The TV Detective (20 page)

Even Dan, a pessimist by birth, a cynic by experience and a sceptic by training, found a lump forming in his throat at the story. It must be the beer, he thought.

All continued as if scripted by a poet. Annie went back to work, but shifted her role, took a job as a research nurse to make her hours more predictable and suited to the demands of a young family. Adam was promoted to become a Detective Sergeant.

And now the first whispers of trouble rose.

‘You know how it is with a career,' he said. ‘When you're on the upwards path and keen and ambitious you stay all hours. I was starting to get involved in my first big cases and they don't run on a nine to five basis. I was away from home a lot, but Annie was understanding – mostly.'

As a sergeant, Adam had just about balanced the needs of his work and family. As an Inspector, he'd “got away with it” as he put it. But when the next promotion came, and he was leading the biggest inquiries, the cracks in the relationship turned to fracture.

‘We started arguing a lot,' Adam said. ‘I suppose it was fair enough. Looking back, I was hardly at home, but you don't see it at the time, do you? I kept missing important dates. Not like birthdays or our anniversary, I always managed to make time for those, but things like parents' evenings and football matches Tom was playing in. I kept promising I'd make more time, but you know what it's like. It's always tomorrow. And then it doesn't happen.'

The clock on the wall said it was well after ten. The night was moving on quickly.

Adam paused and took another long drink of his beer.

‘Then came the crunch,' he said slowly. ‘Annie's patience snapped after I missed a – well, this is going to sound ridiculous. You'll think it's something like Tom's school play, or a prize giving ceremony, but it was much more stupid than that.'

He hesitatedand rubbed at his forehead. ‘Tom had to go to the dentist for some fillings. I know no one likes the dentist, but Tom absolutely detests it. He's scared stiff, gets all worked up for days beforehand. It goes back to when he was five or six and fell over in the street. He bashed out a couple of teeth and had to have some emergency work done. It was really painful and he's never forgotten it. Anyway, so he's got this appointment, and he's pretty frantic about it. I promised I'd go with him, but we had an armed robbery which I got called out to. Annie had to go instead, despite her having an important meeting that day. And that was it. I came home to a quiet house. It was much worse than the tears and shouting I expected. Annie just said she thought it was time I moved out for a while.'

Adam tipped back the remains of his pintand added quietly, ‘I didn't believe her. But she was absolutely insistent. And then we had a row, and it was …' His voice tailed off. ‘Anyway, it was more than apparent she wanted me to go. So I did.'

Adam was living in a flat off Mutley Plain. It was small, cold, noisy and unpleasant, and less than half a mile from the comfort of his family home, the short distance a constant reminder.

‘And this is what's really been rankling me,' Adam said. ‘I was looking forwards to Christmas. I assumed I'd be spending most of it at home, even if it was only for Tom's sake. But Annie's saying she's not sure how much time we should spend together. Whether it might be better for Tom not to get used to having me around again. And that's why …'

Adam swallowed hard. ‘That's why I've been a bit up and down lately,' he said, with a masterstroke of understatement. ‘I'm not normally like this. I think I've been taking it out on you, which I shouldn't have. Maybe it's why I flew at you this morning. Because you looked so contented, and I could see it was down to a woman. So– sorry for all that.'

He raised his empty glass, and Dan clinked it. The detective's eyes were shining in the dim light of the pub.

‘I'll get us another beer,' he said, and quickly got up and headed for the bar. It was Dan's round, but he thought it best not to mention that. Sometimes a man needed an escape route.

They had another beer, then hailed a cab. As it stopped on Mutley Plain, Adam held out a hand and Dan shook it.

‘You know what,' the detective said, his voice a little hazy. ‘It's actually rather pleasant having you around. You bring a different perspective and that's refreshing. You have this knack of making people talk to you too, and that's more than useful in this job. Getliffe said so earlier, when I had a chat with him. You put people at ease and make them open up.' He noddedand added, ‘Hell, I can hardly believe it, but you even managed it with me. Night.'

Adam was away, walking fast but a little unsteadily along the road. Dan got back to the flat, collected Rutherford from downstairs and took him out for a quick walk, partly to apologise for neglecting his friend and partly to clear his head.

