Evil Valley (6 page)

‘The picture was taken last year. The team had won the darts league that day,’ explained his sister tearfully. Her name was Jenny Sturrock, and she was holding on tightly to her husband Phil’s hand.

Nigel finished filming the photo and clipped a small personal microphone to Jenny’s shirt. ‘Ready to do the interview when you are,’ he said.

‘Just … just give me a moment,’ she replied, her voice shaking.

‘Sure. It’s only natural to be nervous,’ soothed Dan. ‘And I know it’s a very distressing time for you. Just take it easy, we’ve got plenty of time.’

He checked his watch. Almost 11 o’clock it said, so probably ten past. They were on air at 1.30. They had to do the interview, edit a report, work out where to present the outside broadcast and then find something to say in it. Time to get a move on. The interview would have to be short and sharp.

‘It’s not live, so if we go wrong, we can just do it again,’ he said, going through his standard reassuring patter. ‘And, as Nigel will tell you, that applies as much to me as it does to you. You should see the number of takes I can get through.’ Jenny managed a weak smile. ‘Are you ready to give it a go?’

She nodded, and he paused, looked down at his notes; breathing space to frame his questions as sensitively as he could. He had a difficult one to ask too, as his job demanded, but he’d save that for the end. It was good interview tactics. If she took offence and stormed out, at least then he’d still have something he could use. It happened.

‘Jenny, I know this is a very difficult time for you,’ Dan began, ‘so thank you for talking to us. Can I start by asking you about Richie? We know nothing about him. What kind of a man was he?’

She gulped down a couple of breaths, breathed out heavily. ‘He … he was a wonderful man. He was kind, gentle and caring. He was the best big brother a woman could have. He looked after me when we were kids …’

Her words trailed off into a gasp at the memory and Dan could feel the tears close now, very close. He didn’t say anything, just let the silence run, used it to gently encourage her to keep talking, knew she would fill it. She had her chance to tell the world about her brother.

‘I remember one day … one day when I was dumped by my boyfriend. Richie put his arm around me and told me what horrible things men were and that I shouldn’t be bothered. He said the guy wasn’t anywhere near good enough for me anyway. Then he took me to the pictures to make me feel better. And even after that, he said … he said he’d go and beat the bloke up if I wanted him to.’

Tears began dribbling down her cheeks and she dabbed at them with a sleeve. Dan paused, gave her a few seconds to compose herself.

‘I’ve got a feeling of the kind of man he was now,’ he said carefully. ‘And if this sounds like a silly question, please remember, very few people watching this will have been through anything like what you have. Can you tell me what it has been like, hearing your brother has been shot dead by the police?’

Dan had expected more tears then, perhaps even for her to break down, but the answer was fast, full of pure feeling. And despite the experience of so many of these interviews, it was one of the most memorable he’d ever heard.

Most people, when asked by journalists about their misfortune or plight, regurgitated the word “devastated”. They seemed to think it was expected, had heard it used by others in similar positions so many times. Not Jenny. Her words were original, and all the more powerful for it.

‘I felt like I’d been plunged into a sea of icy water,’ she said. ‘It was such an instant shock. I went cold and shivered and shuddered. And after that, I went numb. It was just like how I imagine it must be drowning in freezing water. I went numb and I couldn’t believe what people were telling me. All my family were cuddling me and talking to me, but I was so numb I couldn’t feel or hear them. And now I have started to believe it, I’ve got this burning anger inside me for the person who did it. That’s why I wanted to come and speak to you.’

Again, Dan let the silence run, readied himself for the last question. ‘Finally, I’ve got something it’s my duty to ask you, and it’s a difficult issue.’

Her mouth slipped open, waiting for the punch. He paused once more, heard the whirr of the camera’s motor next to his ear as Nigel took his cue and zoomed the shot in for a powerful close-up of her face.

That was one of the great advantages of knowing each other so well. Good television was all about teamwork. The close-up revealed each tremble of an interviewee’s lip, or reddening of their eyes, the image every bit as arresting as the words.

‘Some people watching this will probably be thinking to themselves that the police don’t shoot people for no reason. There are reports that there was a violent confrontation going on between Richie and his wife. What do you say to that?’

Her lips pursed tightly together and she shook her head hard, her eyes full of certainty.

