The Shadows of Justice (5 page)

It is the way of the law to begin work early, however inconsiderate.

Dan would commonly suffer a dawn start to follow that staple of a reporter’s life: the police raid. It was a standard attempt by any given constabulary to grab a few easy headlines at a time when the news may have been less favourable. Bashing in doors and dragging felons from king-size beds funded by their ill-gotten gains is always good sport.

This morning’s early rousing, however, was for a task requiring far more sensitivity. It was Katrina’s view – and without the risk of melodrama, she insisted – that a young girl’s life may depend upon it.

The hour was approaching six o’clock, the new day inheriting the crispness of the night. Dan jogged around Hartley Park, Rutherford mostly alongside but occasionally sprinting off to investigate the call of an intriguing sound or the lure of a distant scent.

Across the rooftops and through the trees, the rising sun cast her fiery weaves. Hidden birds rustled in the leaves and sang out their welcome for the promise of another fine day.

Sre
,
sre
,
sre
, Dan trilled to Rutherford. “Why won’t that sound get out of my head, dog?”

Another potential clue had been uncovered last night. The analysis of the ransom call had picked up a faraway noise, hidden within the hum of the line. It was thought to be a lawnmower.

Dan was due to meet Nigel and Loud at Charles Cross at a quarter to seven. He hadn’t got to sleep until well after one last night.

Initially, in a familiar attempt to claim as much of the sweet, carefree release of bed as possible he’d set the alarm for six. But Rutherford produced one of his specialist never-been-loved
looks. Had the dog been able to speak, he would doubtless have raised the issue of the hours of confinement in the car last night. So they’d got up half an hour earlier to share a run.

A couple more laps, then back to the flat to shower and he would set off for the city centre. Dan wanted to be there in plenty of time. An important day lay ahead.

Rutherford returned from a futile mission to catch a pigeon and together they increased the pace, following the ring of a track worn in the morning’s dew. Past the line of oak and lime trees, past the children’s play area, past the hill of the underground reservoir, heading for the entrance to the park.

In the time remaining, Dan thought through the briefing he’d studied last night: the details of the life of Roger Newman and all his impressive array of achievements. His daughter, her upbringing and their very public difficulties.

But most importantly, the questions Dan would ask in the interview with Roger, and how to shape the ten minutes of television which would be broadcast around the world.

***

Loud and Nigel were both waiting in the car park of Charles Cross, as was Adam. He was pacing again and continually glancing over at the gate.

The latest of his best suits was the attire of choice: navy blue and purchased only a month ago. It was the result of a shopping expedition to Bristol. Plymouth had been adjudged as unable to offer the calibre of menswear outfitters suitable for the Chief Inspector’s style.

Not to mention vanity
Dan thought, but managed not to say. The hint of a television appearance was sufficient to send Adam into a whirl of agonising about the day’s couture.

It had been no surprise to anyone who knew the detective that he also returned with three new ties and two new shirts. All boasted the kind of price tags that Dan, a budget shopper at the best of times, would have assumed as an error had he not known otherwise.

Nigel was checking the camera, microphones and lights. Interviews could be knocked off in a few seconds when they were hard up against a deadline, but lighting added tone, depth and class to an image.

“We want this to look good,” the kindly cameraman muttered to himself. “The poor, poor man.”

He was also wearing a tie, although of a more antiquated variety. It was an appendage Nigel carried in the car, but donned only for the most serious of stories.

“I can’t stop thinking how I’d feel if one of my boys was kidnapped,” he said. “The guy must be going through torment.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Dan replied levelly, trying to ignore Adam who was nodding in agreement.

He hadn’t stopped looking at his watch and glancing at the gate. “Newman will be here in a minute,” the detective chided, as he hovered. “This is really important.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” Dan said, marshalling the remaining forces of his thinning patience. “Would you like to heap on any more pressure, or will that do for now?”

***

Katrina was sitting in the MIR, waiting. The brightness of the morning sun collected in the contrasting colours of her eyes.

The
Greater Wessex Police
boards had been set up at the back of the room; a smart and authoritative blue, embossed with a pattern of the force’s badge. Two chairs were placed in front, facing each other.

“That should do nicely for the interview,” Adam said.

The clock on the wall made the time ten to seven. Nigel started setting up the camera, but Dan reached out a restraining hand.

“Come on, we don’t have time to muck about,” Adam whined. “Everyone’s waiting for this interview.”

“Not like this.”

“What?”

“Not with those boards.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

Dan picked up a glass of water and took a swig. “It’s no time to bother you with the theory of my job, but… by far the biggest message people take from an interview comes from what they see.”

“Yeah, ok, but—”

“If we use those police boards, what does it say to the kidnappers?”

“For God’s sake,” Adam spluttered. “We’re about to interview a man whose daughter’s been abducted, who could be killed at any moment, and you’re worrying about—”

“Adam!” Dan heard himself shout. “I know all that. Hell, I know it! I’m trying to help.”

“And I’m telling you—”

“I think he’s right.”

The voice was quiet and calm, but it halted the fractious toddlers in a second. Katrina stood up and glided over to the boards.

“This interview – it needs to be all about Annette. Not a hint of the police. We should be silent and shadows.”

Dan took advantage of Adam’s prevailing state of chagrin to begin shifting the boards; Nigel helping. For a backdrop, they decided on the unnoticeable neutrality of a pot plant and a window.

