The Judgement Book (26 page)

In a few sharp seconds of fret he’d managed to convince himself he would get home later to find his toothbrush, shampoo, bed T-shirt, spare socks, pants, work trousers, shirt and tie and even tins of emergency beer from her cupboard, all dumped in the hallway. He wondered if there’d be a sorrowful note.

“Dear Dan, I couldn’t bring myself to say this to you in person, but …”

He gripped the steering wheel and ran his tongue over the ulcer. It felt like a small pit on the inside of his lip, starting to throb again.

He tried to calm himself. She’d probably just gone to the doctor. She’d said she was going to. After all, they needed to know how long she’d been pregnant. She just wanted to talk it through with a professional. That was all.

Dan couldn’t help feeling annoyed. He’d wanted to go with her, to hear the news as she did, be there to hold and support her.

‘Right turn here,’ said Adam, pointing. Dan swung the wheel and the patrol car followed, almost on their bumper.

A mildewed white sign said Home Lane. Dan slowed the car to look for number nine.

The lane wasn’t so different from the way he’d imagined. The houses were large and modern, a mix of detached and semis, all set back from the road. A line of young chestnut trees ran down the gentle hill towards the Deer Park, a misnomer if ever there was one. It was just a patch of woodland in a housing estate which had stolen the name to disguise itself with rural appeal.

The area was far too urban for such wildlife. Any deer that found itself here would quickly have put up a “For Sale” sign and started looking at properties elsewhere.

‘That was fifty-five,’ yelped Adam, pointing to his left. ‘Keep going, we’re almost there.’

They counted down the houses. They were too far back for Dan to see ahead to the colour of the gates, but he found his hands shaking again as they neared number nine. They’d know if he could be right the moment they saw its gate.

‘Nineteen, seventeen, fifteen, thirteen, eleven,’ reeled off Adam, his head locked to the left. Dan stared straight on, couldn’t look.

Adam began opening the door even before the car had stopped. ‘Nine – number nine, there it is.’

Dan steadied himself, got out of the car, counted silently to five and then allowed himself to look. It was a detached house, shining white, a grey slate roof and a couple of cars parked outside on the tarmac drive. The double gates were both open. They were bright red. Dan closed his eyes, then opened them again, just to be sure. The gates were still red. He leaned back against the Peugeot in relief.

‘Well that’s half the battle,’ called Adam over his shoulder as he strode towards the house. ‘Now the important bit.’

The patrol car pulled up behind them. The two officers didn’t get out, but rolled down the windows and watched curiously. Adam was moving fast, almost at the gates.

The door of the house opened and a middle-aged woman stepped out. She was wearing a blue dressing gown and picked up two bottles of milk from the doorstep.

Adam bent over and began examining the left hand gate. It was wooden and arched, reaching up to head height, just as Dan had imagined. But the wood was cheap and thin, and there was no place to hide a book, nowhere at all.

Dan stopped walking and stared back and forth between the two gates.

What if there was no Judgement Book here? No book, no story, no way to solve the riddle. Then what would they be left with? The words echoed in his mind.

No future.

His tongue found the ulcer again and he winced with pain.

No future.

Adam had shifted around to the back of the gate and was checking the supporting struts. His hands ran over them, his face just inches from the wood. Dan could see from the rapid way he was moving he hadn’t found anything. The woman took a couple of hesitant steps towards him.

‘Hello?’ she said nervously. ‘Can I help you? What’s the police car doing at the end of our drive? Is there something wrong?’

Adam stood up from the gate and showed her his warrant card.

‘Nothing wrong at all, madam,’ he said with his usual extreme politeness. ‘We’ve had a tip off there may be some information hidden in your gate which is important to an inquiry.’

Her face wrinkled with bafflement. Dan could see she’d put on some blue eye shadow, but hadn’t yet got to the rest of her make-up. Preparations for work interrupted by the need for a morning coffee, probably. He understood well. It could be irresistible, deferring the demands of the day.

‘Have you found anything?’ she asked.

