The TV Detective (17 page)

‘I give up then,' he said, tetchily. ‘I don't know.'

Adam nodded condescendingly. ‘Well done. That's an important lesson of investigations, one you needed to learn. Sometimes we don't know either. So far, there's been plenty of action, buzzing around, seeing suspects. But it's not all glamour. It's common to hit a hiatus. A real life inquiry isn't like you see on the TV. We don't sit in the pub for half the time, suddenly have a brainwave and go out and arrest the killer. It's hard graft. Isn't it Suzanne?'

She nodded emphatically, but clearly didn't feel sufficiently moved to make the effort to speak. Dan tried giving her a half smile, but it wasn't reciprocated.

Adam went on to outline what would happen next. It sounded far from exciting. Research would continue on Bray's life. More checks would be carried out on the suspects, their backgrounds and associations. The detectives would be looking for any links between them which might suggest a conspiracy of ideas or actions. They would all be re-interviewed and put under a little pressure to see if their stories matched the accounts they had given initially. Any discrepancies, any evasions, would be noted and worried away at.

Dan saw his hopes for a story fading fast.

‘And that's it?' he said, trying not to sound disappointed.

‘That's it,' Adam replied. ‘That's the reality of police work. Hard, mundane toil.'

‘Well, maybe I could help.'

Suzanne at least had the decency to turn her splutter of disbelief into a cough, but it made little headway in disguising the vast and snow-capped mountain range of her scepticism.

‘How could you help?' Adam asked.

‘What about if I did a story? Appealing for witnesses.' Dan concentrated hard, so he wouldn't sound sly. ‘If you let me put out a little titbit about the inquiry, like saying that Bray was kicked in the face after he was killed, that'd get plenty of attention. I could interview you, and you could ask for witnesses to come forward. It might work.'

Adam shook his head. ‘No, I want to keep those details to ourselves for now. It's better if we just quietly carry on with the inquiry.'

‘But I could really get you some interest.'

‘No. I'll let you know if I need any more coverage.'

‘But I …'

‘I said no. That's it. Decision made.'

The words were as brutal as a door slamming. Adam turned away, walked over to the boardsand studied the lines of writing there. Suzanne joined him and they began a whispered conversation. Dan swung a leg back and forth and wondered what to do. Sitting in the MIR, watching nothing much happening hardly felt appealing. And he kept hearing Lizzie's words in his head and her demands for a story.

The clock on the wall said it was half past nine. Dan thought his way through the case, looked for some insight that would give them a lead, or some compelling reason to produce a report, but came nowhere close to approaching either. He found his mind wandering to what present to buy for Kerry. Perhaps some jewellery, that was always a safe bet.

His mobile rang. A withheld number. That meant the newsroom, and more manic insistence for a story. Dan switched the call to his answer machine. It would buy him a few minutes, but not much more.

‘So, err, is there anything I can do?' he asked.

Neither of the two detectives bothered to turn around. ‘No,' Adam said, over his shoulder. ‘Just keep quiet and watch.'

‘Watch what? You two having a chat?'

‘Yes,' Suzanne said coldly.

‘Are you sure we shouldn't be putting out some kind of story?'

‘Absolutely.'

A quarter to ten. Dan knew he'd have to ring Lizzie soon. If he didn't have a story to offer he'd probably get called in to cover something ridiculous, just to help fill the programme. There was always a shortage of staff at Christmas as people took leave to be with their kids. That meant he could end up reporting the dreaded staples of yuletide, Santa Claus visits to hospitals, choirs full of discordant children, or festive treats for the cats at the local animal home.

He dropped his pen on the floor, bent down to pick it up and hit his head on the desk. Dan swore and groaned. Fickle Lady Luck had not just deserted him today, but was making a point of waving two fingers in his direction.

But then, as it so often can, life changed in an instant. The door of the MIR swung open.