‘Never,’ she replied, and her voice was emphatic. ‘Never in a million years. Never in a million, million years. OK, so he liked the odd drink, but he was a kind and gentle man. He was my brother. I grew up with him. I knew him better than anyone. We were close, so very close. We shared everything. There were no secrets between us. He could never be violent, I promise you that. For him to be shot…’

Again her voice tailed off and Dan thought he’d lose her, that she’d break down, but she found the strength to finish, her eyes wide with anger.

‘…for him to be shot – well – something either went terribly wrong, or – or someone had it in for my brother and went out to deliberately get him. And I want to know who … and I want to know why.’

Chapter Four

T
HEY GOT BACK TO
the cordon at a quarter to twelve and found ‘Loud’ Jim Stone, the unfailingly grumpy outside-broadcast engineer waiting. His face was set in a way Nigel had once and memorably described as resembling a weatherbeaten sack of rocks. He was wearing a subdued Hawaiian shirt today, rolling sand and palm trees under a cloudless blue sky.

‘Coz it’s a shooting thing,’ Loud explained sullenly, seeing Dan’s look. ‘Death and all that … didn’t want to wear anything too bright.’

Dan wondered whether he expected thanks for his concept of consideration. Loud’s nickname came from his taste in shirts; that and his surliness. In a diatribe in the canteen one day, Dan had originally christened him “Loud and Furrow-Browed,” and it had immediately caught on, but was usually shortened for simplicity.

‘I was wondering where you two had gone,’ he muttered. ‘Been off having a nice long breakfast break, no doubt. Not like some of us, working hard, setting up the OB truck so you can broadcast your ugly mug to the poor region.’

Dan took a breath and reminded himself the jollying-along route was usually the best for handling Loud.

‘Hi, Jim. Sorry we’ve taken a while, but we had to do an interview with the family of the man who’s been shot. I didn’t want to rush it and upset them. I know a sensitive soul like you will understand.’

Loud’s bush of a beard twitched suspiciously. ‘Suppose that’s OK. All right then, what’ve we got to do?’

‘Edit a report and do a live for lunchtime, then again for tonight.’ Dan slid into the OB van alongside Loud’s bulk, not giving him a chance to protest.

It was an easy edit. The best stories always were. They told themselves.

Dan started the report with the photo of Richie, telling the viewers they could now reveal it was him who was shot dead by the police. After that, it was the part of the interview when Jenny talked about her brother’s character. They added a few night-time shots of Richie’s house while Dan recapped on how and when the shooting happened. The report ended with the last two parts of Jenny’s interview, her talking movingly of how she felt about it and denying that Richie could be violent.

Dan watched her words on the monitors. She seemed very sure her brother couldn’t have been a wife-beater. But she would say that, wouldn’t she? Of course she’d stick up for him, whatever he was alleged to have done. But then again, she sounded convincingly certain. He found himself starting to believe – perhaps hope would be more honest – that this could really be the story of a rogue police marksman.

He checked his watch. Almost 1.10 it said, so probably nearer 1.20. Time to prepare for the live report. Lizzie had demanded a top and tail; the presenter would read a cue, Dan would come in live with a few words to set the scene, his report would play, then they’d cut back to him for a summing up. He popped the moulded plastic tube that linked him to the studio in Plymouth into his ear and took up a position by the cordon.

‘A step to your left please,’ said Nigel from behind the camera. ‘You’ve got a lamp post sticking out the top of your head at the mo.’

A voice broke into his ear. ‘Hi Dan, this is Emma, directing from the Plymouth gallery. Can you hear me OK?’

He raised a thumb to the camera. Broadcast etiquette dictates minimal use of words, sign language being preferable. It was to avoid any ill-advised asides being picked up by live microphones.

‘Good stuff,’ she replied. ‘We’re five minutes to on air. You’re top of the bulletin, naturally. The next time we talk to you, it’ll be for real.’

Dan realised he had no idea what he was going to say. That interview with Jenny, the row with Whiting, editing the story, wondering if the marksman could be a killer, all the business of the morning had given him little chance to think. He allowed himself a burst of controlled panic and felt the tingling shot of adrenaline clear his mind and focus his thoughts. Stick to the golden rule, he calmed himself. When in doubt, just KISS, the old TV acronym. Keep it short and simple.

‘Wessex Tonight can this lunchtime reveal the name of the man shot dead by the police in Cornwall,’ read Craig, the presenter. ‘He was Richard Hanson, known as Richie, a 44-year-old local schoolteacher. Our crime correspondent Dan Groves is at the scene of the shooting in Saltash. Dan …’

‘Yes, this lunchtime, the Independent Police Complaints Authority are continuing their inquiry into the events that led up to the shooting of Mr Hanson.’ Dan gestured behind, to the cordon and the constable on duty. ‘But I can tell you his family have condemned the shooting and described Mr Hanson as a kind and gentle man.’