‘Not a thing,’ replied Adam bitterly. ‘Have you noticed anyone tampering with your gate lately? Anyone hanging around it, acting suspiciously?’

She shook her head, making the damp ends of her hair flap. ‘No, and I’m sure we would have. We’ve got motion sensors, which light up the drive if anyone comes close to the house.’

Dan let out a low moan.

She hesitated, seemed to think for a moment. ‘You could ask the Charleses I suppose, but they haven’t said anything about anyone acting strangely.’

The word was like a shock. Charles.

Dan felt the sudden energy of fresh hope propel him forwards. He walked quickly and joined Adam. The detective was still glaring at the gate as though it had offended him.

‘I’m sorry, did you say there was a Charles family living here?’ Dan asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied, turning to him. ‘The house is split into two. The Charleses live in the other half, around the side. We get on fine. The only problem we’ve ever had was the post, but we’ve sorted that.’

‘How? How?!’

She looked at him, even more puzzled now. ‘We just put a little post box on the pillar by the side of the gate.’ She pointed. ‘So their post goes in one side and ours goes into the box on the other.’

‘Where?’ asked Dan, then again, ‘Where?’

She shook her head at the stranger’s interest in such mundane, domestic matters, checked a look at Adam. He nodded, so she walked to the far corner of the right hand gate and pointed. There was a small wooden box fixed to the edge by the pillar.

‘It works fine,’ the woman went on. ‘The only problem is when we have a relief postman. They get confused. So we wrote the Charleses’ name by the box.’

She pointed again and they followed the gesture. To Dan, it felt like slow motion, his shifting gaze taking in every foot of the ground until it found its target.

There, on the gate, by the box, in neat, handwritten white paint was the simple word “Charles”.

They stared at it. Just stood and stared.

‘Can I help you any more?’ the woman asked. ‘Only I’ve got to get ready for work, and it’s going to be a busy day.’

Adam flinched. ‘No, no thanks. We may have to pop around for a chat later, but don’t worry. It’d only be brief.’

She walked back into the house, still casting the odd quizzical glance over her shoulder. Adam crouched down by the box and slowly touched the word. His fingers traced the small, white letters, almost reverentially.

‘Charles,’ he whispered.

Dan knelt down and joined him. He looked up at the clear blue sky and nodded as if to say thanks. Hope had returned.

‘Charles,’ Dan repeated. He couldn’t suppress the excitement in his voice. ‘Which I think gives us, “Open original memorial Church Charles.” We’ve cracked it. We’ve cracked it!’

They stood up, and without thinking Dan reached out and hugged Adam. The detective didn’t resist, patted a hand on Dan’s back. Only a loud cough from one of the officers in the patrol car prompted them to disengage.

‘Charles Church,’ said Adam. ‘Charles bloody Church. The Judgement Book’s in the memorial in Charles Church. It’s their final taunt. It’s just yards from the police station. They’ve been taking the piss out of us in a spectacular way. The damned thing’s been under our bloody noses the whole time.’

Dan drove fast, back to Charles Cross, Adam urging him on. They were close now, the detective kept repeating, he was sure of it. The case could be wrapped up by tonight, the Judgement Book found, the second blackmailer safely in custody, their venom neutralised. To Dan, his friend sounded obsessed, almost demented.

But he understood exactly why. Of all the cases they’d worked on together this felt the most personal, the first one he had a real stake in. With the rest it was justice they were fighting for; a concept, an ideal, something desirable but often debatable too, and always on behalf of others. This time it was themselves, their lives and their futures.

Adam had shaved even more sloppily today, his stubble casting patches of pronounced shadow around his neck and chin. His face was taut and lined with fatigue, his tie was low on his neck and he made no attempt to tighten it. There was a slight staleness in the air around him, as if he’d washed only carelessly. In the mirror, Dan saw the patrol car following them.

