The TV Detective (21 page)

The woman was a walking definition of austere.

‘I take it by your arrival here you're acting for Mr Clarke?' Adam asked.

‘You are as perceptive as ever, Chief Inspector. And I take it by the fact that you're investigating the case he will certainly have need of my services.'

Another silence. The pair stared at each other. The already chilly interview room felt like it was now playing host to the dawning of a new ice age. Only Gordon Clarke was enjoying the moment. He'd started smiling.

‘Mr Clarke asked me to come here as soon as I could,' Francis continued. ‘I was a little delayed by a small matter in court, for which I apologise – to my client, Chief Inspector, not to you, naturally. Now, if I may have a few minutes with Mr Clarke, as the law states I must unquestionably be allowed.'

She glanced towards the door, folded her arms and waited expectantly. Gordon Clarke's smile widened. Adam didn't say anything, just walked out of the room and closed the door heavily behind him. In the corridor, the sergeant started to apologise for letting her in, but Adam reassured the man he had little choice. The law was on her side, as she was well aware. Anyway, it was apparently renowned in police circles that arguing with Julia Francis was akin to attempting to stand in the way of a fully laden, runaway, articulated lorry, heading down a steep hill.

‘She's the local criminals' favourite solicitor,' Adam explained quietly as he stood with Dan in the corridor. ‘Very much in demand by the worst undesirables. Many a nasty crim she's got off on some wheedling technicality or dirty dodge. She's not exactly popular around here. I've had more than a few run-ins with her myself.'

‘Funnily enough,' Dan said, ‘I guessed that.'

They waited in the corridor. Adam made a quick call to Suzanneand listened to what she'd found out from questioning Hicks and Stead. The expression on the detective's face said her inquiries were faring no better. Ten minutes passed. A couple of police officers wandered by and said good morning to Adam, but he just nodded in return.

‘Francis being here is going to make life a whole lot more difficult,' he said. ‘I'm willing to bet she'll come out demanding Clarke be released immediately. If I so much as raise an objection, she'll be threatening court writs, complaints to the High Honchos and the local MP. I wouldn't be surprised one day to hear her threatening to petition the Prime Minister, the American President and the Pope.'

As if on cue, the interview room door opened. ‘Mr Clarke will see you now,' Francis said, managing to make it sound as if they were the lowest of door-to-door salesmen lurking seedily at the rear entrance of a manor house.

Adam walked back in, Dan following. Gordon Clarke was sitting at the table. If anything, his smile was broader even than before. The third division footballer had scored a hat trick.

‘This is how it goes, Chief Inspector,' Francis said. ‘Is my client under arrest?'

‘No.'

‘Do you intend to arrest him?'

‘I'm not sure yet.'

‘I'll take that as no then, knowing you as I do. What evidence do you believe you have against him?'

‘He hated Edward Bray.'

‘Along with hundreds of others. What specifically?'

‘He was heard discussing killing Mr Bray.'

‘As part of a game, which he now admits to be juvenile and ill-judged, but nonetheless, merely a game, just a fantasy, however distasteful. Do you have anything else you would wish to raise?'

It was a ruthless, quick-fire dissection of whatever case there may have been against Gordon Clarke, an assassination by machine gun.

Francis waited, but Adam didn't reply. ‘And, of course, my client has an alibi, has he not?' she said, with a tone of finality. ‘One which I can see by your face you have checked, and found impossible to undermine, despite no doubt expending your best efforts. So, Chief Inspector, unless you have anything else to put to Mr Clarke, he and I will be leaving now.'

Dan and Adam walked back up the stairs. ‘Bloody woman,' Adam grumbled. ‘I suspected the moment she walked in the game was up. We don't really have a thing on Clarke and she knows it.'

Suzanne was waiting in the MIR. She favoured Dan with a brief, frosty glare, then told Adam all she had learnt from Hicks and Stead.

Hicks had been seen first and happily admitted the game, even delighted in it. His version of the men's favoured methods to “Kill Edward Bray” tallied precisely with those given by Gordon Clarke.

‘He was even happy to add a few more,' Suzanne said. ‘He started going on about the relative merits of a public hanging, but I'd had enough by then and stopped him. Stead was more reticent and at least had the decency to look a little ashamed, but when I pushed him he admitted it all too.'

‘What's your view of that then?' Adam asked.

She shrugged. ‘It's certainly interesting they know each other. The connection is there that could point to a plot between them. We've seen it before often enough, people brought together by a shared purpose, which then turns into a conspiracy. But …'

‘But what?'

Suzanne considered for a moment. ‘Well, Clarke's not daft, nor is Hicks, and Stead may be a bit quiet, but he's not stupid either. So if one, or two, or all of them had killed Bray, I can't believe they'd meet up for a few beers only a week or so after. And certainly not somewhere as obvious as a pub, and particularly not one where they'd been talking about killing Bray before. They'd want to lie low, surely.'

