The Balance of Guilt (32 page)

L
IZZIE HAD MANY FAULTS
, in Dan’s humble view, but in fairness she had quite a few assets too. She wasn’t one of the all too many editors who were mere wage disciples, would only ever play it safe, uncontroversial and bland. She hadn’t become institutionalised, knew a story, and she would fight to get it.

And she was never, ever, one to shy away from a confrontation.

Within seconds, she was standing in the arch of the studios’ front entrance, watching the police cars, vans and motorbikes park. Her arms were folded, her thin lips set and a stiletto was already grinding hard at the paving stones.

Dan almost felt sorry for the spies. Oscar had already suffered a couple of nasty wounds and now was about to experience the tempest of his editor’s wrath.

He should at least return to London disabused of the notion that Devon was strictly a quiet and placid place.

On the way downstairs, Lizzie grabbed the lawyer, a reedy, middle-aged man called Tipper, who always smelt faintly of pipe smoke. She said nothing to Dan, just beckoned, which he assumed was his invitation to join the battle. And she had also pulled a masterstroke, using one of the very few weapons they had.

Alongside them in the archway stood Nigel, camera upon his shoulder. He was filming the convoy’s arrival and under instructions to record everything that came to pass.

As they stood awaiting the full vengeance of the state, Dan had a brief thought that they must be one of the most unlikely posses of outlaws the history of crime had ever seen. A dishevelled-looking TV reporter, his bristling and defiant editor, a crusty, bespectacled lawyer wearing a suit that fashion had long forgotten, and a kindly cameraman in a faded pullover.

Dan forced himself to stand still and copied Lizzie’s lead in folding his arms. It looked good, and besides, it disguised the shaking of his hands.

It was clear the police officers didn’t quite know how to go about this raid. It could hardly have been like any they’d joined before. There was no leaping from cars, running headlong into a building, no doors to smash down, no drug dens to uncover, no thugs to wrestle. They just milled around, looking towards the final vehicle in the convoy, the black jeep with the tinted windows.

The doors opened and Sierra and Oscar got out. Dan was gratified to see a large plaster above his left eye.

Nigel panned the camera as the pair walked towards the entrance, then slowly up the steps. The police officers spread out behind them. Dan recognised a couple from a previous case and nodded. One shrugged in response.

Sierra walked up to Lizzie. She angled her head, but otherwise didn’t move.

Nigel shifted a little to get a close-up. The women stared at each other, two generals heading their own armies, each strong with the righteousness of their cause, finally meeting in the long anticipated showdown.

Philosophers might just have been getting an answer to the old question of what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object.

‘I have a warrant here for your arrest,’ Sierra said at last. She produced a piece of paper. ‘We will also be arresting a member of your staff, a reporter called Groves. Him, I believe.’

She pointed to Dan. He felt a lurch in his stomach, but managed not to react, just kept still with his arms folded.

‘Finally,’ she added, ‘we have authorisation to search your building and to seize materials which may endanger national security.’

‘On whose authority?’ Lizzie asked.

‘The Home Secretary and a High Court judge.’

Tipper held out his hand. ‘If I may see the warrant?’

Sierra passed it over and he studied the sheets of paper.

‘I will be applying urgently to a judge to have this overturned,’ he said.

‘That is your right,’ she replied calmly. ‘But you accept it is in order?’

‘It appears so.’

‘Then step aside and let us in.’

‘A word first with my clients.’

‘Make it quick. No stalling.’

Tipper ignored her and retreated into the lobby with Lizzie. Dan followed. He noticed all the windows of the building were filled with the faces of staff. Most looked genuinely alarmed.

What was unfolding in the car park of a small regional television station in the liberal democracy of a free society felt akin to the stories of the worst repressions of Soviet times.

‘You have little choice,’ Tipper was saying. ‘That warrant is as draconian as I have ever seen. If you try to resist, they can arrest everyone, take the programme off air and even have you closed down.’

‘Can you fight it?’ Lizzie asked. ‘On public interest grounds? You must be able to, given what we know.’

‘We can try. But I doubt it. Sad as it may be, the law no longer takes a great deal of notice of a public interest defence. And anyway, it will take time. For now, my professional advice has to be to pull the broadcast of your story and cooperate. Hand over all that they ask for. If you don’t, they will simply rip the place apart and take anything they want.’