When they got back to the police station, Adam sent the two constables to get a toolbox. He went to find a forensics officer and returned with Arthur in tow. He was again prattling about how he should never have been forced to retire. The technician kept interlacing his fingers and looked excited. He repeatedly told Adam he wasn’t a field man, but he was honoured at the assignment and would do his best, as ever.

Dan’s mobile warbled. It was five to nine. He knew who was on the phone. He’d been expecting the call and for once was surprised to find he didn’t particularly care.

Lizzie would have come in to work ten minutes ago, been briefed on what was going on by the morning producer and Dan would be top of her list of matters requiring immediate attention. He paced over to the corner of the car park, faced into the brick wall, steeled himself for battle and answered.

A raging Lizzie never bothered with introductions. She expected her staff to know who it was and why she was calling, and invariably they did.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘My job.’

‘Your job’s what I say it is.’

‘My job’s to be right on top of the big crime news. It doesn’t come any bigger than the blackmailer. A huge story’s breaking and I need to be here to cover it for us before anyone else gets it.’

A pause on the line. Dan wondered if Lizzie had been taken aback by his reaction. You fought her fire at your peril. Usually, by far the best policy was to accept the assault and hope it would quickly pass. He could feel her torn between an innate desire to maul him and her curiosity about the story. They were both powerful instincts. He waited, let himself cool a little. He thought he knew which would win.

Finally, more calmly, she asked, ‘What’s the story?’

‘I think the cops are going to find the Judgement Book,’ he replied, hoping desperately that was exactly what they’d do.

She almost shrieked. ‘What? Find it?’

‘Yep.’

‘And we can have this all to ourselves?’

‘Yep.’

‘And we can get pictures of the book?’

Dan hesitated. He hadn’t talked to Adam about any of this. They weren’t even sure they were going to find the Book.

He heard himself say, ‘I think so.’

‘You’d better make sure so. If this story comes off, and if we have pictures of the book, I might just forget about you disobeying my express instructions. I want the exclusive, I want the Book, I want the cops talking about it, I want a good, long, award-winning report and I want it all by tonight. You got that?’

He agreed and hung up, then stuck two fingers up at the phone. But Dan was amazed he’d escaped so lightly. Now it was just a matter of selling the idea to Adam. The detective was pacing back and forth in front of a patrol car, kicking out at the occasional imaginary stone.

Now wasn’t the time to raise it. Later, he could do it later. When they found the Judgement Book. When, Dan thought, when. Please let it be when. It had to be when. He couldn’t allow himself to consider the alternative of if.

He tried to distract himself, think about something pleasant, enjoyable, fun, something to look forward to when this ordeal was finally over. Nothing came to calm his racing mind.

Dan tried a quick call to Claire, but her mobile was turned off. He looked at his phone in surprise, checked it was working. She must be having a lie in bed, he thought. She rarely turned off her phone. Maybe she needed to catch up on some sleep, didn’t want to be disturbed. Or did she need time to think about the future of their relationship?

Whether they had a future.

He looked over towards the Hoe and Claire’s flat. It was only half a mile away. The momentum of his fear was growing fast. He must see her soon, and he would. But first they had to find the Judgement Book.

The two policemen emerged from the station’s back door carrying a large silver toolbox between them. They were already sweating. Adam barked an order to follow him and they walked quickly out of the car park. Dan broke into a jog, caught up with Adam and marched alongside him.

They walked down the hill towards the ruined church, standing serene in the spring sunshine, unaware of the burden of hopes weighing upon its ruined shell.

Chapter Twenty-three

T
HE CHURCH ROSE LIKE
a mirage, growing out of the haze of heat and traffic fumes from the surrounding intersection of roads. A spectrum of colour buzzed around it, the cars, vans, trucks and bikes of the people following their daily routines. Dan wondered how many ever really saw the church and thought about what it meant, the hate, prejudice and insanity that overcame Europe, the destruction it left behind and the countless lives it stole.