A woman leaned into the room and said simply to Suzanne, ‘I'm off out to speak to some neighbours of Hicks and Stead.'

‘OK, thanks Claire.'

Dan glanced over. He must, he estimated later, have seen the woman for about a second and a half before the door closed again. But it was sufficient.

She was entirely and utterly, totally and comprehensively, and fully and wholly his type. Claire's hair was dark, and cut into a bob, his favourite style. Even this fleeting sight made it obvious she had a fine and elegant figure.

Her voice was clear, feminine and strong, her face an artwork which a master sculptor would have spent many weeks labour upon and delighted in the outcome. The few words Dan had ever heard this woman speak now skipped around his ears, as an entrancing melody.

And she must have been about 30 years old. Which, the computer of his brain instantly told him, was just the ideal age for his partner.

Dan gazed and gawpedand stood and stared, until the trance was broken by a look like a right hook from Suzanne.

On his notepad, Dan wrote the word “Claire”, inked it into bold type, and underlined it.

But at least he managed to resist the teenage temptation to draw a heart around it.

The door began to open again. Dan hastily checked his tie, smoothed his hair and looked up, armed with his best smile.

Which faded fast.

A uniformed inspector strode in and said to Adam, ‘I don't suppose you've got any spare detectives I can borrow?'

‘Why?'

‘You won't believe this, but some bastards have had a go at the war memorial, the huge one on the Hoe. They've stolen some of the bronze plaques. There'll be hell to pay. I need as many cops as I can get hold of to try to catch the thugs and get the plaques back.'

‘Sorry, Paul, all my detectives are out on inquiries.'

‘Come on, you must have someone? I need to get this one sorted.'

‘No one at all. The pressure's on to solve this case and I need all the staff I can get. Sorry.'

The man shook his head and quickly left the room. Adam and Suzanne returned to their discussion.

Dan stared in disbelief. He coughed loudly, but got no reaction. He tried again, yet still with no response. From their determined lack of interest Dan thought he could have a seizure, perhaps even undergo spontaneous human combustion and it would probably pass unnoticed.

‘Can I say something?' he ventured, finally.

‘If you must,' Suzanne replied.

‘That thing about the war memorial and its plaques. That's a disgrace.'

‘Yep,' said Adam.

‘Well, don't you think you should be doing something about it?'

‘It's not one for CID. Uniform can handle it. We've got a murder to solve.'

‘Well, you're not exactly solving it at the moment, are you?'

Adam turned slowly around. ‘What?' he said, dangerously.

‘All I'm saying is that if you're not making any progress on the case at the moment, maybe you should pitch in to try to find the plaques? It's a dreadful crime. The people remembered on them died for us, you know.'

‘I'm well aware of that. But uniform can handle it.'

‘Surely the more …'

‘I said,' Adam interrupted sharply, ‘uniform – can – handle – it.'

The two men stared at each other. ‘OK then,' Dan replied, trying to keep his voice calm, ‘how about some media coverage? I could get the story out, and ask people to look out for the plaques.'

Adam's voice was ominously quiet. ‘I'll say this one more time then. Uniform can handle it. And you're here on trust. No stories without my say so. Now, go back to what you should be doing. Sit quietly, and watch.'

Sometimes, someone can only take so much. And now the dam of resentment, which had been building nicely, could no longer take the pounds of piling pressure.

It breached and burst. And with some style.

‘Ah, bollocks to you,' Dan heard himself saying.

‘What?'

‘I said – bollocks. That's boll-ocks. Don't give me your pompous bloody lectures. With something like this I can really help and I damn well should. I can get everyone looking out for the plaques. I'm going to find that Inspector and offer to do a story. And I bet he bites my arm off.'

Adam took a slow pace towards Dan. He swallowed hard, but held his ground.

‘If you do that,' the detective said quietly, ‘you know exactly what it'll mean.'

‘Oh whoopee fucking do,' Dan replied, and turned and made for the door.