The time had crept on to five to seven. Dan sipped some more water, sat down and checked through his briefing on the lives of Roger and Annette Newman for one final time.

***

Roger grew up on the Eddystone Estate on the northern edge of Plymouth; a place with very distinctive connotations.

At the sight of those words, employers would consign job applications to the simplest of filing destinations. Pizza, Chinese and Indian takeaway drivers generally refused to deliver. The fire and ambulance services would call for a police escort if they had to visit, as often they did. And the unfortunate officers themselves would sigh, curse their fortune and don protective clothing.

As estates go, the joke had it the Eddystone was as sunk as the Titanic.

Unusually, Roger had been born to a couple that actually lived together. But normal service was quickly resumed as the relationship lasted for only the first six months of his childhood. His mother, though, had been determined the young boy should have a decent chance at life and lobbied to get him into a school a safe separation from the estate.

She faced a familiar problem. The all-knowing state was having none of it. With the sympathy, understanding and helpfulness of the massed hierarchy of a faceless bureaucracy, her pleas were rebutted. Roger was allocated a place at Eddystone Comprehensive, an educational establishment the wags described as comprehensive only in one field – its awfulness.

But the young Roger was favoured with a little luck. With the influence of his mother, and the emerging character of a man she described as her
little scrapper
, he managed to steer clear of gangs and the call of crime, aside from one dressing down for fighting. And that, legend told, was with an older and larger boy, who had been trying to steal money from one of Roger’s friends.

But perhaps the greatest fortune was a teacher at the Eddystone, a man who recognised a kindred spirit in the youngster and who guided him onwards. Roger performed well in his exams. He went on to take A-levels and suddenly was in possession of something his life had known little of to that point: options, possibilities and maybe even the promised land of prospects.

For what made up a touching CV, this part was marked with the most underlinings in Dan’s notes. There had been no history of achievement in his own family either, and it was only the intervention of a couple of teachers that had guided the young Dan to university and his world of today. It was one he could never have imagined all those years ago.

Roger had decided against studying for a degree, pronouncing himself insufficiently academic, but instead left school to go into business. In the sixth form, he’d been given work experience at a couple of local companies. His time there was fondly remembered, largely because of his politeness and willingness to listen and learn, but also one singular feature. He always carried a notepad and would jot down the slightest experience, tip or sliver of advice.

The contacts he made and the impression he left brought Roger the job of a trainee at a carpeting company. It was new and growing, and the future looked optimistic. But Roger stayed for only a year. In interviews afterwards, he said that it was a sufficient length of time to learn all he could from the firm, and more importantly to save up the money required for his next move: the tradition of taking on a market stall.

He worked punishing hours, but fared well. The following year Roger Newman opened his first store on the edge of the city. The year after, it took over the pet shop next door and doubled in size. Twelve months later, a second store opened. And after three more years there were 12 branches of Roger’s Rugs
across Devon and Cornwall, and plans afoot to begin an expansion outside of the region.

***

Roger had never been shy of the media, and the briefing contained a series of interviews he’d given. In one, an admirably cheeky reporter had asked, “Given your success in business, and your wealth, is there anything missing in your life?”

The answer had taken a few seconds to come, the article said. When it did, the words were thoughtful and heartfelt. The desire to have a family was perhaps the sole ambition remaining.

At the time Roger Newman was 28 years old. The company had expanded across much of England and the tally of stores was now 94. The symbolic century would soon be passed.

Then, as if to mark the man’s 30th birthday, came a surprise announcement. Roger was engaged. Rachel Hawker was three years his junior and a solicitor. They had been introduced at a dinner party by some friends who had taken upon themselves the quiet art of matchmaking.

The wedding was a lavish affair, at a stately home in Cornwall overlooking the River Tamar. Pictures filled the papers. Faces glowed with happiness. The following year a girl was born, Annette Louise Newman.

All was set fair and Roger’s high profile waned. He was devoting his time to the twin demands of business and a young family; plenty enough to occupy any man.

Until the next story came to dominate the news. Rachel had left the family home to live with a barrister, as if one lawyer in a household was not enough. There were reports of attempts at reconciliation, but none budded. In the sad, modern-day way, to the courts they went to contest custody of Annette.

To the surprise of many, Roger won. He could afford the finest of lawyers, but the briefing notes said it was his personal plea which had been decisive. In tears, obviously genuine and all the more powerful for that, he argued he had the means, but most importantly the love and determination to bring up Annette.

Why, he ended his address, should a woman who had left, taking much of his heart, also take his only child?

***

Once more, the life of Roger Newman quietened. Annette was growing up and, as he had promised, fatherhood was taking much of the man’s time.

But the pain of the separation was still evident. As often happens with people who suffer a loss, Roger looked to put new meaning into his world. He set up a charity to help children born to the kind of background he knew on the Eddystone Estate. Significant sums of money were invested in better teaching, buildings and equipment, and a series of scholarships founded.

Time and again, Roger spoke out as a passionate advocate of the comprehensive system of education.

“Look at what happened to me,” he said in one speech to a teaching union conference. “I was made by good teachers. They’re an inspiration. We need more investment for more good teachers so we can transform the lives of thousands of children.”

As an unlikely alma mater, Eddystone Comprehensive benefited greatly from Roger’s generosity. It was refurbished and started to shed its reputation as a dumping ground for problem children. A new wing, dedicated to the study of business, was named after him.