Dan cleared his throat, was about to speak, then saw Suzanne's look and stopped.

‘No, go on,' the ever-observant Adam prompted. ‘What did you want to say?'

‘Well, just that it could work both ways, that argument, couldn't it? As you say, they're smart. If they were responsible for killing Bray, they could have come out like that, all meeting up for a nice drink, to double-bluff us. They'd probably guess the story of them knowing each other and the “Kill Edward Bray” game would emerge at some point. We'd conclude they'd never have done all that and then got together for a beer if they genuinely had been plotting to carry out the murder, and then actually gone and done it.'

Suzanne let out an unattractive snort. ‘That sounds so far-fetched as to be over the horizon and out of sight,' she said. ‘If you have to venture an opinion at all – only if you really have to, that is – maybe you could keep it a bit more plausible.'

‘I reckon it's possible,' Dan retorted, huffily.

‘So are lots of things. The sun not coming up in the morning. The High Honchos giving us unlimited resources for a case. Julia Francis applying to become a Special Constable. Me meeting a trustworthy journalist. But it doesn't mean they're very likely.'

‘Now look …'

Adam held up his hands. ‘OK, let's not fight amongst ourselves. We've got enough on as it is. For what it's worth, I'm still suspicious of Hicks, Stead and Clarke. Let's do some more work on them. Suzanne, I know it's a big job, but get the team going through the CCTV of Plymouth and Bristol train stations for last Monday, to see if we can spot Clarke and pin down the timings. Let's see if Hicks and Stead had access to a car which might have got them from the river to the lay-by in time to be waiting to kill Bray. Work with traffic and use the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system. See if that throws up any suspicious movements of any of our potential killers.'

She nodded, walked to the end of the MIR and picked up a phone. Adam stood, staring out of the window.

‘Right,' he said, when he turned around. ‘Time's against us. I got a call from the Deputy Chief Constable this morning. For reasons of finance and public relations, but most importantly the force's crime statistics and the compiling of the annual report, he made it very plain he wanted this case cleared up by Christmas. It's a high profile one, and I think he can see a glossy page dedicated to it and how very efficiently we cracked it. That only gives us another couple of days. So let's get solving some mysteries. First, let's find out what happened between Arthur Bray and his son to lead to this so-called “divorce”, and whether it could have any bearing on Edward's murder.'

Adam pausedand gave Dan a thoughtful look, then added, ‘And because I think Arthur Bray could well react better to you than me, it might just be time for you to carry out your first investigative interview.'

Chapter
Eighteen

T
HEY CAUGHT UP WITH
Arthur Bray on the golf course, the seventh hole in fact. As they were walking out to the green, Dan mused how this must be one of the odder venues for an interview in a criminal investigation.

‘Not really,' Adam replied. ‘I've known much stranger. I've caught a killer on a rowing boat in the mouth of an estuary, and even one on a waltzer at a funfair.'

Dan's imagination fired and he asked for details, but Adam wouldn't be distracted. The detective had an air of resolution about him this morning. He was striding fast and purposefully and more than once had ventured the forceful opinion that it was about time this case was cracked. They had their suspects, now it was just a case of pushing and probing until the killer gave himself away, or they found the vital piece of evidence which would expose him.

It was coming up to noon. Dan found his mind wandering to the mysterious Claire, the dark haired detective he'd seen briefly in the MIR. He chided himself and instead forced his thoughts to Kerry, and when they would get together to exchange presents. She'd already dropped a couple of hints about how she was spending Christmas Day at her mum's, on the eastern outskirts of Plymouth, and there was plenty of spare food and drink for guests. If he went, it would be the first Christmas he hadn't been largely alone for longer than he could remember, but …

But, why was there was always a but in life? Spending a day like Christmas together reeked of commitment, and Dan was by no means sure he was ready for that.

The sky was a uniform grey, but the day was dry, if not warm. That wasn't a problem, as the speed Adam was walking was quite sufficient to keep any chill at bay. It was like a route march. The golf course was busy, pockets of people in their brightly coloured jumpers clustering together to inflict injury on the small, white balls, or to discuss the merits of various shots. The still air was punctured with the odd zing of a stroke and the thud of a ball hitting a fairway, or just as commonly, crash-landing in the undergrowth.

It was mercifully quiet on the news front, and Dan suspected he would be free to work on the investigation today. He'd called Nigel earlier to see what was going on and had been reminded it was the day of
Wessex Tonight
's Christmas Special. That meant choirs of children, carols, and minimal news. The cameraman was currently trying to corral a pack of six-year-olds into a passable rendition of Hark the Herald Angels Sing. From the discordant noise in the background, it sounded quite a challenge.

