The TV Detective (31 page)

‘Not bad,' was the verdict from the rabid newshound. ‘I'll consider that my Christmas present. I'll have more of the same for tonight, and if there are no developments you may just be permitted to go sloping off to make an unwarrantedly early start on your barely deserved break.'

Lizzie had never quite got the hang of humour. It hardly suited her, but at least she had the decency to put on a semi-smile to make it clear she was teasing.

Although Hicks and Stead had been charged with the same crime, Adam made it clear that Stead was going be treated more leniently. The trial would be told he had cooperated with the police, had helped to bring the case to justice, and that detectives believed he had acted his part under pressure from the other two men.

He would still go to prison, but the sentence would be substantially shorter and arrangements would be made for him to serve the time in a jail as close as possible to home.

There was one more piece of news about the case. Penelope Ramsden had regained consciousness and was said by the doctors to be improving well. She was going to be OK. A detective had been to see her, only briefly and under medical supervision, but had the answer to a couple of questions Adam asked him to put to her.

Despite Bray's death, the hospice would still be cared for financially, for the foreseeable future at least. Bray was a rich man, with substantial investments. He had altered his will in recent weeks to make sure St Jude's would receive a large sum if something should happen to him.

At this news, Adam nodded slowly.

The other detail of information was that it hadn't taken long to conclude Ramsden's crash was nothing more than an accident, caused in the main by her anguished state.

At least, Dan reflected, one person had loved Edward Bray on the day he died. It wasn't much of an epitaph, but it was better than none.

He set off down the stairs to return to Charles Cross. This afternoon, Adam said they had one final visit to make before he would consider the case to be truly resolved.

Eleanor Paget welcomed them into her office and offered them tea or coffee. Adam declined, politely as ever, but also with an edge in his voice. He'd greeted Paget stiffly and formally, with no warmth or pleasure, most unusual for someone Dan had already come to think of as a gentleman detective.

His manner made it clear this was going to be a brief and businesslike visit, very different from those which had gone before.

Adam settled in his chair, opened his case and found a file. He began reading, but didn't speak.

Paget studied him, but also said nothing. She tapped an elegant fingernail on the desk and waited.

And Dan was left in a familiar position, one which he had come to know well at the start of the inquiry, but had hoped he'd now worked his way out of. He was wondering what was going on. This strange, silent scene had the atmosphere of a volcano about to erupt from beneath calm and easy waters.

Dan eyed Adam, managed to take in a quick glimpse of the file. It was titled, “Eleanor Paget”, and beneath were rows of type, but the words were too small to make out.

A puzzle had joined a mystery.

On the drive to the hospice, the detective had hardly spoken. He sat, staring at the raindrops sliding down the windscreen.

Once, when they stopped at some traffic lights, Dan said, ‘Care to enlighten me?'

‘About what?' came the gruff reply.

‘About what we're doing? Why we're going to the hospice? This loose end you're going to tug?'

‘No. You'll see. In a few minutes.'

Just ten days ago, Dan would have kept quiet and driven the car. Now though, whether it was his role in solving the case and the polishing of his ego and self confidence it had bestowed, the improvement in his relationship with Adam, or perhaps just the welcome sensation of Christmas creeping up, he felt sufficiently emboldened to challenge the detective.

‘I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

‘What?'

Dan sighed. Monosyllabic was clearly the theme of Adam's conversation this afternoon. He tried again.

‘I don't understand why you're feeling grumpy. You can have some time off over Christmas now?'

‘Yep.'

‘You're still spending it with Annie and Tom?'

‘Yep.'

‘And looking forward to it?'

‘Yep.'

‘And happy about it?'

‘Delighted.'

Three syllables. By comparison with what had gone before it was almost an oration. They were making progress, albeit painful.

‘You've made your arrests.'

‘Yep.'

‘One murder charge, two conspiracy.'

‘Yep.'

‘The High Honchos have been on the phone, congratulating you.'

‘Yep.'

‘It's all over the media, very good for the force's standing.'

‘Yep.'

‘The case is done.'

‘No.'

One little word can have a remarkable impact. It felt like a stone shattering the windscreen. Dan found himself recoiling.

‘But we've got our killers.'

‘Yep.'

‘So, what's going on?'

‘Just wait, will you! You'll see in a minute.'

Dan decided it was time to be quiet. He drove them to the hospice without another word.

‘So,' Paget said finally, in a friendly voice, which didn't quite work. ‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector? It's Christmas Eve, but I don't expect you've just come to pass on your best wishes for the season, have you?'

