The TV Detective (10 page)

This afternoon, Adam had said, they were going to interview some suspects.

‘You mean witnesses?' Dan asked.

‘No,' the detective replied meaningfully. ‘This time, I mean suspects.'

Chapter
Eight

I
T WASN
'
T YET TWO
o'clock, but already the shades of grey in the sky were darkening in preparation for the coming night. The month had crept ever onwards, and they were almost upon the shortest day. All the cars they passed on the way back to Charles Cross had their headlights on, raindrops dancing in the sweeping beams, the hurrying people dressed in long coats and thick hats and carrying umbrellas to resist the pervasive downpour as best they could. Puddles of standing water lurked along the roadsides, rivulets and streams gushing to the greedy drains.

Nigel dropped Dan off at the back of Charles Crossand he dashed through the rain to his car. He always kept some spare clothes in there, in case of being sent away overnight, along with a wash kit and shaver, and he was fed up with feeling damp. As he manoeuvred inelegantly in the tight space of the driver's seat and wrestled on the dry shirt, his mobile warbled with a text alert.

It was from Kerry. “Hello there! Hope your day's OK, and the rain hasn't put you off meeting tonight!! Any ideas where and when yet? x”

Ah, the agony of the etiquette of replying to a text from a potential suitor. Too quick and you looked overly keen, too slow and you were uninterested. Too brief and you were terse, maybe even rude, too extensive and you were insincere, perhaps even mocking. There was none of the authentic human communication in a text, no smiles, winks and warmth in the tone of a voice, no expressions and inflexions.

Dan had resigned himself to being one of that large number of people who would never get the hang of successful flirtatious texting. A couple of years ago he managed to end one relationship before it started by trying to make a joke, the lady in question taking instant offence and sending a very direct reply. Sometimes the old ways of meeting people and establishing interest could seem so easy and attractive, he thought. Get introduced by some friends. Have a boring old chat.

All now rendered at best quaint, and more likely obsolete.

Well, one question was easy to answer. He would have to reply now. The entire afternoon was already accounted for, even if it had only just begun. He would spend a few hours with Adam interviewing suspects, then it'd be back to the newsroom to update his report on the arrest of the man who had attacked the prostitutes.

Simple and straightforward, that was how it must be. Dan typed, “No, of course not put off, looking forward to it. Still working on where, will text later with ideas, but say about 8? x”

He briefly debated whether to add the litter of exclamation marks that so many women seemed to favour when writing texts or emails, but decided against it. Kerry might find it evidence of a burgeoning rapport, but perhaps just sarcastic. It wasn't worth the risk.

He'd have to work out soon where they could go. All the bars in the city would be busy with Christmas drinkers, the restaurants likewise. A first date demanded somewhere quieter, where they could grab a little corner table and have a relaxed chat, not shout at each other amidst a boisterous throng and pumping disco beats.

Dan smiled at himself. He could sound like a very old-fashioned man, sometimes. Perhaps he should hire a cloak to lay down for Kerry when she faced a puddle.

The clock in the car said it was two, the time Adam had told him to be back. He'd better get up to the MIR, he could work on the venue later.

Dan was about to make a run for the police station's back doors when he saw it. While he'd been engrossed with texting, someone had sneaked up and added a faux blue light to the top of the car. It was made of paper and cardboard, bound together with sticky tape, and had “The TV Detective” written around the base in thick black marker pen.

Dan shook his head and jogged for the doors, ignoring the lines of grinning faces in the windows.

* * *

The MIR was boasting a new addition, and one which was immediately worrying. At the far end was a large television, with built in recorder. The picture was frozen on the end credits of
Wessex Tonight
's lunchtime news.

Adam was standing by the screen, a remote control in his hand, Suzanne sitting at a desk, typing at a computer.

Neither of them spoke.

‘Well, I'm back,' Dan said, trying not to sound nervous.

‘Yes, we'd noticed,' Suzanne replied. ‘Being detectives and all that. We spotted your presence almost straight away.'

Another silence.

‘Is everything OK?' Dan asked.

Adam folded his arms.