His report rolled, a wonderfully welcome two minutes to think of what to say next.

‘That was Mr Hanson’s sister Jenny, speaking to me earlier,’ he intoned sombrely as the report ended. ‘The Police Complaints Authority say they’re making good progress with their inquiry. They expect to release more details later this afternoon. We’ll bring them to you in this evening’s Wessex Tonight.’

They’d had a busy morning and produced some good work, so Dan took Nigel to a nearby pub for a sandwich. Loud declined Dan’s half-hearted offer to join them. He never socialised, always preferred the sandwiches Mrs Loud packed for him and a sleep in the back of the OB van.

Lizzie called as they were eating and fizzed about the report. ‘Great stuff, the sister’s a real tearjerker. I almost blubbed myself. No one else had anything so good. How did you get hold of her?’

Dan debated telling the truth, that it was pure luck, but banking some credit with your boss never hurt.

‘Oh, you know, the usual tricks. Working the story. Asking around, talking to people, finding out where she lived, taking it easy with her, giving it the old Groves’ charm, talking her into it.’ He ignored Nigel’s raised eyebrows.

‘Right. Good.’

Dan sensed the brief flare of praise was fading, to be replaced instead by one of his editor’s favourite spiels. He wasn’t disappointed.

‘Now, no resting on laurels, do you hear? I want more of the same for tonight. I want another report like lunchtime’s. I want another live too. I want those pics of the raid on the marksman’s home in tonight’s piece. I want the whole caboodle, and I want it good.’

‘Of course.’

She sighed with delight. ‘Oh what a story! The police shoot a guy dead, then they think it could have been a rogue marksman out to murder – for a second time! It’s a news editor’s fantasy! I can just see the ratings now.’

Dan picked up his beer to take a swig and clinked it clumsily against the table. He winced at his elementary error.

‘What’s that?’ barked Lizzie. ‘You’re not in a pub, are you?’

‘No … no … never … well, kind of. I’ve just … err … popped in to pick up a sandwich. It’s been a long day already, and we’ll need the energy if we’re going to get some more good stuff this afternoon. Believe me, I’d rather be out there covering the story. I’m only doing it for the sake of the programme … for you.’

Lizzie laced her pause with suspicion, as only she could. ‘OK then, but no drinking,’ she snapped. ‘This is big news and I want you fresh and all over it.’

‘Of course no drinking, never in work time,’ Dan soothed, cutting the call, finishing the rest of his pint and nodding at Nigel’s offer of another half.

The evening’s report was similar to lunchtime’s, but ending with an added sequence of pictures of the raid on the marksman’s house. It was almost five o’clock. The only concern thought Dan, as he and Nigel waited by the cordon with the other journalists, was if Whiting came out and said something dramatic. That would mean he’d have to re-cut it all, and fast. He didn’t like to imagine Loud’s reaction.

Dirty El had returned, explaining the national papers were interested in some more pictures. But it was a very different El from the usual model. His normally unruly shock of hair had been cut into a smart and businesslike short back and sides and had gone from dark to blond. He had also bought a pair of small rectangular glasses, which he put on to show Dan.

‘There mate, what do you reckon?’

‘I reckon El is dead, long live El. You look totally different. If I didn’t know it was you, I wouldn’t recognise you. You look almost reputable.’

El produced his usual sleazy grin. ‘That, my friend, is precisely the idea.’

‘What are you up to then? Not changing your image to impress some woman?’

El looked as near to shocked as his mischievous face could manage. ‘No! Of course not. Nothing so unproductive. It’s all part of that little mission we discussed.’

Dan was about to ask more, but there was a stirring amongst the journalists. Cameras were hoisted onto shoulders and microphones and notepads readied. Whiting was striding towards the cordon. Dan noted the time on Nigel’s watch, exactly five o’clock.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this will be a brief update as I have little more to tell you,’ he hissed, his eyes flicking over the crowd. They rested on Dan, seemed to narrow.

‘Our investigations here at the house are almost complete and I expect the cordon to be removed later this evening. By tomorrow, all parties to the case will have been interviewed. The most important of those are the marksman who fired the fatal shots, the other police marksman he was working with and the woman who was in the house at the time of the shooting. I can reveal no more about those interviews as they’re a critical part of my investigation. That’s all I have to tell you. Are there any questions?’