When he got back, there was an answer machine message on his phone. It was from Adam.

“Thanks for a good night. I feel better for it. Don't bother calling me back, I'm going to get some sleep, but can you come to the MIR for nine tomorrow morning please? It looks like it might be an interesting day. I've been up to a little trick I hadn't told you about and I've just got word of a possible breakthrough in the case. It's about time we got to use the interview room.”

Chapter
Seventeen

T
HE TITLE
“I
NTERVIEW
R
OOM
”might perhaps sound passably pleasant, but the reality was an anachronism which wouldn't have looked out of place in a 1950s east European state.

It was below street level, the only natural light coming from a tiny rectangle of a window at the far end. And even then, the brave few beams had to be both keen and determined to make it inside. The window was covered with thick metal bars and grimy, opaque glass. The room was bare-bricked, adorned only with a thin and unwelcoming whitewash and small and cold. In the coming years Dan would discover that the temperature was remarkably consistent, no matter what was the weather outside, be it snowstorm or heatwave.

As for interview, it was more usually an interrogation which took place here.

It was Dan's first visit to the room, but Adam greeted it like an old friend, patting a fond hand on the grey metal door, and saying, ‘Many a case I've cracked in here.'

And that was clearly well known in the station. As they walked into the custody block, the sergeant behind the desk grinned and said, ‘Your usual, Mr Breen? I've reserved it specially for you.'

Interview Room number two, the smallest of the pair, the coldest, and by far the most oppressive.

‘And that,' Adam said contentedly, ‘equals the most likely to make your suspect feel like talking, so they can escape ASAP. It's exactly how an interview room should be. None of these soft furnishings and pastel colours of your modern politically correct nonsense.'

The furniture, if as such it could be so described, consisted of a table and three chairs. The table was so basic it would have pleased a puritan. A wooden board held up by metal legs might be a better description. On the side nearest the door were two plastic chairs, opposite them another. Adam seated himself in one, Dan tried the other, but then got up again and went to stand by the door.

‘I've seen those TV shows too,' Adam said, over his shoulder. ‘The ones where the nasty cop stands and the nice one sits. They're not really true to life, but if you want to stand over there, go ahead. Now, give me a moment so I can work out how to come at this interview.'

Dan leaned back against the wall. Its coolness was welcome. He was feeling warm, despite the temperature of the room, but whether it was the legacy of this morning's run with Rutherford, or the anticipation of what was to come, he wasn't sure.

He'd woken early, taken the dog for a few laps of Hartley Park, then driven down to the police station. Adam had been waiting, and instead of ascending the stairs to the MIR as Dan had expected they headed down, to the custody suite. As they walked, the detective explained about the potential breakthrough.

He'd had all the suspects put under surveillance.

‘You didn't tell me,' Dan objected sulkily.

‘I didn't trust you then,' came the straightforward response. ‘But I'm telling you now.'

Surveillance is expensive and intensive in terms of staff, Adam said, but sometimes, often in fact, there was no choice. He'd grown frustrated with making indiscernible headway, Greater Wessex Police's most senior officers, the High Honchos as they were known, were agitating for progress, so they'd authorised a couple of nights of observations.

The first revealed nothing of any interest. The second, last night, had looked to be going the same way.

Arthur Bray was at home and watching the television. He'd walked around the house a couple of times and stopped to look at his shotguns, even run a hand over one, but whether or not the gesture might be interpreted as suspicious the watchers couldn't say. It could just be a man who was proud of his collection of guns.

Adam clicked his tongue as he related that part of the story, but it wasn't apparent whether he thought the information was important.

Penelope Ramsden was also at home, and painting, not in the DIY sense, but on a canvas. Inquires had discovered she was an amateur artist of some renown, particularly in demand for portraits. The officers watching her house couldn't tell for certain, but they thought her current project was a large picture of the late Edward Bray.

‘And of that too, I'm not quite sure what to make,' Adam observed. ‘It reinforces her story that she loved him, but also helps the theory that if he had spurned her she could easily have killed him out of jealousy.'

