The Shadows of Justice (21 page)

“We might have to try your idea, after all,” he told Dan, tetchily.

The time was coming up to two o’clock. An updating of the story for tonight was required, but that would only mean an amendment to the end of the report and was half an hour’s work. The satellite van and its mischievous waveguide would take a day to repair, sparing Dan a live broadcast.

The tiredness was gaining, casting the sloth of its net. Dan yawned hard and an idea began to whisper slyly in his mind.

The lunchtime report had made the lead story, albeit by the breadth of seconds. Lizzie was sated, for now at least. A couple of disappearing hours in the comfort of the flat would be a fine respite from the cares of the world. The beautiful songbird of a little sleep was singing its beguiling melody.

Dan was about to bid his goodbyes to Adam and Katrina when she sprung the surprise.

She had, Dan suspected, been waiting for the moment. Even when she’d finished recounting Roger Newman’s alibi, Katrina looked as though she had something more to say. It was in those extraordinary eyes. But to conclude her story then might have been too straightforward for such an enigmatic woman. Now, even the noise of the building site abated for her words.

“You remember that strange
PP
on Annette’s ransom note? I think I might have finally found out what it meant.”

Sometimes, an enchanting idea can start to feel so real it could take on a physical form. As though it holds out its hands and draws you into a loving embrace.

And so it was with Dan’s plan to enjoy a sun-blessed siesta this afternoon. He’d driven back to Hartley Avenue and was reaching wearily for the sanctum of the door. He could hear Rutherford and that low whine of delight it was the dog’s habit to emit upon sensing the arrival of his master.

The tiredness was a heavy suit now and there would be little hope of a respite this evening. Adam was determined to work until significant progress was made in the case.

An hour and a half’s snoozing should just about restore enough energy to see Dan through. In his mind he was already stripping off his shirt, ready to lower himself into the warm bath of beautiful sleep.

Instead of which, with shameless inconsideration, Dan’s mobile rang. It was Adam, destroying the dream like a bully snatching away a bag of sweets. He was in urgent form, and the vision of a sleepy break was ruthlessly shredded.

“The Ailings – they’ll do it. Can you get up to the hospital?”

To some questions you know the answer even before you ask, and no matter how much you might dread the reply.

“Right now?” Dan asked, forlornly.

“Right now. And can you get it on tonight’s news?”

Dan checked his watch. It was only mid-afternoon. There was no space for excuses.

“Yep.”

“I’ll make the arrangements then. For – what we discussed.”

“Ok.”

“Before you go, there’s one other thing. The Ailings are a little nervy, so I said I’d send someone to look after them. Claire’s on her way. She’ll be waiting for you at the hospital.”

***

Dan Groves had once considered himself a brave man, but the way life ran in earlier years had exhausted his reserves of valour. And so, on this particular occasion, he had no hesitation in choosing the coward’s way.

Dan called Nigel and asked if the cameraman would pick him up. “It gives us a chance to work out how to do the interview,” he explained, trying to pretend the rationale was purely professional. “It’s going to be an emotional one.”

Nigel was as accommodating as ever, and promised to be at the flat in fifteen minutes. Dan used the time to give Rutherford a cuddle, which the dog quite likely appreciated, and a quick run around the garden, which he probably preferred. The sight of the stupid canine careering around, snapping at the odd phantom in the air, was almost as good a tonic as sleep.

“It makes perfect sense, Nigel and I going together,” Dan told Rutherford, as they walked back up the steps to the flat. “I want no suggestion that being with him will mean Claire doesn’t have a chance to get me alone.”

As Nigel drove the ten-minute trip to the northern edge of the city, they discussed the interview. Experience had equipped them with a way of working in the most sensitive cases. Dan would chat to the Ailings to try to build up a rapport. As invisibly as possible Nigel would set up the camera, microphone and lights.

As was his way, Nigel spent a few minutes in empathy, rueing what a dreadful time the Ailings were going through and then slipped into a silence to prepare himself.