The sun was high in the morning sky now, generous in spreading its warmth across the city. Dan felt a sticky sweat seeping over his body. He took off his jacket and carried it on his shoulder. Adam did the same. Behind them, the two police officers stopped for a quick break, fanning themselves with their caps. They lowered the toolbox onto a wall, then picked it up again when Adam looked back at them. Arthur followed, chattering away to the policemen. Motorists began to stare at their strange convoy, heading down the hill.

They reached the edge of the roundabout. The traffic was relentless and there was no way over, apart from crossing the road. Adam shouted to one of the policemen who gave him a look, then stepped confidently out with his hand raised. The procession of cars reluctantly slowed and they crossed.

It felt surreal, a small haven of green in the midst of the concrete bustle of a modern city. The grass surrounding the church was carefully trimmed and speckled with the white dots of daisies and yellow stars of dandelions. A couple of patches and lines of cream and butter daffodils ran along the banks towards the old walls. A semi-spiral of stone steps led down to the main tower, at the western end of the ruin. Adam jogged down and they followed.

A black iron gate hung open at the arched entrance to the tower, its once sharp spikes blunted by years of rust. Dan looked up, to where the peal of bells would have hung. There was only a square of distant sky. He imagined the lost spire, reaching into the night, the German bombers droning above it.

A pigeon fluttered, the beating echo of its flapping wings surprisingly loud in the hollowness of the tower. The flagstones at their feet were covered in dusty guano. In one corner were a couple of empty cans of lager and a crumpled pair of lacy black knickers. Dan couldn’t suppress a smile. He saw a Saturday night and a drunken young couple with nowhere to go. Very Plymouth, he thought. Scrambled sex in a ruined church, surrounded by speeding cars. It wasn’t the pinnacle of romance.

‘Here, over here.’ Adam had walked into the main part of the church, what would have been the chancel. He shouted to the two policemen.

Grey-green ivy climbed the pitted walls, spreading skywards as if trying to escape the ruin. The empty, fluted arches of the windows stared sightless, gouged out by the screaming shrapnel of the murderous past. Dan’s feet slid on the smoothness of the flagstones, worn away by generations of worshippers, and, after the Blitz, the pummelling of the relentless rain. Some bore faint inscriptions, too tired now by the years to be legible. Stray patches of grass edged across them, as though trying to pull the stones back into their earthly home.

Adam stood, hands on hips, staring at a circular black plaque on the wall. It looked fresh, new, incongruous with its aged surroundings. Dan joined him and together they read the words.

It marked the fiftieth anniversary of the Blitz of Plymouth and was dedicated to the honour of the 1200 citizens of the city killed as a result of the air raids.

‘That can’t be it,’ Adam said doubtfully. ‘It’s too modern. The answer to the riddle was “Open original memorial”. Is there another one?’

It was Arthur who answered. ‘Yes, Mr Breen,’ he said hesitantly. ‘It’s over in the other corner.’

He explained that local history was a passion, something he’d begun to take an interest in following his retirement. The new plaque had been forged to demonstrate the past should and would never be forgotten, a fitting way to mark such a significant anniversary of the Blitz. But there was an older plaque too, dating from just after the war. It must be that to which the riddle referred.

Arthur shuffled off towards the opposite corner. There, at head height on the stone wall was another dark plaque, this time oval in shape.

“Charles Church. Built 1641. Consecrated 1665. Completed 1708. Named in honour of King Charles I. Ruined by enemy action, 21 March 1941. Partially restored 1952, by the city in cooperation with the Ministry of Works. The idea of restoration having been sponsored by the Old Plymouth Society, as a memorial to those citizens of Plymouth who were killed in air raids on the city in the 1939 – 1945 War.”

‘That’s it,’ said Adam, his voice strangely quiet. ‘That’s it.’

Dan shifted forwards to stare at the plaque. It was fixed to the stone by two thick metal screws. He could see from the shining wear marks across their heads that they’d recently been removed.

The policemen creaked the toolbox open, found a large, cross-headed screwdriver and positioned it over the plaque. One tried twisting it, but the screw wouldn’t give. The other man had a go. Still no movement.