Lizzie swore, then said, ‘Will we ever get to broadcast this story?’

Tipper took off his glasses and polished them on his tie. ‘In my considered opinion – unlikely at best.’

Lizzie stared down at the ground for a moment. When she looked back up, Dan could have sworn her eyes were shining. ‘Let the bastards in then,’ she said, in a strangled voice.

She walked over to reception and took the tannoy.

‘All staff, this is an urgent message. We are being raided by the police. I instruct you to cooperate and hand over any materials that they request.’

Police officers were marching past her, up the stairs towards the newsroom, their heavy feet pounding in the old Victorian hallway. Portraits of present and past newsreaders and editors looked down upon them.

‘I’m proud of what we have tried to do,’ Lizzie added. ‘And I never thought I would see this day. But know this, all of you. I believe we were right in what we attempted to reveal. We will try to find a way to fight this. But for now, the fight is over.’

Sierra walked in, followed by Oscar. He was clapping sarcastically.

‘Beautiful,’ he sneered. ‘I’m so moved.’

‘Proud of your police state, are you?’ she snapped.

‘Without people like me, you wouldn’t have any of the freedoms you’re so happy to spout on about,’ he retorted.

Oscar stopped next to Dan and leaned forward, right into his face.

‘I’m going to arrest you myself,’ he said quietly. ‘But not just yet. You can watch us carry away your precious little scoop first. You’ll never see it again. It’ll all be safely buried, like so many things we’ve done.’

Dan desperately searched his wits for some killing put-down, the hero’s brilliant rejoinder so beloved of the scriptwriters, but nothing came to mind. Suddenly he felt very tired, and not in the least heroic. All his efforts, all he had tried to do to expose the truth was going to be futile.

He could taste the seeping rancour of defeat.

‘Yeah? We’ll see,’ was all Dan could manage.

Oscar’s smirk grew. ‘We don’t have to wait to see. I’ll tell you how this finishes. We always win in the end. Now you stand there, like a good little boy, watch us tear the place apart and then I’ll take you away too.’

He raised his hand and gave Dan’s cheek a couple of lazy slaps.

It was only a gesture, a symbol of victory. It hardly stung, barely even smarted.

But it was enough.

Dan bowed his head and let out a low whimper.

Oscar bent forwards to maximise the enjoyment of his gloating, just as Dan suspected he would.

‘What’s the matter?’ the spy cooed. ‘Going to have a little cry are we? You poor, poor …’

He got no further. The knee Dan propelled into his stomach made sure of that.

He was away, running, down the corridor towards the canteen. Behind came a volley of shouts and drumming feet. They were close, they were younger and they were fit. He didn’t have long.

Dan tried to calm his racing mind and think clearly. What the hell was he doing? He’d just assaulted a spy. That was resisting arrest. Now he was trying to get away, from two spooks and a whole load of cops.

He was a fugitive.

For the first time in his mostly law-abiding life, Dan was on the run.

And wow, it felt strangely good.

Or that might have been the memory of the force of his flying knee in the softness of Oscar’s stomach. The spy crumpling to the floor. Again.

It was only fair. Adam had laid him out, as had Ali Tanton. Dan was just taking his turn.

As the old saying goes, all good things come in threes.

He almost grinned. But he was too busy running.

What was he thinking about? It must be the adrenaline, the tiredness, the sudden rush of the chase making him light-headed. He had to have a plan.

The pounding feet were growing close. He risked a glance behind. Ten yards grace, no more. They would soon be upon him. The gang of cops was tumbling up the narrow corridor. Past the door to engineering. Past a management office.

The tannoy crackled. Lizzie’s voice. ‘Dan, what the hell are you doing? I told you to help them, not hit them. Give yourself up!’

She didn’t sound in the least sincere. He’d always wondered what Lizzie really thought of him. Now Dan imagined how her opinion would change, given what they had gone through in the last few minutes.

The reporter who assaulted a spy.

It sounded good.

If he still was a reporter. If he still was anything. If he ever escaped a prison cell and saw the sky again.

Still, it would be something to tell El over a beer or two.

El!

That was what he had to do. They would be expecting him to head upstairs, to the newsroom. To try to grab the tapes on which the whole story was recorded. But all he needed was a few seconds to call Dirty El.