‘No,' Adam said grimly. ‘That I haven't.'

Another silence. He leafed though a couple more pages, then closed the file and put it back in his case.

Adam folded his arms, stared right into the woman's eyes, and slowly let his mouth form the words, ‘I know.'

‘Know what?'

‘What you did.'

The words hit their target. She sat upright, and there was a hint of fear in her reply.

‘“What I did?” What is it I am supposed to have done?'

Adam bent forwards so he was leaning across the desk.

‘I debated long and hard with myself about how to handle this, but you don't need to worry, Ms Paget. I'll never be able to prove it. In all honesty, I'm not even sure you've committed a crime. I know you won't say anything and I also know you won't have left me any evidence. I did consider having the hospice and your office and computer searched. I even got a warrant for it, but I decided not to in the end. It wasn't worth it. It'd just upset your guests, cause a huge fuss and I know I won't find anything anyway. Gordon Clarke isn't saying a thing either, and even if he did talk to us I doubt he'd realise how he was set up.'

And now she was clearly flustered. ‘I … I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘I'm talking about justice, Ms Paget. Or, at least, the nearest I can get to it. And I think this is it, this little chat we're having. Or – that we've had.'

She didn't reply, just stared at him, her face flushed. Adam got up from his chair, reached for the door.

‘I just wanted you to know,' he said, before he left. ‘Just so you don't think you got away with it completely, and to warn you that if anything like this happens again, and you're in any way a part of it, I'll be coming straight for you.'

If Paget did have anything to say, it was lost in the way Adam quickly pulled the door shut behind him. He strode back out to the car, leaving a baffled Dan mouthing questions and struggling to keep up.

Chapter
Twenty-six

I
T WAS CLOSING IN
on midnight, the first such celebrated shadow between Christmas Eve and the day itself that Dan could recall spending on his own, but some things simply feel right. He had much to think about, and needed to go through it all and try to come to terms with it.

How life had changed in the last two weeks.

It wasn't as though he had to be alone. He'd had a couple of offers about how to spend the night, it was just that he didn't fancy either.

El was out in town with some other hacks, photographers and assorted members of the disreputable club of the media. Dan had received a loud and largely nonsensical phone call from the paparazzo, which, after some translation, had probably said he was awash with cash from selling his photographs of the Scoutmaster. He'd established a form of celebratory base camp in a bar, it was very busy, he was intoxicated, fully intended to become even more so, and would Dan, old buddy, good pal, top mate, etc., care to join him?

Dan, old buddy, etc. thanked him kindly for the considerate offer, but declined. He would see El tomorrow – not too early, naturally – to partake of the promised single malt and some yarning of tales from the year which had passed. As ever, there had been mishaps and misdeeds aplenty, all candidates for amusing recap.

He also made a mental note to take some headache tablets for his friend.

The evening with Kerry had gone well enough. Dan got a taxi to her house, no easy task given the busyness of the night, and had taken along his little Christmas gift. They sat in her living room and exchanged presents over a glass of wine.

She'd bought him a beautiful shirt from a very fine designer, sky blue in colour, impeccable in tailoring and extravagant in expense. It could be worn for work or play, fitted him perfectly and suited him more. She'd even got Rutherford some dog biscuits and a new ball to chase, chew and eventually lose, a familiar fate which befell all such offerings to the recalcitrant canine.

The nagging voice of guilt began to carp away in Dan's mind.

‘The shirt, well … how did you know – like, sizes and styles, and taste and all that?' he found himself stammering. ‘I'd never have a clue what clothes to buy for you. It took me long enough to find any sort of present.'

‘It's a girl thing,' she replied, and held out her hands for her own gift.

It was untidily wrapped with a couple of patches that didn't match the mainstay of paper, running out as it had at a critical point, and so perhaps resembling a small harlequin. But Dan thought she was pleased with the new hair drier he had bought. She certainly laughed enough.

They walked down to her local for a couple more drinks and a chat. It was a decent place, still with some original wooden beams and stone flooring, even better a couple of good ales and mercifully only one fruit machine and no jukebox. Even the Christmas decorations didn't look forlorn, not the usual pub type, their cheap glitter worn away by years of dutiful festive airings. The pub wasn't too busy either and they found a corner to sit.

Dan noticed he had to concentrate hard to hold a conversation, and even then it flowed like a river in a drought. His mind was too full of the day and all that had happened.

‘Are you OK?' she asked, at one point.

‘In what way?'

‘You seem a bit – distracted.'