The landmarks passed. The battlements of the old Crownhill fort, built to defend Plymouth from Napoleonic attack, the modern day business parks, the glass ship of the Western Morning News
building. On the horizon ahead, Dartmoor glowered, the natural boundary for the ever-sprawling city.

The parking at Tamarside Hospital could be an added ordeal for a visitor. But on this day they were lucky, turning into the car park as a young couple with a baby were reversing out.

Even through the sunshine and mass of hurrying humanity, Dan could make out the figure of Claire, standing at the main entrance, arms folded and waiting.

***

Nigel was greeted with a fond kiss and a long hug. He and Claire had always got on, united as they were in being that curious breed of the optimist. Dan was permitted only a fleeting peck on the cheek. It was an experience as transient, ephemeral and lacking in warmth as an English summer.

Claire led them along a series of corridors. The off-white tiles reflected their rapid footfall. The smell of antiseptic lingered everywhere. Most faces they passed were set, a few in tears. There was little room for smiles in a hospital.

A couple of trolleys rattled by, each carrying a comatose figure, gangs of nurses marching alongside. A woman stood, staring out of a window, her hand in a young boy’s.

Claire stopped by a door and clicked it open. “I just need you to sign a disclaimer,” she told Dan.

He nodded resignedly and stepped into the room. And Claire was in his face, right in it, wincingly close.

“Have you been seeing Katrina?”

“What?”

“Have you been seeing her?”

There was no choice but to hold Claire’s look, with her eyes so close and so very bright, but it wasn’t easy.

“Hang on, what is this?”

“Answer the question.”

“I’ve been working with her, if that’s what you mean.”

She snorted, the sound bitter with disbelief. “Why did you text her yesterday?”

“Because – well, it’s just that I knew she was close to Annette. That’s all it was, and—”

“Was I second best?”

“What?”

“The back up? The reserve?”

“What?”

“Was I your fall back?”

“No!”

“You couldn’t get her, so you called me?”

“No! Claire, you’d never be—”

A finger was up at eye level, very large, very close and remarkably unwavering. Dan tried to back off, but the room was small, the wall unyielding and he was trapped by the onslaught of feeling.

“I’ve had enough messing about. I’m not waiting for you any more. You’re pathetic. You stick your head up your backside and won’t pull it out. You seem to think you’re the only one in the world with problems. You and your murky little pond of self-pity. You’d better snap out of it and get yourself sorted.”

For once, Dan found himself struggling for words. “Well, thanks for the lovely, relaxing build-up to an important interview—” he managed, but was instantly overridden.

“Don’t give me that crap. It’s time someone told you the truth and I’m damn well going to do it. Get yourself together. And now you can go and do this interview and do it bloody well.”

Dan tried desperately to find some rejoinder but he was mouthing helplessly at Claire’s back. The door was open and she was striding out.

“Disclaimer all sorted then, is it?” Nigel asked, with a hint of a smile.

***

Ronald and Elizabeth Ailing were sitting quietly together, holding hands. Dan had seen it so many times, but the cold squeeze on the heart never lessened.

Good people, singled out by a sole second of malevolent fate. Picked for no better reason than that they had lived decent lives, tried to make their way and bring up a family. And yet still be made to suffer an incomprehensible wrong that they had never deserved. While on the other side of life’s street strolled a grinning procession of the wasters and the worthless, forever untouched by ill-fortune.

The couple rose in time and shook hands. Claire carried out the introductions and Dan went through the familiar words which never helped. He was sorry for their pain and distress. He would do his very best not to add to it. He hoped their courage in speaking out may be of some comfort and help their cause.

And through all of this was the unspoken understanding. On the floor below this sterile waiting room, lying on a bed in the Intensive Care Unit, her body bound and pierced by tubes, was Amy.

The Ailings were in their mid-forties, both softly spoken and earnest. Elizabeth’s face was drawn and tired, Ron’s ruddy with an anger which was beyond his wife. Often that was the way with couples, the women collapsing inside themselves with grief, the men looking to hit out at its cause.