Voices behind, shouting, “Stop! Police! Stop!”

No chance. Dan was enjoying himself.

He risked another glance back. The cops were only five yards behind. And he was tiring, panting hard, his chest hollow with the effort of the chase. They were almost upon him. He had to find more time.

Ahead were the stairs up to the newsroom. No go, it would be swarming with cops, searching for the material on the bombing. There was the door to the studio. No use, a dead end. And there was the door leading to the garden.

It had a security lock. Needed a pass card.

Which he had. And which the cops didn’t.

Dan forced his weary legs into one last lunging sprint. He fumbled the card from his jacket pocket and waved it at the reader. It bleeped. The little green light blinked on.

He fell through the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Just in time. The squad of police officers piled into it, but the door didn’t move.

Angry faces were staring at him through the glass, palms slapping, hands gesturing, mouths shouting.

But the door was good. It was strong. It held. What a beautiful door.

From now on, every time Dan used it, he would give it an appreciative pat.

He gulped in a couple of breaths of air. He felt the sunshine on his back. He was outside.

The fugitive was leading the law a merry dance. And he needed only a few more seconds.

It was just a shame he would be spending the evening in the cells. He could have taken Rutherford for a short walk, to start his recuperation. Another kind autumn evening was in prospect.

Dan wondered who would look after the dog while he was in prison. Claire, it had to be. There was no one else. She would take care of Rutherford and come and visit his master. He would need something to look forward to, to get him through his sentence.

Dan wondered how long he would be locked up for. No more than a couple of years, surely. Some killers got less.

But it still felt an awfully long time. Two warm summers, two rejuvenating springs, two golden autumns, two crisp winters.

And no beer at all. And no walking his beloved dog.

Dan blinked hard. The battle was lost, but the war was yet his to win. And he had just one chance to do it.

He had to shake off this bizarre sense of unreality and concentrate. Get moving and get working.

Dan turned from the door.

Straight into Oscar.

‘Evening again,’ he said, spinning Dan around, slamming him into the wall, grabbing his arm and locking it behind his back. ‘Not quite as smart as you think you are, eh? I reckoned you might double around on yourself. Now, let’s have a little walk back to reception so we can do the formal arresting you bit. I’m looking forward to it no end.’

B
LOOD WAS SEEPING ONTO
Dan’s tongue, its acrid taste making him grimace. There was quite a gash on the inside of his mouth and he wondered if the impact with the wall might have chipped a tooth as well. He let Oscar push him back towards the front of the building, his arm still held in a painfully enthusiastic lock.

‘Don’t try anything,’ the spy said. ‘It’d be the work of a second to break your arm.’

Dan didn’t bother replying. He knew Oscar meant it. And he didn’t have the strength.

The spy shoved him up the steps and into reception. Nigel and Lizzie stood up from their chairs. The expressions on their faces said he wasn’t looking his best.

‘Dan, are you OK?’ Lizzie asked.

‘Just about.’

‘What were you doing, trying to run off? You idiot.’

She sounded oddly proud. It was all he could do not to cuddle into her and ask for a hug.

Oscar pushed him down onto a chair. ‘Sit,’ he commanded, as though to a dog. ‘There’s a good boy.’

Dan felt more drops of warm blood dripping onto his tongue. ‘Can I get some water for my mouth?’

‘No. We’ll be taking you away in a minute. They’ll check you over back at Charles Cross.’

‘But it hurts.’

‘It hurts, it hurts,’ the spy mocked. ‘You don’t know what pain is.’ He tapped the ribbon of the scar on his neck. ‘That’s real suffering. So don’t bleat to me about your poorly little mouth.’

He started to recite the words of the caution. Dan hardly heard. He sat back on the chair and closed his eyes. He felt like curling up into a ball and drifting off to sleep. Only the stabbing, stinging pain from his mouth was keeping him awake. He worried at a tooth with his tongue. It felt loose.

‘Do you understand?’ Oscar was shouting at him. ‘I said, do you understand that you have been arrested and are now under caution? Acknowledge me!’

‘Yes. I understand.’

Dan massaged his temples, rubbed at his mouth and winced with the pain. His cheek was grazed too. He could feel the grit of the building’s stonework in the gash. He considered standing up to look in a mirror, but thought better of it. Some sights are better not seen.