‘Are you naming the man who died now?’ asked Peter.

‘No.’

‘Despite it being on the TV,’ Peter replied sarcastically, with a sideways look at Dan. ‘It’s scarcely a secret now, is it?’

‘I can still not be sure we’ve traced all of the man’s relatives and told them of his death,’ Whiting hissed. ‘I’m afraid I consider that TV report entirely irresponsible.’ He stared straight at Dan. ‘It would be a dreadful shock if some of the man’s family found out from the television he was dead. Furthermore, I believe the hounding of the relatives of bereaved people by journalists is deplorable.’

‘Hang on!’ snapped Dan. ‘I’m not having that. Mr Hanson’s sister approached us and asked to speak because she wanted to pay tribute to him and set the record straight about his character. So don’t give me your media harassment rubbish.’

‘That may be your version of events, but we’ve had trouble tracing this woman to speak to, and I’m sure if she …’

Dan felt a sudden urge to pick Whiting up by the throat. ‘Well she managed to find me OK,’ he interrupted. ‘She just walked up to me and asked if she could talk about her brother. Not my hardest piece of research.’

There were a few laughs from the press pack. Whiting’s eyes again flicked over them.

‘As I’ve said … that ends today’s briefing. And I do not propose to hold any more. All further information will come from our press office in Cardiff.’

‘I think you’ve upset him,’ chuckled Peter, as Whiting stalked away. ‘It looks like he’s taking his ball back and doesn’t want to play any more.’

Dan tried not to enjoy his moment, knew it was pathetically petty, but failed.

The evening’s outside broadcast was another top and tail. The studio introduced Dan, he talked about the investigations at the house being almost finished and his report played. Then he told the viewers the interviews with the marksman and others would be completed by tomorrow, an important stage in the inquiry. He was thanked and the programme moved on to its next report, a crisis in farming caused by a tuberculosis epidemic in cattle.

He got home, took Rutherford for a run, then had some tea, stale toast with baked beans, followed by a yoghurt which was four days past its use-by date. He took the risk to get rid of the taste of the stale bread. He would have to get to the supermarket this weekend, however much he disliked shopping. He could live off takeaways and pub grub quite happily, but more importantly Rutherford was almost out of dog food. The beer cupboard was looking thin too, just a few dusty and long neglected tins of his less favoured ales remaining. Running dry was a frightening prospect.

Dan went to run a bath, but first had to shift a fist-sized spider from its new home by the plughole. He wasn’t keen on spiders, but tried never to kill anything. Even a wasp that had landed in his beer last summer had been fished out with a pen and left to dry on the pub table. He’d watched it, expecting it to die of drowning or alcohol poisoning, but it had rallied and then tried to fly off, landing first on his hand and stinging him before managing to make it to the safety of a nearby bush. His hand ached for most of the evening. It was an interesting lesson in life. It doesn’t always pay to try to do good.

The spider seemed keen on its new home and impervious to Dan’s attempts to help, scuttling back and forth along the length of the bath in an attempt to evade him. It was like a video game. He finally managed to tire and corner it, and with the help of a newspaper ushered it into a jug and popped it outside the front door. ‘Bet it comes back tomorrow,’ he told Rutherford, who’d been watching the action with what seemed like amusement.

He left the light off in the bathroom, preferred the mellowing half-light from the hallway, and eased into the bath. Rutherford lay down on the floor beside him, and Dan flicked the odd handful of foam at the dog as he told him about the day.

‘Great story, mate, but I don’t think we’ve made a friend in that Assassin bloke. I want to know what it was he did that so upset our friend Adam. And I reckon we might get our killer police marksman story you know. The sister of the guy who was shot is sure he didn’t deserve it and she was pretty convincing. This one’s going to run and run. It’ll certainly make our demonic, ratings-hungry, tyrannical News Editor happy.’

Rutherford yawned, but at least had the decency to gently thump his tail on the carpet to feign some interest.

Dan ran some more hot water, and tried not to wonder if his backside was getting bigger. There didn’t seem to be as much room in the bath as there used to be. He wasn’t exactly over-eating, but he was still probably drinking too much beer.

‘Maybe it’ll have to be ten laps of the park when we say we’re going to do ten in future,’ he told the snoring dog. ‘We don’t want to put Claire off, do we?’