So long as no big stories broke, Dan should be safe from the tyranny of Lizzie. He decided not to call in. It could be asking for trouble. She would ring if he were required. As with sleeping dogs, it was by far the best policy to let manic editors lie.

Adam had asked what Dan thought of Gordon Clarke, and his reaction to the questioning of earlier.

‘It was odd. He was definitely nervous at first. I was sure he had something to hide, something he was clearly worried about being found out. But when you raised the “Kill Edward Bray” game he seemed to relax.'

‘What do you make of that?'

‘I suppose that he's up to something, but it might not be connected to Bray's death. Maybe it's a business thing, perhaps a fraud, something like that.'

Adam nodded thoughtfully, but didn't reply.

The golf course was on the edge of Dartmoor, only a few miles from Arthur Bray's house. They had knocked earlier, found no one at home, and Adam had then called at all the houses around until they found a lead on where their victim may be. As Bray had no mobile phone, this visit would be a surprise.

At the club house, a wizened middle-aged man, who introduced himself as one of the board and who smelt of whisky, despite the early hour, confirmed Arthur Bray's presence. He estimated his party would be at the sixth or seventh hole. They'd checked the sixth, just missed him, and were now heading towards a familiar stocky figure.

Am I still taking the lead in this one?' Dan asked, trying not to sound nervous.

‘So long as you don't make a mess of it.'

‘Thanks for making me feel so relaxed.'

‘My pleasure.'

‘What do I ask him?'

‘I'll do the preliminaries, there are a couple of little things I want to check. Then you can come in. It's not so much a fact interview as a feely one. We know what he was doing when his son was killed – or claims to have been doing – and all that stuff. I want to know more about his character, and particularly what was the reason for his so-called divorce with Edward. Use that charm of yours and get him talking. He'll feel less threatened by you than me.'

A couple of rabbits were nibbling at the grass at the edge of the fairway and stopped to watch them walk by. There was even a hedgehog too, scurrying busily for a clump of undergrowth, perhaps awoken by the mildness of the recent weather. They crossed a small, timber bridge over a shallow stream and picked their way through a patch of gorse. Dan spotted a gleam of white in the thicket, bent down and picked up a ball.

‘It's a sign,' he said. ‘That it's my lucky day, and that today we'll crack the Bray case.'

‘It'll take more than a lost and found golf ball to make me believe that,' came the deflating reply.

They reached the green. Arthur Bray was bent over a putter, taking a couple of practice swings. Dan stopped, but Adam walked on, his footfall thudding on the firm turf. Bray ignored him and took the shot. The ball missed the hole by a good three feet.

He looked up irritably. ‘Thanks. I was on for a birdie there.'

‘I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr Bray,' said the detective, who sounded anything but. ‘However I'm afraid we need to have another chat.'

‘Can't it wait until I've finished my round?'

Adam's look was reply enough. Bray sighed and walked over to his partner, a slightly younger man, who nodded and began rummaging in his golf bag, eventually producing a shooting stick and a silver hip flask from which he had a good sip. Bray took one too, then returned to where Adam was standing.

‘How can I help you this time?' he asked patiently.

Adam explained that inquiries were still ongoing and he needed to check on a couple of points. He asked Bray if he knew anyone else on the list of suspects. He'd met Eleanor Paget once or twice he thought, and even spoken to her on a couple of occasions, although only passing good mornings and comments about the weather.

Dan nodded to himself. His theory was holding together and his plan about how to approach the man was looking sound. Bray also knew Penelope Ramsden by sight, although he hadn't really spoken to her.

‘I was well out of the business by the time she was there,' he said. ‘As you know.'

He leaned on his cluband waited for the next question. Dan felt Adam tap at his foot.

‘Thanks for that, err – Arthur,' he began, taking his cue. ‘So, how's the golf going?'

‘The golf?'

‘Err – yes.'

‘It was going well.'

Of the approximately two seconds duration of the sentence, the word “was” took up about a second and a half.

Manfully, Dan tried again.

‘Right. And how are you – err – coping?'

‘With the golf course?'

‘No, with the – well, you know …'

‘The death of my son?'

‘Yes.'

‘Fine, thank you. Just as I'd already told you.'

Dan suffered another tap on his shoe from the impatient detective.

‘And – err – any plans for Christmas?'

‘Yes. Some peace and quiet.'

If he was being honest, Dan thought, his first interview in an investigation wasn't going terribly well. His attempts to prepare the ground for a smooth conversation had resulted in the terrain remaining entirely overgrown, pitted with pot holes, and perhaps even sown with the odd land mine for good measure.

‘Now, if you've finished inquiring about my welfare, may I get on with my round?' Bray asked.

‘There is only one other thing I think we need to know.'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, it's …'

‘Yes?'

Adam was nodding a less than gentle encouragement, Bray just standing, waiting. Dan took a breath. Some subjects resisted skirting. Some atmospheres couldn't be eased. Sometimes a dive into the dark waters was the only way.

