospice at the time of Bray's murder. That though meant nothing. She could have left it in her office as she jogged, or as she went to carry out the killing.

The summary of all the information about Eleanor Paget ended with the conclusion that she had by no means been eliminated from the inquiry.

Adam had added another interesting note, saying “I'm sure I know her from somewhere, not certain where, maybe some connection with a case ages ago – must check this.”

Next came Hicks and Stead, grouped together as their alibis depended upon each other. Both had clear motives, and could have obtained a shotgun without great difficulty. They claimed to have been in the shop by the river around the time Bray was killed, and the lady who ran it had been interviewed.

There were no CCTV cameras in the store. They had been tried, years ago, but proved too expensive and too fiddly, she said, but she did recall the men coming in, and for two reasons. They were heavily wrapped up in their waterproofs, a colourful yellow, and one – probably Hicks from the description she gave – had broken a bottle of milk. He'd been a gentleman about it she said, so rare these days, and insisted on paying for it and helping to clean up the mess.

As for the all important issue of timing, she couldn't be quite sure, although she thought it was sometime after half past five. But the shop was on the embankment, only five minutes or so drive from the lay-by, so that didn't help rule out Hicks and Stead.

Both had mobiles and they had duly been traced. The records showed the phones at the river until just after half past five, then moving to the shop, finally travelling to the men's respective homes, just a couple of hundred yards from each other. Crucially, both phones were on the move, and almost at the houses, at the time Bray was killed.

Another note warned that the movement of a phone did not, of course, guarantee it was with its owner. It also said the lady in the shop was at the rump end of middle age, her eyesight was far from sharp, and her description of the two men was poor, relying mostly on their build. But the conclusion at the end of the details of the inquiries into Hicks and Stead was that, on balance, they had become considerably less prominent as suspects for the killing.

It was the classic police cliché of “keeping an open mind”, although by no means expressed as concisely.

Gordon Clarke's alibi had also been thoroughly checked. His mobile phone trace led to Bristol, just as he had said, and it was on the train on the way home when Bray was killed. Clarke's bank card had been used to withdraw some money in Bristol city centre. His secretary. Ellie, had been interviewed, and said she had received several texts from him during the day about ongoing business matters.

That was perfectly normal. Text was often his preferred method of communication she said, particularly when travelling on a train as he preferred to sit in the quiet carriage, where mobile conversations were banned. Ellie had deleted the messages, but was absolutely certain they came from Clarke as they contained details about current business matters which only he could know.

The bottom of Clarke's entry on the board read, “She could be lying to cover for her boss, but there's no apparent motive, and no suggestion that's the case. From this, despite him having a clear and powerful motive and the potential to obtain a shotgun, we have to conclude Gordon Clarke has also become less prominent as a suspect.”

Finally came the details of the inquiries into Penelope Ramsden. She described herself as an old-fashioned woman who had no mobile phone, and her claim to have been at the office when Bray was killed could not be verified by anyone. The last couple of members of staff had left the building at half past five sharp and she was still there then, but the drive to the lay-by was only ten to fifteen minutes. She could have made it in time to kill Bray. There was no obvious motive, but, as Adam had said, they didn't know what might have happened between her and Bray which could have led to her wanting to kill him, perhaps in a jealous rage.

She remained a suspect.

With all the possible killers, inquiries had revealed no reason for any to be forced to cancel an appointment on the Monday before Bray was killed. It was a fine day, and Arthur Bray had been playing golf, verified by a couple of friends and the club itself. Eleanor Paget was at work, as normal, also confirmed by several staff. Hicks and Stead were fishing and seen by several other anglers who had also turned out on the river to take advantage of the good weather. Gordon Clarke was in a series of business meetings and had a range of impeccable witnesses to prove that. Penelope Ramsden had been at work, for much of the day with her late boss, verified by dozens of other staff.

The vital clue as to why the murder was apparently deferred for a week was still eluding them, and proving all the more teasing for it.

‘That, I would reckon, remains the key to the case,' Adam said, as he walked back into the MIR. ‘And before you ask, I could see you staring at it on the boards, and thinking about what it means.'

He handed Dan a plastic cup filled with a poor impersonation of tea. Even the smell made him grimace.

‘So,' the detective continued, ‘what do we do next?'

‘Err …'

‘Err indeed,' came the rapid response. ‘Thank you, but not the greatest of insights. I was hoping for something a little better.'

Dan bridled. ‘Well, it's still a hatred, or revenge killing. Because Bray was shot in the heart, and there was that kick in the face after he was dead. Nothing's changed there.'

‘Yep.'

‘And we've still got our little list of suspects, some of whom are now looking more likely bets than others.'

‘Yep.'

‘But we've still got no evidence.'

‘Yep. All true, but none helpful. Come on, tell me something I don't know.'

‘So we … we – '

Adam folded his arms, waited expectantly, and indeed annoyingly. Finally, Dan said, ‘Look, are you in a rough mood today? Had a bad weekend or something?'

Instant anger flashed in the detective's eyes. ‘My weekends are my business.'

‘Sure, but …'

‘You got that? My business and mine alone.'

Dan held up his hands. ‘OK, OK. It just … I don't know, feels like I've done something wrong and I don't know what it is.'

‘I'm only doing what you wanted. Trying to get you to think like a cop.'

‘Well, give me a clue then.'

‘Your clue is that we're trying to find a clue.'

Adam sipped at his coffee. Dan was about to try his tea, but the acrid smell made him think better of it. The door opened and Suzanne walked in. Her lips, always as thin as a parched river evaporated almost entirely when she saw him. She sat down on a desk on the opposite side of the MIR. Dan felt he was caught in a classic pincer movement.