In the corner of reception, Oscar and Sierra were talking quietly. Dan wondered whether he could make another run for it, but dismissed the idea as it formed. A couple of police officers were standing by the doors. They looked sharp and alert. And he didn’t have the energy to do anything except sit and submit.

They had lost. It was as simple as that. The time had come to accept it.

A line of cops walked carefully down the stairs. They were carrying boxes, filled with video tapes, scripts and running orders for the programme.

Lizzie watched, her face taut. ‘Who ever thought we would see the day? A raid on a news programme because it was about to expose a scandal.’

Outside, police officers were loading the boxes into a van. A couple lit up cigarettes and stood blowing smoke into the air. Nigel reached out a hand and patted Dan’s shoulder. He nodded his appreciation, but couldn’t find any words to say.

It was half past six. Usually the building would be buzzing as journalists ran around, checking the details of late stories for the programme. But not tonight. There was only a silence.

On the television in the corner of reception, a test card read,

Wessex Tonight would like to apologise for the loss of this evening’s news. This is due to technical problems.

If only the public knew.

But they never would. All the evidence was about to disappear in a police van, doubtless never to be seen again. They were bound up tight in the unyielding fetters of the law, unable to reveal all that they had discovered.

More blood seeped around Dan’s mouth. He gulped hard, swallowed it and almost retched. A shock of nausea jarred his body.

And the memory returned.

‘Right,’ Sierra said, walking over to Dan and Lizzie. ‘I think that concludes our business here. Now it’s time to get you two to the station.’

Lizzie got up, but Dan remained sitting.

‘Come on then,’ Oscar grunted. ‘On your feet. Unless you want to try resisting arrest again?’

Dan quickly rose too, but didn’t make towards the door. The spy beckoned. ‘Come on. You can walk. I’m not helping you down the steps like some little old retard.’

Still, Dan didn’t move. ‘Come on,’ Oscar repeated impatiently. ‘Get moving. Or shall I give you some more of my special help?’

Dan took a deep breath and found what little was left of his courage. He rubbed at his cheek, then squeezed the gash inside his mouth.

Fresh blood spurted onto his tongue. It was sticky, hot and sickening. Dan gagged, then retched. He felt the vomit eject from his body in a series of shocking spasms.

And some he managed to spray onto Oscar.

‘Jesus,’ the man yelled. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

Dan turned and lurched towards the toilets by the side of reception. Oscar kicked out, but missed him. He followed, hurling abuse. A pot plant went spinning across the carpet tiles, shedding dry soil.

Dan felt his stomach heave again. He flung the door open. It slammed against the wall and juddered back and forth. He tried to stem the flow of sickness with a hand, bent over the toilet and threw up once more.

The spy was behind, standing over him. ‘You’re pathetic,’ he grunted. ‘You make me want to puke myself. See what you’ve done. These trousers cost me hundreds.’

Dan looked up. Oscar’s shoes and knees were spattered with sick. The smell was giddying, vile. But he was still standing there, glaring down.

It was wretched, but he had to do it. Dan closed his eyes, looked as pitiful as he knew how, and forced some of the sickness from his mouth, letting it dribble slowly down his chin.

‘Urch,’ Oscar groaned. ‘You disgusting piece of shit. Finish your foul puking and let’s go.’

At last, the spy turned away. Dan quickly fumbled the mobile from his jacket pocket, shielded it from Oscar in case he looked back and found El’s name.

He retched again, coughed and gasped to cover any noise from the phone, rang the number and hid the mobile away once more.

Dan gave it a few seconds, then slapped theatrically at the wall and wailed loudly, ‘Why did you spies have to come here to our studios? Why raid us? Why bring all these cops? Why arrest me? Why seize all the material on the Minster bombing? Why did FX5 have to let Tanton do it, when you could have stopped him? And do you really think you’ll get away with trying to cover it all up?’

Oscar turned back and swore again. ‘Going to cry are you, wanker?’

‘No. Never. Even though you’re going to take me to the cells right now and interrogate me.’

Oscar grabbed for him again. ‘Come on you shitty little creature,’ he said. ‘Let’s get going.’

Ten minutes, Dan estimated. He had to find ten minutes. More if possible, but ten at least.

He rested his head against the toilet. It was smooth and cool, felt good and calming.

