The Shadows of Justice (32 page)

“Visiting me as I spend the rest of my days in a tawdry prison cell, like some common criminal?”

“I don’t believe so. Given your skills as an advocate, along with the emotional trauma you’ve suffered, a murder charge could never be proved. A jury would have sympathy with you, as would the rest of the world. You could be the catalyst for reform of the legal system –
in exactly the way you’ve spoken so passionately about wanting.”

In the distance, more thunder rumbled. Katrina moved forwards once again. She was standing above Templar now. He had lowered the gun to the bench, but it was still in his hand.

Dan, Claire and Adam all watched, all wondering what she would do. Katrina was much younger and fitter than Templar. She could easily end this. Grab the revolver and give them the few seconds they would need to restrain the man. He would be carried out in handcuffs, the case finally over.

But all she did was stand there, staring down at the old man wearing the black cap and grey wig, his face as soft as an opium dream.

Katrina reached out her arms. Templar looked up and found those mesmeric eyes.

Slowly, laboured with a great weight of emotion, he released the gun and cuddled into her.

The storm battered the city anew.

From the vista of the bay window Dan watched, Rutherford at his feet. Fork after bolt of lightning flickered and struck, the great percussion of the heavens following in their wake. The rain cascaded down, beating on the trees and plants of the garden and the protective shield of the double glazing, distorting the world in a flood of water.

Darkness had fallen early tonight, the power of the elements a foe too formidable for the day’s light. It was an omen of the shorter, colder days to come.

“No run for us,” Dan told Rutherford. “But we’ll do one tomorrow, I promise old friend. I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I? Are you ok just to sit here and chat tonight? There’s lots I want to talk about and you’ve got the short straw of listening, as ever.”

The dog rested his chin on Dan’s thigh and accepted a gentle stroking, his manner of a graceful acquiescence.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a day like it,” Dan continued. “So, where to begin? Perhaps some refreshments?”

In the kitchen he tried once again to ignore the yearning of the surroundings for modernisation. Some days it felt as if the cooker, fridge and cupboards had formed a union to lobby for retirement. Dan found a tin of beer at the very back of a dark recess and tried to ignore the urgent requirement to do some shopping.

“You’d think a man of my age would have learned to look after himself by now, wouldn’t you?” He asked Rutherford, as they returned to the lounge.

They settled back to watching the storm. It was moving out to sea, carried on the changing wind. The city was quiet tonight, few car headlights moving, the people cowed into shelter by the onslaught of the skies.

Dan gave Rutherford a biscuit and positioned his water bowl in a corner of the bay to give the dog minimal opportunity to make his traditional mess.

“Where do we start? Well, let’s be a good hack for once and begin with the headlines. They go like this. Firstly, we’re safe. Adam’s still in his job and has been praised for cracking the case. And I’m still gainfully employed too. That little exclusive I brought back for Lizzie means all is well. It was bloody close, though.”

***

It was just after five o’clock by the time Templar had been disarmed and arrested. Dan ran out to find a taxi and headed back for the studios, urging the driver to a frenzy of haste. On the way he called Lizzie to explain what had happened, put the engineers on standby to help and sent a quick text message to Phil.

As can be the ruthless way of news, a programme running order that had been nurtured for hours was discarded in an instant. The story Dan brought would dominate to the exclusion of all else.

“I want as much as you can do, I want it fast and I want it good,” Lizzie demanded. “And after you’ve done all that, I want a word. No, I want several.”

The first task was to listen to the recording of Templar’s confession and the moment of his arrest. The quality of the sound the phone had picked up wasn’t brilliant. But it gave the viewers a very clear and dramatic understanding of what happened in the final minutes of the case.

As Dan expected, Roger Newman’s attack was dropped. The story of the day was a judge, a man appointed as a guardian of the law, committing murder in the name of his personal reckoning of justice.

It must, by Dan’s recollection, be his longest studio appearance. Segment after segment of Templar’s speech he introduced.