Chapter
Fifteen

O
N THE BUTTRESSES OF
the war memorial on Plymouth Hoe are brass plaques which bear the names of seven thousand sailors who died in the First World War. Dan had once stood here with Nigel and his two young sons, and to attempt the impossible task of giving them an imaginable idea of the number of people who were killed in the Great War he'd asked James and Andrew to begin reading out the names.

They'd got as far as a couple of hundred before realising the extent of the task. And, as Dan had then said, remember that's just one single memorial, for one solitary city, for one branch of the armed forces only. Multiply it by many thousands and you start to get some idea of the actual number of people who died.

The boys had gone quiet.

It was here the attack had been carried out. In the far corner of the garden, beneath a statue of a watching Royal Marine, instead of a line of five plaques there were five rectangles of discoloured stone.

‘I don't believe it,' Nigel whispered. ‘Of all the shocking stories we've covered, this, well …'

His words tailed off. Dan nodded, as did Inspector Paul Getliffe, the tall and balding man Dan had inelegantly chased down the stairs of Charles Cross police station, and to whom he had offered the power of television to help catch the thieves. The gift was duly not just accepted, but hugged and squeezed. The story would be broken on the lunchtime news. The outside broadcast truck was on the way and Lizzie had demanded a report, with a live introduction and summary.

‘Not bad,' had been her verdict on the story. ‘It sounds like it is actually almost just about possibly worth letting you go off with the cops.'

Dan took that as a compliment, but didn't raise the question of for how much longer he would be doing so.

Nigel got down onto his knees to film some low shots of the missing plaques, while Dan took the details of the story from the Inspector. The plaques had been stolen sometime overnight. They were held onto the wall by bolts, which had been sheared off. The suspicion was that the plaques would have suffered serious damage, but until they could be recovered it was unclear what state they were in.

The most damning part of the story was that the plaques had probably been stolen for their scrap value. The price of bronze had risen steeply of late. The police estimated the five plaques might fetch a few hundred pounds from a scrap dealer.

The names of around seven hundred men were inscribed on them.

Dan's rough mental calculation put that at about fifty pence a man.

It was a point he would be making strongly in the script.

And all this at Christmas time, too.

From Adam Breen, Dan had heard nothing. He'd half expected a phone call, formally throwing him off the inquiry, and perhaps a few pointed remarks to go with it, but there had been only silence. He tentatively asked Inspector Getliffe about Adam, but the man had been discreet and said, in an understanding voice, ‘Don't be too hard on him. He's got a lot on his plate at the moment, and he's having a difficult time.'

It was half past eleven, the sun high in the winter sky. Nigel shifted the camera aroundto film the great tower of the memorial, silhouetted against the passing clouds.

The sound of fast footsteps and a low moan made them turn around. A middle-aged woman was staring at the wall where the plaques had stood.

‘No,' she wailed. ‘My grandfather's name was on that one.'

She walked slowly down the stepsand ran a hand over the grey and black smears, the only reminder now of the stolen plaque. Dan stepped back and pulled the Inspector with him so Nigel could film. In one shot her reaction summed up the story.

They waited a couple of minutes for her to regain her composure, then Dan introduced himself and asked if she would be prepared to say a few words about the theft.

‘Damn right I would,' came the forthright reply. ‘But you'd better have a bleep machine for cutting out swearing ready.'

* * *

From the studio, Craig read his cue with just the right note of appalled disbelief.

“Thieves have stolen some of the bronze plaques which commemorate sailors lost in the Second World War from the memorial on Plymouth Hoe. The attack has caused widespread outrage. Our crime correspondent Dan Groves is at the memorial now.”

Dan was standing with the tower behind him, said, “Yes, the memorial here is a poignant reminder of the sailors who died fighting for our freedom, but who have no grave except the sea.'

He began walking, Nigel panning the camera around to follow.