Eleanor Paget was working late at the hospice. At one stage she went for a walk around the grounds and seemed to be talking to herself, occasionally in an agitated manner, but the surveillance team couldn't get close enough to hear her words.

Regarding that nugget of observation, Adam had let out a sigh and said, ‘It could be a tormented soul, lamenting the murder she'd committed, of course. But equally it might just be her practicing some speech to a group of fundraisers.'

Andrew Hicks had been at home, as had Jon Stead. Both were doing nothing more suspicious than watching the television. The night looked doomed to be another for the sizeable scrapyard of good ideas.

But then came the change. Hicks left the house, called for Stead and they went together to the local pub.

And as for Gordon Clarke, he too had been at home, that was until a taxi arrived to pick him up. It took him to the Red Lion, the same pub in which Hicks and Stead were sitting. And when Clarke arrived, they all shook hands and embraced warmly.

The three men clearly knew each other well.

And yet, said Adam, even that wasn't the most interesting part. The men had been kept under surveillance, but hadn't said or done anything which might be of interest to the police. They'd just sat, chatted, and drunk beer.

Then though, when they had left, the two watching detectives made some inquiries in the pub. With some heavy leaning on the reluctant landlord, they found that Hicks, Stead and Clarke were regulars there. And on several occasions in the past few months they had been overheard all talking together about ways to kill Edward Bray.

Gordon Clarke had been called first thing that morning and invited to the police station for a chat.

‘Suzanne put it in exactly those terms,' Adam explained. ‘She didn't say why, of course. He was suspicious, naturally, but she said it was just routine. Then he asked what would happen if he didn't come. She was happy to reassure him that would mean a couple of detectives having to come to his office and arrest him, then bring him in. So, he said he'll be here in a minute.'

It hadn't taken Dan long to learn there was much psychology to detective work. Adam wanted Clarke here to play the next stage of the investigation game on his territory, in this cold and intimidating room. The man would be off balance, wouldn't know what to expect, would probably think that if the police had strong evidence against him then he would already have been arrested.

Suzanne would see Hicks and Stead at the same time that Clarke was in the police station. But it was his which was the most important interview. If the three had plotted together to murder Edward Bray, then the resourceful and motivated Clarke was probably the ringleader. So, it was the decapitation strategy. Take him out first, and if he could be cracked, all else would follow.

‘If you could keep quiet on this one, I'd be grateful,' Adam said airily. ‘It might well be a vital interview. Depending on what I hear, I could even arrest him on suspicion of murder so I can hold him while inquiries continue. Just keep quiet and watch, if you'd be so kind.'

Dan breathed out hard. It was better drama than those police TV serials he'd begun watching, the very ones where he had indeed got the idea he should stand by the door during an interrogation, just like the hero always did.

It was Tuesday morning, just three days before Christmas. Perhaps it would be the day the Edward Bray murder case was solved.

* * *

Clarke was brought in to the interview room by the custody sergeant. He was led to the chair and asked to sit down. His hair had been cut and newly highlighted, but he wore the same shiny suit as before.

Adam didn't look up. He was scribbling some notes on a piece of paper. Clarke stared at him, then leaned forwards on his chair. He coughed pointedly, but Adam kept writing.

Clarke sat back, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them again and cleared his throat.

Still no reaction from Adam.

‘Nice place you have here,' the businessman said.

‘Thanks,' Adam replied, but still didn't look up from his notes.

Clarke shifted awkwardly on his seatand looked around the room.

‘It's cold in here,' he observed, pulling his jacket tighter around his body.

Adam didn't reply.

Now Gordon Clarke began itching at his cheek. ‘Look, what is all this about?' he said finally.

Adam glanced up. ‘I think you know,' he said quietly.

‘I can assure you I don't.'

‘I think you do.'

There was a silence. Outside, in the muffled distance, a lorry rumbled past.

‘It's about Edward Bray,' Adam said. ‘The murder of Edward Bray.'

Clarke's face was shining with a gathering sweat now, despite the chill of the room.

‘And what's that got to do with me?'

Adam didn't reply, just looked the man in the eyes.

Clarke broke off the stareand shifted again on his chair. ‘Look, what is going on?'