Oscar was prodding at Dan’s body with a foot. ‘Come on. I’ve had enough of your arsing about. I want to get you in the cells and get back to my hotel so I can have a good dinner.’

A hand reached for the scruff of Dan’s jacket and pulled at it.

He tried to summon up more vomit to force Oscar away. Dan bit again at the gash in his mouth, felt the blood flow and his stomach turn, but there was no sickness left to come. All he could taste was bile.

He leaned over the toilet, retched hard, then began gasping, panting for the air.

The cubicle smelt noxious, the cramped space filled with a revolting mix of Dan’s own vomit and the hint of bleach. He saw a memory of teenage years, a sixth form disco, his first overdose on drink and the wretched consequences in the cold darkness of the school toilet.

Oscar was pulling hard, forcing Dan onto his knees. He staggered, then flopped down again.

‘I said, come on you stinking little shit,’ Oscar threatened.

‘I can’t. My legs won’t move.’

‘I said – come on!’

The spy gave a mighty yank on Dan’s jacket. There was a ripping sound as a seam split.

‘Even your bloody clothes are cheap,’ Oscar grunted. ‘Now – come on.’

Dan tried to slap away the man’s hand, but he was too weak. He was rewarded with a kick in the ribs. It wasn’t hard, but it was enough to play upon.

A hollow groan faltered from his mouth and he slumped back onto the floor. Dan vaguely noticed how dirty it was. If he ever came back here, worked as a journalist again, he would mention it to Lizzie. It created a bad impression for visitors.

The mental countdown kept running.

That hand again, pulling hard at his jacket.

‘If you don’t get up, I’m going to have you carried out. In front of all your little friends. So they can see you for what you are. A despicable piece of shit.’

Dan staggered to his knees, but stayed there, bent over, panting hard.

‘Just give me a minute. My head’s spinning.’

‘You think this is bad? You wait until I’ve finished questioning you.’

‘I’m almost ready. Nearly OK.’

‘Not trying to stall, are you? No one’s coming to help, you know. It’s all over.’

Dan managed not to react, kept his eyes set low on the wall. There was another sharp tug at his jacket. ‘Come on!’

Seven minutes, or so. But Oscar was growing ever more impatient. He couldn’t eke it out much longer.

Dan creased up his face and began to cry. First a snivel, growing to gulps, then tears, tickling the dry sweat on his face.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Oscar barked. ‘You pathetic, useless piece of shit. Stop your bleating and move!’

A voice in the doorway. Nigel’s, loud and protesting. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Look at the state of the poor man.’

‘Get out of here.’

‘Where the hell’s your humanity?’

‘I had it surgically removed when I joined FX5. Now fuck off, or you get arrested too.’

Dan looked up and wiped at his eyes. He could see Nigel being led away by Sierra, his face full of concern.

But his friend’s intervention was more precious than he could know. He had used up a little extra time.

‘Last chance,’ Oscar was saying. ‘Up now, or you get carried. And not gently.’

Dan nodded, gripped the side of the toilet and levered himself up. He reached for the wash basin and placed a hand on the tap.

‘Just let me get some of this sick off my face.’

‘No. We’re going. Now. Start moving.’

‘But it’s disgusting.’

‘I don’t care. It’s your own puke. Live with it. Get shifting.’

Oscar took a step forwards and reached for Dan’s shoulder.

‘OK, OK,’ he said, holding up his hands in submission.

Five minutes. He had to find just five little minutes. It was nothing, the time it took to make a cup of tea, to brush his teeth, to idle away some passing thoughts while watching the world from a window.

Five tiny, insignificant minutes.

But there was nowhere else to go. No other games to play. All the possible procrastinations had been spun out.

Four large policemen were waiting in reception. Oscar was beckoning to them.

‘I’ve had enough fucking around. Haul him out.’

The officers began moving forwards. Oscar stood back to let them pass.

Dan steadied himself. He thought about Rutherford, the dog comatose on that cold slab of a table after being poisoned. Ali Tanton and her son, the other people killed and injured in the Minster bombing.

And the spies complicit in it all.

The cops were almost upon him. Reaching out their burly arms.

Dan could see the toilet on the edge of his vision.

He took a step, felt his knees buckle and his body collapse. He was falling through the air, closing his eyes, ready for the impact.

The hard, white rim caught the side of his head and all the world blinked into blackness.