Dan put down his pint. ‘In truth, I am. It's been a hell of a few days and it won't leave my mind. I'm sorry, it's nothing to do with you, it's just sometimes I get a bit lost in myself.'

She smiled, squeezed his knee and talked about tomorrow, her family, and their traditions for Christmas Day. They would open their presents early, over a breakfast of smoked salmon and champagne, sit and chat, then have a feast of a lunch and afterwards go for a walk to try to ease the assault of the armies of calories. In the evening they would play cards for pennies.

If, as Dan suspected, it was a final attempt to lure him along, it sounded as appealing as an invitation to an astrophysicists' party.

They walked back to her house and had another glass of wine while Dan waited for a taxi. He'd deliberately asked to visit her rather than have Kerry come to the flat. It was always easier to make an exit yourself than to try to usher someone else towards a door.

‘Are you sure you don't want to stay?' she asked gently, cuddling into him as the car drew up outside.

‘No and yes,' was all Dan could say in reply. ‘But I just don't think I‘m up to it. Sorry.'

She smiled understandingly, they kissed goodnight, he gently freed himself and made his way to the waiting cab. She stood on the doorstep and waved until he was out of sight. Dan wondered what she'd be thinking when she got back inside.

The evening had been dry, but on the short drive home the rain started to sweep in again. The season just wasn't the same without the snow Dan could have sworn was far more common in the distant days of his youth.

If the song had been written, “I'm Dreaming of a Wet Christmas” it would never have been a hit, he thought.

Back at the flat, Dan let Rutherford out into the garden, then settled on the sofa with a glass of whisky. So many thoughts were careering through his mind that he had to take out a pad of paper and pen and try to marshal them into some form of order.

The clock slipped past midnight. Christmas Day had arrived. Across the city, fireworks showered their colours over the dour night sky and a cacophony of horns blared. But Dan noticed none of it. It was only after half an hour's uninterrupted writing that he looked up from his pad.

‘We've got one thing in common, Gordon Clarke and me,' he told Rutherford. ‘We were both set up. Subtly maybe, but undoubtedly nevertheless.'

After that final interview with Eleanor Paget, Dan had driven back to the newsroom. He had a couple of sentences to add to the end of the report from lunchtime, that Clarke, Hicks and Stead had been remanded in custody by magistrates. Despite the pleas of their lawyers for bail, the seriousness of the charges meant the men would be spending Christmas in a prison cell.

Even with Dan's repeated and increasingly irritable inquiries, the enigmatic Adam still wouldn't talk about what the interview with Paget meant. He said he needed to do a little more work on his suspicions, but that Dan should come back to Charles Cross later for a final discussion.

He had been left with a couple of hours to kill, and wandered around the newsroom, chatting to a few colleagues, finding the strength and forbearance to wish most a happy Christmas, and even filling out an expenses form. It was one of his personal definitions of boredom. When he felt the need to do some paperwork he knew life was far from its pinnacle of excitement.

He took the sheet of paper and its attendant envelope full of receipts into the management office. Louise, Lizzie's cheerful and loyal secretary was away from her desk, so he left it on her chair to ensure she wouldn't miss it and would appreciate the urgency of the matter. He was owed hundreds of pounds. Dan was about to stroll down to the canteen to get a coffee when a piece of paper caught his eye.

It was the letter of complaint, the one which had seen him summoned to Lizzie's office, rebuked, and told his employment would change or would rapidly become extinct. He could hardly miss it, those moaning capital letters describing his behaviour;

“DISGRACEFUL … DISGUSTING … APPALLING … SCANDALOUS …”

And now he knew where he recognised the handwriting from. It was Louise's.

Dan took a quick look around. The office was empty and there was no sign of anyone returning. He shifted the letter to see what was underneath. There was just one more piece of paper, a note from Lizzie.

“Good spy work, thanks. The “complaint” gave me just the pretext I needed. But better shred it now.”

Dan stood, staring at the note. He thought back to that late afternoon, the rain pounding down and his interview with Rose, the prostitute. There had been a car parked opposite, he was sure, and it had driven off,just after he handed over the money.

And then had come the showdown with Lizzie, which had seen his job change and all that had grown from it, a true turning point in life.

Wessex Tonight
, by common consent, needed a new Crime Correspondent. He'd been asked, but had refused.

And then he'd been cornered. In just the way which someone who knew him well, who had been forced to deal with many a complaint about his ways in the past might readily anticipate. Lizzie could be sure he wouldn't come back to the newsroom without the story and all the constituents needed to make a good report.