‘More than twenty thousand sailors are remembered here,' Dan continued, gesturing to some of the bronze plaques he was passing, their faces flashing in the sunlight. ‘But in this corner, thieves have taken five plaques. Now the police are asking for urgent public help in getting them back.'

His report played. The viewers had already seen the wall where the plaques once stood, so Dan started the story with Rachel Parker, her wailing at the sight and her interview. It required a couple of takes before her words were acceptable for a daytime TV audience, and to Dan's surprise, she hadn't cried, but what she had to say was powerful nonetheless.

‘To do this – it's a disgrace. It's the lowest form of thuggery. It's despicable. My grandfather and others like him gave their lives for the freedom of people today and to have some of them steal these plaques for a few pounds – well, they're scum, that's the only word I can use. Just foul, horrible scum.”

Then came some close ups of the wall and the marks left behind, and a clip of the interview with Inspector Getliffe. He too said what a dreadful crime this was and appealed to the public for help in getting the plaques back.

For his live summary, Dan reiterated that message, asking anyone who might know who was responsible, or had any idea what had become of the plaques, to get in touch with the police. He gave out the
Crimestoppers
number too.

‘Thanks for all this,' the Inspector said, after the broadcast. ‘Do you think it'll get much reaction?'

‘Oh yes,' Dan replied emphatically.

Sometimes in life, all you can do is wait. As a journalist it was a fate which often befell Dan. Whether it was waiting for a jury to return a verdict, a police officer to emerge from a crime scene to grace the media with a comment, or perhaps even just sitting in the outside broadcast van, waiting for half past six to come around so he could present a live report.

But despite all his experience of it, Dan didn't do waiting well.

Following the lunchtime news, the police had been inundated with phone calls. Inspector Getliffe said he had never known a more vociferous public response. Hundreds rang in, many just to voice their outrage, but some to say people they knew, or were aware of, or maybe even just thought were odd had been behaving suspiciously. Almost every scrap dealer in the area was reported as having a potential involvement.

Officers were sifting through the deluge of information, looking for the real leads in the barrage of anger. The Inspector thought the answer to solving the case would be in the information, but it would take time to follow it up and to carry out the necessary inquiries.

In the meantime, Dan waited. Lizzie had pronounced the story “pretty good”, praise indeed from her notoriously mealy mouth, but naturally she had immediately followed the words with a series of demands for
Wessex Tonight
. Another outside broadcast, another cut story, and preferably one that this time revealed the plaques had been found and the evil criminals apprehended. It would be best of all if a baying mob could be filmed outside the police station as the foul gang was brought in to face the vengeful might of richly deserved justice.

It was a shame, she added, that the fine old punishments of being hung, drawn and quartered, tarred and feathered, publicly stoned, or simply just hanged, were no longer considered acceptable.

She concluded by saying it was a good job she wasn't a judge, or the Home Secretary, to which Dan felt able to add his most heartfelt agreement.

It was coming up for two o'clock, the day still fine, but the sun now already making its way back down towards the horizon, adding an extra slice of chill to the air.

Dan sent Nigel and Loud back to the studios to get some lunch. For now, there was nothing else they could do. Inspector Getliffe had promised he would call as soon as there were any developments. There was no point trying to film anything else, or edit a new version of the story for later. They would have to see what the afternoon brought. So, for now, all they could do was wait.

Dan headed into town to get himself a sandwich and do some shopping. It was busy, just as he had expected, and he knew he still had no idea what to buy for Kerry. He sent her a text saying it would be lovely to meet at Christmas time, but deliberately avoided specifying when, then bought a pasty and a coffee from a takeaway shop and sat on a bench in the yellow sunshine, watching the hordes of shoppers charging by, and trying to think.

It wasn't easy. Dan noticed his mind kept slipping to Adam, and wondering how the detective would throw him off the Bray case. He hoped it wouldn't be an attempt at a public dressing down. His temper had never got the hang of such humiliations, tended to turn them into shouting matches. A quick phone call would be preferable, but so far he'd heard nothing. He wondered if all that would happen would be him turning up at Charles Cross tomorrow, having his pass taken away and being told dismissively to leave.