‘I mean … have you been watching my report?' Dan added.

Suzanne looked away, continued typing. Adam picked up a file of papers.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Yes, we did watch it.'

He flicked through some of the sheets. A strip light hummed in the ceiling.

‘And?' Dan prompted. ‘Was it – err, was it OK?'

No reply.

‘I mean, well – I thought it was a pretty good piece. I thought I did a decent job of it.'

More silence.

‘Well, it made a good splash, didn't it? The lead story and all that.'

Suzanne and Adam exchanged a look.

‘What?' Dan asked. ‘What's going on? What's the matter?'

Adam sat down on a deskand swung a leg. ‘I don't know whether I should tell you this.'

He ran a hand over his stubble, pronounced and already dark once more.

‘What?' Dan urged. ‘Tell me what? What's going on? Are you kicking me off the inquiry? What's happening?'

The door opened, a uniformed sergeant walked in and put down a pile of papers in a tray. Suzanne thanked him, and the man left again.

Adam waited for the door to close.

‘Well, what is it?' Dan repeated. ‘Look, if you're throwing me off the case, I'd rather you just told me instead of playing these games.'

Adam got upand turned off the television. ‘A few minutes ago, I got a call from the Deputy Chief Constable. He'd been watching your lunchtime news. He likes to keep up with the media, as you know.'

‘Ah,' said Dan.

‘Ah indeed.'

‘Well – what did he say? What?!'

Adam picked up his coat, slipped it over his shouldersand reached for a couple of files.

‘He said … he said it was a good idea of mine to get the cameras along on the operation to catch the attacker, and to go on the TV to talk about the arrest. He said it was great for public reassurance, and looked very positive for the force. He commended me on my fine work.'

There was another silence.

‘Did he now?' Dan said, trying to keep the relief from his voice.

‘He did. Right, come on. We've got some suspects to see.'

He headed for the door. Dan followed.

‘I told you I might actually be useful,' he said quietly.

This time, he thought, just maybe the resulting silence wasn't perhaps filled with quite so very much disbelief.

They headed for Plymouth Hoe, the great natural harbour and iconic heart of the city.

Dan was driving again, Adam studying his notes.

‘Jon Stead and Andrew Hicks are who we're going to see,' he said. ‘In this case, I say suspects because Hicks is one of those named by Penelope Ramsden as threatening Bray. He came into the office quite a few times apparently, shouting abuse. They had to call the police on a couple of occasions. He detested Bray with a passion.'

The name was familiar, and Dan chased it through the passages of his mind. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I saw him on a report in our News Library. He was chucked out of his home by Bray. We interviewed him at court. He was the one who coined the infamous epithet “Bray the Bastard”.'

‘Well, his pal Stead was also chucked out of his house by Bray,' Adam replied. ‘So he too has a reason to hate the man. It should be an interesting chat.'

The men were spending the afternoon fishing from a jetty by the Waterside pub. Dan parked the car and they walked over to find the two figures, who were so wrapped up in waterproofs that they resembled postal packages.

The wind and rain were spraying patterns across the waters of the sound, obscuring the green and orange floats which bobbed forlornly in the sea. To Dan, lover of cosy pubs and crackling firesides, it didn't feel remotely like a pleasant way of spending an afternoon. He had though come to appreciate the zeal which accompanied many a hobby, be it fishing, trainspotting, or whichever passion seized the great spectrum of human imagination.

Years ago, as a cub reporter, he had been sent to cover a story about a family whose weekends were dedicated to collecting the identification numbers of electricity pylons. Initially, he had thought it a spoof, but with some research found it was a genuine hobby. The marching across boggy fields, sometimes at considerable personal risk, to discover a unique identification plate, was indeed considered a worthwhile way of spending your leisure time by some. Many pages on the internet were dedicated to it, one even titled, without a hint of irony, “Pylon of the Month.”

Hicks and Stead reeled in their lines and they all shook hands. Adam suggested they sheltered by the side of the pub while they talked, for which mercy Dan was grateful. He could sense the rain seeping in to his new and previously pleasantly dry shirt.