Phil had been disappointed, to overstretch a euphemism, that the story he was carefully cutting about Newman’s press conference was dropped. It was the lad’s break, a chance to show what he could do. But the text message of a little earlier had done its work.

In one hasty discussion, twenty minutes before
Wessex Tonight
took to the air, Dan said, “What we could really do with is some background on Templar, to get a flavour of the man. His biggest cases, that sort of thing.”

“Good point,” Lizzie replied. “But there’s no time now.”

“Hang on – Phil, weren’t you looking at Templar’s career because you had that great idea for doing a profile when he retired?”

“What?”

“You were, weren’t you?” Dan insisted.

“Err, yeah. Sure.”

“So you’ve got all you need – his history, the works? All researched and ready to go.”

“Um – yes.”

“You’re on!” Lizzie snapped. “Don’t just stand there, get writing.”

But Phil, either in a brave or misguided mood, insisted he had one more element to add. He’d discovered that Amy Ailing, the young woman who was injured in the gas explosion, had recovered well. She was expected to leave hospital tomorrow.

Lizzie accepted the offering as another flourish in what would already be an impressive sequence of reportage. She bathed him in the warmth of a rare “well done”. The young man’s strides were long and light as he went about preparing his contribution.

After the broadcast Dan took the long walk to Lizzie’s office where she raised the comments Roger Newman had made.

His face was never built for a look of cherubic innocence. It was a mismatch akin to sending a rowing boat to do the job of an icebreaker. But Dan looked as blameless as best he knew how. He suggested Newman must have witnessed his closeness to the investigation – purely as a reporter doing his job, naturally – and come to an errant conclusion.

A knowing stare was the fizzing return of serve, but no more was said. Dan took his leave and made for the flat.

***

Rutherford had never been bothered by a storm, unlike many of his kin. The dog itched busily at his ear, decided such exertion was more than sufficient for a quiet evening, and lay down.

“I got a call from Adam earlier,” Dan told the contented Alsatian. “He’s going to charge Templar tomorrow. He’s got another commendation for solving a ‘highly complex and immensely demanding case’ – in the Deputy Chief Constable’s words. So, we blunder onwards to fight another day – whatever that may bring.”

The central heating rumbled into life. It was that dreaded turning point of the year when it had to be switched back on. Rutherford lifted his head and shifted position to favour the radiator.

“Here’s something that will interest you, hound. It’s about Claire.”

At the sound of the sacred name, the dog was back on his feet.

“Between you and me, she was magnificent in the case,” Dan continued. “I don’t think I appreciated just how brave she is. It really is about time I sorted myself out with her.”

Rutherford, unsurprisingly, didn’t reply. But he did somehow manage to produce a look that was laced with more than a hint of reproach.

“Anyway, we had a quick chat earlier. We agreed we’re going to have a walk at the weekend – that’s all three of us naturally. It won’t be a summit, or anything heavy like that, but we will try to talk about, well… you know…”

The dog’s look appeared to change to one of expectation.

“Oh, do I really have to say it? All right then, we’re going to try to talk about – the… future.”

Together they sat in silence, watching as another fork of lightning played over the sea.

“There’s something else I’ve got to tell you,” Dan said, when the celestial display had calmed. “You won’t be surprised to hear it’s about Katrina.”

***

In his limited experience of the phenomenon of the woman, Dan had come to think that dealing with Katrina was like trying to catch a cloud. So before he made the call, he planned out what to say.

“Congratulations,” was the opening gambit.

“On what?” she asked, with an element of wariness.

“Is there more than one thing?”

“In my life there could be many.”

“I’m talking about persuading Templar not to shoot himself, or anyone else for that matter – particularly me. It was clever the way you played him, making it sound like a court case.”

They talked a little more, on the safe ground of the tension of those final moments in the courtroom, before Dan said, “Actually, you’re right. There was something else I wanted to congratulate you on.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not sure quite how to say this, but try – how to commit a crime by remote control.”

“Meaning?”

“I think you put Templar up to it.”