His voice sounded thin, tense. He picked again at his cheek.

‘What the hell is going on?' he barked.

‘Edward Bray. The murder of Edward Bray,' Adam repeated. ‘Killing Edward Bray …' he paused, and then added, ‘just as you were heard discussing in the Red Lion – on several occasions – prior to the murder.'

Clarke squinted at Adam, then closed his eyes briefly. When he spoke, he sounded strangely relieved. ‘Oh, that.'

‘Yes – that.'

‘I can explain.'

‘I've heard that before,' came the menacing reply. ‘But I hope, for your sake, you can.'

The businessman sat up in his chair. Dan took a subtle step forwards and studied him. He was sure Clarke looked more relaxed now.

‘Some of the local gossips been talking to you about our game, have they?' he said.

‘Go on.'

‘It's hardly a secret.'

‘Go on.'

‘In fact, it's our favourite drinking pastime. Fantasising about how to kill Bray.'

Gordon Clarke told his story easily, and without even a hint of embarrassment.

He had first met Hicks and Stead at the county court, on one of the days given over to Edward Bray's litigation against his tenants. They sat waiting for their cases to be called, chatted, found common ground in their hatred of Bray, swapped mobile numbers and became friends. They often went out for a few beers together, and on one of those drunken nights a bizarre new entertainment was born.

The Kill Edward Bray game.

The rules were a little hazy, but the point seemed to be to murder the man in the most painful and entertaining manner possible – but all entirely in the imagination, Clarke insisted. His own personal best solution, as it were, was to run over him with a steamroller. The vehicle would be moving very slowly, inch by inch in fact, and, to prolong the agony, starting at Bray's feet, naturally.

Adam shook his head, but kept listening.

Hicks' favourite idea had a historical theme. He wanted to re-enact a gladiatorial contest, to see how Bray would fare against a pride of hungry lions. Clarke said he pointed out that this might be over a little too quickly to make a winning suggestion, but Hicks was confident Bray would give a good account of himself. Nonetheless, however long it took, he thought it would provide a wonderful spectacle.

Stead, as befitted the quietest of the trio, had to be pushed to an idea, but eventually said he would be happy to see Bray publicly stoned to death. The other two thought the concept unimaginative, but had to concede it had the advantage of allowing all Bray's many enemies the opportunity of casting a gleeful rock or two.

Whatever, for each method of punishment, the public would be invited along, to witness the humiliation and dispatch.

‘And which of your lovely imaginings actually won the game?' Adam asked, in a voice that was a hammer of sarcasm.

‘I'm not sure any did,' Clarke replied easily. ‘I don't think that was the point. We were all a bit the worse for drink and just enjoying ourselves.'

He was definitely more relaxed now, sitting back on the chair, his legs crossed.

‘It's all bloody ridiculous this, isn't it?' Adam snapped. ‘Not to mention gross. Grown men, fantasising about how to murder someone.'

Clarke shrugged. ‘You didn't know Edward Bray. You didn't suffer at his hands.'

‘Did you kill Edward Bray?'

‘No. I didn't. I freely admit to thinking about it, even talking about it, but it was all just a game. I didn't murder him. As I've told you, and as you've no doubt checked and found out, I was in Bristol when he was killed.'

Adam tapped a hand on the table. ‘Well, I have to say, this all gives me sufficient grounds to hold you here pending further inquiries,' he said.

There was a knock at the door. The custody sergeant opened it and began to speak but was pushed aside by a sizeable and severe-looking woman.

‘Just what the hell is going on here?' she barked at Adam.

There was a second's silence. The strip light in the ceiling buzzed loud.

Adam said heavily, ‘Ah, Ms Francis. I should have known.'

‘Chief Inspector Breen,' came the icy reply. ‘It really is me who should have known.'

It was apparent the two knew each other well, but even more obvious was the mutual dislike. It had turned the still air sour. She had short blonde hair, greying over her ears, and pale, watery blue eyes which rarely blinked. Her features were sharp and severe and her face prematurely lined. But what distinguished her most was her complete lack of adornments. She wore no jewellery, no make-up, and her suit was black and plain, her shirt a strict and simple white.