Hicks was a big man, some six feet or so tall and well built, Stead thin and wiry. He hardly said a word in the whole conversation, preferring instead to gaze out to sea, as if ruing the passing fish he might be missing as they talked.

Adam explained why they were here, and Hicks began to smile.

‘Is something amusing you, sir?' the detective asked.

‘Oh yes.'

‘Which is?'

‘Bray getting himself murdered.'

‘You find that funny, do you?'

‘Very much so. The man was a bastard. He deserved it.'

‘He deserved to be blasted through the chest with a shotgun?'

‘I'd say so. The only problem I'd have with what happened was that it was a bit quick. I'd have preferred it if he'd suffered more.'

Adam's voice was marked with a warning. ‘Are you sure this is the sort of thing you should be saying to a police officer?'

Hicks shrugged. ‘Why not? You haven't pulled my name out of a hat, have you? You know damn well what he did to me. After he chucked us out of the house, me and Linda split up. A year later, my mum died, and I wasn't there when she went. I would have been if I was still in my house. Anytime I'm passing his office I like to pop in and have a go at him. He was a bastard and he deserves what he got.'

‘So – you killed him?'

Hicks laughed loudly. ‘No, mate. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I didn't kill him. But when you find out who did, let me know and I'll shake his hand.'

‘Then where were you on Monday evening at about six o'clock?'

‘I dunno for sure. I think we were out fishing, weren't we Jon?'

The man beside him nodded, but didn't speak.

‘What, in the rain we had on Monday?' Adam asked.

‘It don't make no difference to the fish,' Hicks replied. ‘They get wet whatever the weather. I might have been out fishing, but I might have been home too.'

‘Can anyone confirm that?'

‘Jon can.'

‘Anyone else?'

‘I think we picked up a couple of bits of shopping on the way home. You can ask the old lady in the shop by the river. Otherwise no.'

Adam turned to Jon Stead. ‘And you, you'd back this up?'

‘Yes,' he replied in a quiet voice.

‘Did you hate Edward Bray too?'

Stead nodded. ‘Course he did,' Hicks added. ‘He threw Jon out of his home as well. In fact, that's how we met. At the court. When Bray was doing his mass evictions thing. The man was a category one, gold plated, top notch bastard.'

This time, Adam didn't thank the men, just told them he would need to speak to them again and turned to go. But before they could walk away, Stead put a hand on Dan's shoulder and said, ‘You're that man off the TV, aren't you?'

Dan suppressed a groan at the dreaded words. They would invariably be followed by an ear bending about the ridiculousness of the plot of some soap opera, the lamentable state of an actor's dress sense, or the lack of decent programmes on the box nowadays, none of which he had any influence over whatsoever.

‘Yes,' he said resignedly. ‘I am the man on the telly.'

‘You used to do environment stuff, didn't you?'

‘Yes,' Dan said once more, thinking how far off his previous life now seemed.

Stead reached out and shook his hand again, this time with enthusiasm. ‘I liked your reports. You always stuck up for us fishermen. When Greater Wessex Water polluted the Sound here with sewage they never told us, just let us carry on fishing in it. But you found out and gave them a good going over. You should go back to covering environment. You were really good at it.'

Dan found he was afflicted by a rare phenomenon. He didn't know what to say.

Next on the menu of suspects came Gordon Clarke, a businessman like Bray, but now with one distinct commercial advantage over his former rival. He was still alive.

Adam read the briefing as Dan drove them to Ermington, a village some ten miles to the east of Plymouth in the pure Devon countryside of the South Hams. Clarke had rented a shop from Bray, had a couple of difficulties with paying the rent, and was quickly evicted. He'd taken the matter to court, but had lost. Clarke was notable as he too had made threats against Bray at the time, and gone on to start up a website for people to leave their thoughts about the businessman.

It was, in principle at least, dedicated to the discussion of entirely legal ways in which Bray's business ambitions could be thwarted. But it had quickly become a forum for ranting, and sometimes even dark fantasies about the kind of things certain people would like to do to Edward Bray. Many were highly creative, and even more were painful and messy.