‘Come on, come on,’ muttered Adam impatiently. He wiped some sweat from his forehead. Dan chewed on his ulcer but didn’t notice its stinging pain. All he could concentrate on was the plaque.

One policeman found a rag in the bottom of the toolbox, wrapped it around the screwdriver’s handle and tried again. His face creased with the effort. The other joined in, forcing his weight around the tool. This time the screw grated and gave, just a little. Panting, they tried again. Now it started to unwind, slowly at first, then smoothly. After a few seconds the screw dropped onto a flagstone. Arthur bent down and picked it up.

The policemen went to take a brief rest, but Adam chided them on. The detective couldn’t keep still, his black shoes continually shifting on the smooth stone.

The second screw gave easily. One policeman held the plaque as the other kept working the screwdriver, turning it rhythmically. The shiny metal protruded further and further as it eased out. The thread was almost free. The policeman stopped working, the two officers glanced at each other, then over to Adam.

He held the look, breathed out hard, nodded. Finally he said simply, ‘Do it.’

They lifted the plaque from the wall.

Something fell from behind it, a blur of motion, streaking down the stone, thudding softly into the ground. Their eyes followed as it bounced and settled.

It was a black book, plain and the size of a pocket diary. It had fallen so some of the pages fanned open. Dan strained his eyes, but couldn’t see any writing. The tension in his chest was such that he was struggling to breathe. He noticed he was trembling.

He started eagerly forward, but Adam reached out a warning arm. ‘Arthur,’ he prompted hoarsely.

The technician had snapped on some plastic gloves. He knelt slowly down by the diary and picked it up, then slid it into a large, clear plastic bag and sealed the end.

‘You can have a look now, Mr Breen,’ he said, holding it out.

Adam took the bag and through it turned some of the pages of the book. Dan took a couple of fast steps forward, stood over his shoulder, chewing hard at his ulcer. The two policemen sat down on the toolbox and watched. One shook his head, as if wondering at all this fuss about a small black book.

Adam kept turning the pages. The first few were blank, then the next, then the next. He got to half way and still no writing. He turned some more pages. They remained blank.

The book was almost finished and still nothing written there. Not a word. Not a thing.

Dan felt himself start to sweat harder. Where were the tales of sex and lust, lies and deceit? Where was his entry? Where was Adam’s? Where was the report he needed for the programme tonight?

Adam got to the final page and now, at last, there were words, scribbled in blue ink, but clear and familiar. It was the same handwriting as the final two blackmail notes. Adam held the pages open, Dan’s face close by his shoulder, reading too.

“Good try,” it said. “But the Judgement Book lives on. Remember your initial thoughts if you want to find it. They would be DEAD right. This is your final chance.”

Adam stared at the open pages, then threw the book down onto the flagstones.

Dan squinted in the sunshine. The lines of red dots of the digital clock above the post office said it was just after ten. Chimes started to ring out from St Andrew’s Church. He had to force his mind to remember where there was a florist in the city centre. He’d never had to find one before. He was struggling to concentrate on anything, but some small logic in his brain told him that if he was going to lose his job he should at least try to save his relationship.

He found a florist by the banks, a small place, but full of the rich scents and colours of fresh flowers. It was doing a healthy trade. Men who neglected their partners, prompted by the sight of flowers as they withdrew money from the cashpoints, he wondered? It was a clever location for a shop that often traded on guilt.

Dan had no idea what to buy, but went for the safety of half a dozen red roses. The old lady who ran the shop seemed to find his confusion amusing and recommended he should buy flowers for his girlfriend more often.

If I still have her I will, he thought.

He walked south, out of the city centre and towards the Hoe. The sun had climbed higher in the sky now, and the day was growing hotter. People sat at tables outside cafés and laughed together. The sunshine was infectious.

Adam had stalked back to Charles Cross. Dan asked him what he planned to do next and was surprised by the answer. Adam rarely swore, and when he did it was usually at the mild end of the range. This explosion of profanities would have made a navvy nod with respect. The upshot was he was going to go back through all the case material they had and try to think of what he could do next.