A silence filled the line, before Katrina said, “What in the world might make you think that?”

“Just the obvious. That you became close to Annette, so you had the motive. That you knew Templar, and better than you let on, I think. It was apparent when you were talking in the court. You had that meeting with him after Annette killed herself, which you yourself set up. I can’t help wondering what you might have said there. There’s also the fact you were well aware Templar was more than a little unbalanced. And you know exactly how to manipulate people.”

“Which all sounds like your wonderful imagination working even more overtime than usual. It’s all entirely circumstantial, if even that.”

“Which is exactly how you’d make it look, of course. Which, in turn, is why I’m surprised you left a clue.”

And now there was a coldness in her voice. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“You couldn’t resist going to have a look, could you? To see if the idea you planted about the gas explosion might just have come to fruition.”

She chuckled, but without humour. “It’s a lovely idea, but I didn’t leave my hotel that night.”

“Which is absolutely true, the CCTV shows it; as well you knew it would. You could hardly turn up at Homely Terrace without it looking suspicious, could you? So, you popped up to the hotel roof instead. You knew you’d see the aftermath from there.”

Katrina sighed. “What a terribly suspicious mind you have. It must be the journalist in you.” She paused, before adding, “I hope you haven’t shared this strange fantasy with anyone else. You’d make yourself a laughing stock.”

“I haven’t, don’t worry. What’s the use? There’s not a particle of proof. And Templar won’t say anything. He’s too old fashioned and gallant to cause trouble for you. Besides, he wants his trial to be all about what justice in this country really means. Bringing you into it would only muddle the message. I just wanted to let you know that someone is aware of what you did.”

“Interesting,” she mused. “Because I know what you did too.”

And so a conversation which, according to Dan’s plan ended here, diverted rapidly from the script.

“What I did?” he queried.

“That night in the bar. When I asked you what
heterochromia iridis
was, to see whether you were worthy of spending the night with me. When you went to the toilets to ‘think about it’,
as you said. You looked it up on the internet on your mobile, didn’t you?”

Dan let a couple of seconds pass. “When are you going back to London?”

“Why?”

“I’m only interested.”

“Does it make your life harder, or easier?”

“Just – different.”

They began saying goodbye but Dan noticed a final scrawl on his notepad.

“Katrina, one more thing?”

“It’s three hours by train, another ten minutes on the tube and five minutes’ walk after that.”

“What is?”

“The distance from Plymouth to my flat.”

“It wasn’t that.”

“Really?”

Dan closed his eyes. In the darkness of his thoughts all he could see were her eyes, and those unique, contrasting colours.

“Really,” he managed.

“What was it then?”

“Why the Ankh? Your tattoo?”

A smile warmed the line. “Think about it. You’re not that dense, however much you might sometimes play the fool. Bye bye – for now.”

***

The night was slipping ever onwards, the time coming up for ten o’clock. Rutherford yawned, and Dan did the same.

“Maybe it’s time for bed, eh dog? But I don’t think there’s much hope of sleep yet.”

He walked over to one of the bookcases and found some writing paper and a pen.

“Anyway, there’s one more task for tonight. I’ve got to write to Roger Newman. I want to apologise for thinking he killed the Edwards and try to do something to make amends. I was wondering if I could help with the foundation he was talking about setting up in Annette’s memory. Maybe I could give some careers talks or mentor young people who might be interested in the media.”

Dan tried drafting a few lines, but the words wouldn’t come. He paced around the lounge, tidying the odd book and plumping the cushions on the sofa.

In the kitchen, he put away a line of plates and tried to scrub a stain from a work surface. The effort resulted in the mark becoming ever more prominent.

Dan headed to the bedroom, thought about changing the sheets, but took no more than a second to decide against it. Such a chore was always one for tomorrow. In the bathroom he wiped the sink and watered the spider plant on the windowsill. Rutherford dutifully followed the intinerant, domestic odyssey.

“I just can’t settle,” Dan muttered. “But I’ve got an idea. How do you feel about an unusual night out?”