No doubt accompanied by gawping, grinning faces in each and every window.

Dan got upand started walking slowly past the shop windows, slipping through the human stampede and hoping for inspiration. He stopped at a lingerie shop, the dummies, judging from their expressions, delighted to be wearing a selection of red and black underwear. All that lace and frilly adornment looked itchy and hopelessly uncomfortable to him, but as there was such a mass of it, clearly it had to be ultra fashionable, irresistibly sexy, and all that a woman could ever possibly want.

Dan gazed at the windowand let his eyes run over the models. The prices were remarkably steep for garments made of so little material. The profit margins must be huge. It took him a few seconds to realise a couple of older women were watching him.

‘You're that guy off the telly,' one of them cackled.

‘Yes,' he said resignedly at the dreaded words.

‘Hoping to get lucky?' the other asked.

As he had apparently met the ageing female version of Morecambe and Wise, Dan thought he would respond in kind.

‘No, it's a present for my mum,' he replied.

When they didn't laugh he added a smile to emphasise the jolly jape. They grinned too, one exposing far more teeth than it should ever be possible to fit in a human mouth, but Dan noticed they had begun edging awkwardly away.

‘It's all a myth we like that stuff,' the toothy one said over her shoulder. ‘If I were you I'd get your mum something else.'

Dan walked on, along the high street. He did have a vague memory that gifts of lingerie might not be as welcome amongst women as men thought. He would buy Kerry something else, something more creative and guaranteed to be enjoyed. But despite another half hour's searching, inspiration continued to prove annoyingly elusive.

He was on the edge of abandoning the thankless questand starting to trudge back towards the Hoe, when another shop window display gave him an idea. Dan popped in, and after a few minutes chat with a very helpful sales assistant, the perfect present was duly purchased.

Loud was already back by the war memorial and engaged in a delightful operation to clean his grimy fingernails with a small screwdriver. He didn't even have the decency to stop when Dan climbed into the van.

A small posse of media surrounded the memorial, TV crews filming, photographers snapping, reporters waiting, hoping to catch a visiting relative for a comment. It was just as Dan had expected. The story was already running on the national news. A government minister had expressed shock, a philanthropist had pledged as much money as it took to either find the plaques, or have new ones forged.

The story was building momentum nicely.

Dirty El bounced up to the van and poured out some burbled appreciation. Dan had called him earlier to tip the photographer off about the story. His pictures had been bought by all the national papers, earning El a pretty pile. It had lifted his mood to a level sufficient to prompt one of the dreadful rhymes El tended to produce at times when he thought life was favouring him.

‘This crime it's a dreadful, scandalous horror,

To see the plaques, some chavs come borrow,

We've gotta help get ‘em back,

Let justice attack,

But meanwhile, El cashes in with a lorra …'

He waited for a couple of seconds, before adding the missing ‘loot!'

Even the notoriously insensitive Loud looked pained. ‘Yuk,' pronounced Dan, who could think of no better judgement.

El took a mock bow. ‘Christmas night out on me,' he babbled. ‘To mark my gratitude. And while we've got a mo and El's luck's running hot hot hot, any news on getting a snap of the pervy scoutmaster?'

‘No,' Dan replied quietly. ‘And I don't think I will have. I suspect my attachment to the police may be coming to an abrupt end.'

It was almost four o'clock. The sky was darkening fast. Time to get on with the edit. Dan made one final call to Inspector Getliffe. Officers were still out on a series of inquiries, some of which were looking promising, but so far there was no definite news about where the plaques might be and who could have taken them.

That meant tonight's story would look much the same as the lunchtime version. They'd have to put up a couple of lights, so the viewers could see what had happened to the memorial, but the outside broadcast van carried a generator for just such occasions so that wouldn't be a problem.