He wasn’t hopeful. There were only nine hours before the Judgement Book was released to the media. They had very limited time and no leads.

Dan had asked for half an hour in town to sort out a couple of important matters. He’d been prepared to plead urgent personal reasons, but Adam had just said ‘whatever’. He looked defeated, his shoulders hunched and his tie hanging low on his neck. Dan watched as his friend took out his wallet and stared at a picture of Annie and Tom. He’d never seen the detective look so forlorn.

Dan tried to come up with some grand vision to solve the case as he walked to Claire’s flat, but his brain was utterly lifeless. What chance did he have if Adam couldn’t think of anything? They needed to find the Judgement Book, it was as simple as that, and they had no idea where it was. He thought of Sarah, sitting in her cell, laughing at them, then ducked as a seagull wheeled over his head. It had become an instinctive reaction. Twice in the last year he’d been hit by their stinking, flying droppings, once right in the face.

The anger of the memory stirred his brain. There must be another way to help themselves. Lateral thinking, he’d always prided himself on it. When he’d bought his flat, there were three other people who wanted it and they’d all had to submit blind bids. It looked to Dan like a game he could easily lose, and he’d never cared for such lotteries. After remarkably little agonising, he bribed the estate agent to tell him what the other bids were and won the flat by a convenient five hundred pounds.

It had become a motto. If you can’t win by the rules, there’s only one thing to do. Change them.

He wondered if there was any way to change the rules here. Well, if they couldn’t find the Judgement Book, how about the other blackmailer? That would be just as good. It would stop them releasing the book and give the police a chance to find it. A tiny hope sparkled in Dan’s mind. Not a bad idea, not bad at all. But how the hell would they find the blackmailer?

He felt the brief glow of optimism fade. He knew he had no idea.

Claire lived on the first floor of a converted Victorian house, dating from the 1850s. It was the way the Hoe had evolved, just like in countless other cities, from the showy family homes of the affluent Victorians to the flats of the young and modern middle classes.

The area was popular, close to the city centre and the sea, but suffered with the clutter of cars all competing for scarce parking spaces in its narrow lanes. It was a haven for seagulls too, who never seemed to rest. After his first couple of sleepless nights staying over and raging at their screeching cries, Dan had bought himself a pair of earplugs. Claire, who could sleep through anything, had never stopped ribbing him for it. The memory made him smile, until he remembered why he was here.

He fumbled for his key, let himself in to the exterior door and slowly climbed the carpeted, wooden stairs. They creaked with the rhythm of his steps. Outside the door to her flat, he paused. He felt nervous, jittery, just as he had when he came to pick her up for their first date. It was a sign of just how far he feared their relationship had deteriorated that he didn’t put his key in the door and walk straight in.

Dan bent over and rested his ear against the door. Inside it was silent. He knew she wasn’t there, but he knocked anyway. There was no answer, so he opened the door.

The flat was tidy, apart from a couple of mugs and plates on the side of the sink. A chat with a friend over a cup of tea, most likely. Another thought surfaced in his mind and he tried to force it away, but it wouldn’t go, kept nipping at him. Another man …

No, it couldn’t be. Claire wasn’t like that. But the fear wouldn’t quieten. It kept whispering snidely – how many other men had been sure their partners weren’t like that?

He shouldn’t snoop, he knew it, however strong the temptation, but he had a quick look around to see if there was anything that might indicate where Claire had gone. Nothing.

Dan put down the roses on the coffee table and debated whether to leave a note. No, there was no need. She’d know they came from him. The flowers said more than words.

He’d been trying to keep his eyes away from it, but he couldn’t help looking at the photo of them together on Dartmoor, Rutherford sitting between them. It was her favourite, taken at Christmas, patches of snow on the wiry moorgrass and distant hilltops. Claire liked the way their hair was being blown back by the mischievous Dartmoor wind, how glowing and happy they looked. Her strange little family, she’d called it.