He hesitated, then said, ‘We really need to get to the bottom of why you and Edward – well, had that falling out.'

Bray folded his arms. ‘It was a little more than a falling out, as I believe I made very clear.'

‘Well, yes, but …'

‘And as I've said, it's very personal and I don't think it's relevant to your inquiries.'

‘I appreciate that, but it can be odd how little things turn out to be important …'

‘I don't think this is.'

The old man's voice was firm and his face was set. Dan glanced to Adam, but no help was forthcoming. It felt like another challenge, but perhaps more important than any that had gone before.

His mettle was being well tested.

‘Now, was there anything else?' Bray asked. ‘Or may I finally get on with my round?'

From a distant tree across the fairway, a crow cackled. A breath of wind tickled some of the gorse and teased at the man's thinning white hair. He began to turn, as if to walk away.

‘She died in the hospice, didn't she?' Dan said quickly.

Bray stopped. ‘What?'

‘That's how you know Eleanor Paget. Your wife, Edward's mother, she died in the hospice.'

‘I … I don't see what that has to do with any of this.'

For the first time, his voice was less certain. Bray fumbled in his pocket, took out a packet of cigars and some matches. He was about to light up when he stopped, stared at the cigar and slowly placed it back in the packet.

It was that look. There was something in the look.

‘I don't really want to go back over what happened with Elizabeth, if you don't mind,' Bray said, but his voice was thin, lacking in any strength, almost a mumble. ‘I'd just … I'd like to be getting on with my round now.'

‘It was cancer, wasn't it?' Dan asked.

‘What?'

‘Cancer killed your wife. I'd say – lung cancer, in fact.'

‘What? How did you …'

‘But she didn't smoke, did she?'

‘How did you …'

‘She didn't smoke, and you did. And she contracted lung cancer. And Edward blamed you for it.'

The defiance was gone, banished in an instant of truth. Arthur Bray closed his eyes and hung his head.

It wasn't quite as simple as Dan had suspected, but then– as he said to Adam later, trying not to sound smug but mostly failing – life very rarely was.

Arthur Bray stood, head bowed for a good couple of minutes. Finally he looked up, stared out across the golf course, to the distant grey tors of Dartmoor and said quietly, ‘I still don't think it's relevant to the investigation, but if you insist, and you will then give me peace, I will tell you.'

And so he did.

Elizabeth Bray had indeed died of lung cancer in St Jude's Hospice. She had lived with Arthur for more than thirty years, during which time he had always been a smoker. Such are the sufferances of love. Yet with one of those quirks which fate so enjoys, Arthur had suffered no ill-effects, but she had contracted the disease.

The doctors' opinion was that, of course, they could not say that Arthur's smoking caused the cancer, but equally they couldn't say it hadn't.

Edward Bray was devoted to his mother. In a childhood where his dad was often away, or working long hours, she was the focus of his emotionsas he grew up. The news that her illness was terminal sent him into a spin of remorse and rage. And, as people often do at times of great strain in their lives, he looked for someone upon whom to vent his anger.

That person was his father.

‘It wasn't all due to Elizabeth's death,' Bray explained. ‘That wouldn't be fair. Edward and I had been getting along badly for quite a while. He was taking over the business, but running it in a very different way to me. He was far harder. I prided myself on looking after my tenants. I used to give them much more of a chance if they were having problems paying their rent. But he was ruthless. He would evict them more or less straight away. I thought he was heartless, he thought I was a sentimental old fool whose time had passed. Perhaps it was a generational thing, but we never saw eye to eye.'

The relationship may not have been good, but it had at least continued. That was, until Mrs Bray's diagnosis.

‘He was at the hospice with her nearly all the time,' Arthur said. ‘For her sake, we tried to keep the disagreements between us a secret, but it was by no means easy. I fear she must have sensed it. And when she died, that was when it all ended with my son too. He rounded on me with a dreadful fury, we rowed and eventually we agreed we would have nothing more to do with each other. That was the divorce thing I told you about.'

If Dan had been carrying out this interview as a reporter, he would have gone on to ask the dreaded, “How did you feel?” question. But Arthur Bray's posture, bowed over and leaning hard on his golf club, and the haunted look on his face, answered that more powerfully than words ever could. The man was of a generation brought up to restrain their feelings, but some emotions can escape even a lifetime of conditioning.

‘It wasn't just me he took it out on,' Bray continued. ‘It was the world. He was really tough on his staff, and his business associates. And as for his tenants … well, I hardly need tell you about that. You've seen all the stories about the people he evicted. Perhaps persecuted might even have been a better word. He became a very bitter man.'

He had taken another long sip from the flask offered by his friend, and asked if that was all they needed to know. Adam had nodded, Dan said yes, and Arthur Bray had slowly walked off across the green and on towards the next hole.