Nigel adjusted the camera while Dan chatted; about the weather, what a fine hospital Tamarside was, the dedication and talents of the nurses and doctors, and gradually onto the more dangerous ground. How Amy was, and how they were coping.

“Do you have a picture?” he asked. “It would help me to get a sense of her.”

Ron opened his wallet to show off a photograph. “It was taken on her eighteenth birthday. It’s my favourite.”

Amy stood, a couple of colourful streamers draped over her shoulders, her arms laced around her parents, smiling at the camera. It was an open and genuine expression, something few could manage when asked to pose. She had long, dark hair and a pretty, warm face, with the hint of mischief in the corners of her mouth.

“She’s a beautiful girl.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, because nothing else needed to be said.

“She looks like you.”

“When I was younger, maybe.”

Dan matched the sadness of her smile. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but – could we film the photo? It would help the viewers get a sense of Amy.”

The couple exchanged a look and Ron held out his wallet. Nigel adjusted a light and took a couple of minutes to capture the image.

“We’re going to run this interview after my report,” Dan said. “We’ll have about two minutes, which may not sound long but is quite a while in TV terms. Are you ready to give it a try?”

They both nodded, but didn’t speak. Below the camera’s shot the squeezing of the Ailing’s interlaced hands had become a grip.

“I know it’s difficult,” Dan said, “But could you tell me what you went through when you heard what happened to Amy?”

And then a pause, as ever in these interviews. Because it was so very hard to find mere sounds and syllables to describe such shock and suffering.

“First, it’s like – just numbness, disbelief,” Ron began. “You can’t understand, you can’t comprehend anything like this could happen. Then it’s fear – you’re overtaken with it. The police were marvellous. They rushed us up to the hospital. But for the whole of the trip – it was only short, but it felt like ages – we were dreading what we were going to find. We were expecting to get here, and be told that Amy was… well, you know.”

Dan nodded. He knew, the Ailings knew, the viewers would know. A doctor with a practised look, a kindly hand leading them to a private room and the dreaded, final words.

“Moving on, and most importantly,” Dan asked gently, “How is Amy now?”

“She’s getting better, thankfully,” Ron replied. “Bless her, she’s a fighter. She’s off the critical list and she’s stable. The doctors say they expect her to recover. It’ll take a while, but we don’t care. We’ll be there, however long it takes.”

Understanding and encouraging, Dan smiled. “Mrs Ailing, if I can ask you…” He waited, to allow Nigel time to pan the shot onto her. “What kind of a woman is Amy?”

She swallowed hard. “Amy’s lovely. She’s a little quiet and shy, but she’s so kind and gentle. She was delighted to get the baker’s job. She was loving it. And then – well, what happened with the explosion… we couldn’t believe it. It just seems so… terribly wrong. We thought –
why us? Why our family? What have we done to deserve this?”

And, as ever, there never was, and never could be any answer. Not in this little hospital room, not outside, not anywhere at any time. Here was the age-old saying that
life’s unfair
encapsulated in the anguish of one small family.

Dan let a couple of seconds slip past. Calm and measured was the only way here, and another difficult question had to be asked. “You know the police believe the explosion was probably a revenge attack. What do you think of that?”

The couple’s grip grew tighter. Yvonne looked to Ron. He studied the floor, took time to find the words.

“I can understand someone wanting revenge for what the Edwards did. But that’s the problem with revenge. It’s never so simple. Someone else always gets hurt – and it always seems to be someone innocent.”

***

They walked in silence back to the hospital’s main entrance. Nigel received another hug from Claire, and Dan the penance of another cheek peck. But this time he got a meaningful look, too.

Before Dan could head for the car, Claire reached out and asked him to wait. He steeled himself, expecting another fusillade, but was spared.

“I’ve got a message from Mr Breen,” she said. “He needs to know for certain whether that interview is going to be broadcast tonight?”

“Very much so. It’ll be the lead story. Very high profile.”

“In which case, he says the operation is ready to go.” Claire paused, looked him over. “So come on then – what are you up to?”