Dan swore loudly, forced himself to walk downstairs, get that cup of coffee, and take it to the Quiet Room to think.

His first instinct was to confront Lizzie, but it didn't take long to reconsider. Fighting the news demon was something you did out of necessity, not choice. Perhaps it was better to file away the advantage, ready to use sometime in the future, a buried weapon to unearth when he really needed it.

And of one thing he was sure. Given the vagaries of his life, that day would come.

Plus, if he was honest, there was something else. Inadvertent and unexpected though it might have been, could Dan Groves, sitting here on this comfortable chair, excited apprentice in a new world, going back over the remarkable events of the last ten days, really deny that he was enjoying this job he had never asked for? Perhaps even delighting in it?

Dan nodded to himself, finished his coffee and set off down to Charles Cross to see Adam.

The detective's spirits had improved markedly. Dan wondered whether to ask if he wasn't the only one who suffered with depression and mood swings, but decided against it. It might prompt an argument, or perhaps just a discussion, but certainly a delay and he very much wanted to hear what Adam had to say about Eleanor Paget without any unnecessary interruptions.

It was the case's final mystery.

‘Don't get comfortable,' Adam said, as Dan walked into the MIR and began taking off his coat. ‘Let's goand have a pint.' He got up from the chair, patted Dan on the shoulder.

‘It's Christmas Eve, and after all, a decent beer in a pub is pretty much how you managed to worm your way into the sanctum of my confidences.'

‘I'd say it has a certain symmetry, yes,' Dan replied.

On the walk, Adam talked about how much he was looking forward to Christmas, a few days off and time with Annie and Tom. He would be spending the whole of Christmas Day with them, and perhaps, maybe, just possibly, if he played it right … Annie had said to bring his overnight bag.

As hints went, it was as subtle as a drum roll with a cymbal crash added for good measure.

Better times lay ahead. It was an old cliché, but often true. The advent of another year did prompt people to consider their lives and think about a new start. Or, in Adam's case, a new old one.

The detective was smiling once more and looked much less tired than earlier. He even pointed to some newspapers racked up outside a supermarket. The picture of the Scoutmaster smoking away in the cage at the back of the police station was on the front of each.

‘Anything to do with you, that?' he asked, airily.

‘Pleasant evening, don't you think?' Dan replied.

‘I don't want you thinking you can get away with anything, whatever kind of understandings we might occasionally reach.'

‘Christmas is great, isn't it? I'm looking forward to a few days off. A bit of excessive eating and drinking, taking Rutherford for a good walk.'

It felt like a verbal version of those Red Arrows displays, when the pilots approach each other at right angles and only just miss colliding.

Adam walked on in silence, then said, ‘Well, just so long as whatever scurrilous tricks you might get up to are good for the police and the public.'

‘You mean like getting a picture of a paedophile published? So all the local parents will know?'

‘He is an alleged paedophile. He hasn't been convicted of anything yet.'

‘But the evidence is pretty strong, according to what “senior police sources” have told me.'

‘There is that.'

‘And you're a father yourself.'

Adam didn't reply, just began humming a little tune. A couple of women passed, one stopping to thank the detective. He had investigated a prowler on the loose in her neighbourhood five years ago and got the man sentenced to twelve months in prison. She was evidently extremely grateful. The kiss she planted on Adam's cheek was long and lingering.

And he didn't look in the slightest abashed.

At risk of denting his mood, Dan asked again about Paget, which prompted a shrug. ‘I've been thinking about it all afternoon,' he replied. ‘I can't honestly say to you that she's committed any offence, not legally speaking anyway. Morally maybe, but not legally. I think she's certainly been devious and manipulative, but if they were crimes …'

‘Then all our politicians, leaders, most senior managers, business people and the like would be in prison by now,' Dan added.

‘Not to mention journalists,' Adam concluded.

And Dan didn't demur.

At the double doors to the chosen bar Dan quickly studied each and picked the right one, shiny as it was with wear. The place was filled with a group of office staff, their work clothes all askew, and one of whom, a young man, was attempting to perform a pole dance. The cheering and clapping was quite out of proportion to the skill and dexterity on show, and even more so the sexual allure, but then it was Christmas Eve and the group had clearly been here for a while. Dan and Adam watched for a couple of minutes while they waited to be served before retreating to a table at the back of the bar.

‘Cheers!' Dan said, holding up his glass.

Adam clinked it. ‘Cheers!'

They each took a deep draw at their beers, then Dan produced his best expectant look.