The TV Detective (24 page)

‘A break,' was the last thing Adam said, before he staggered off down the street. ‘We just need a break.'

And, as if fate had heard the plea, felt the benevolence of the season and decided to change her fickle favour towards the investigation into the murder of Edward Bray, tomorrow the break would finally come.

Chapter
Nineteen

T
HE CALL CAME IN
at seven minutes past nine. And as so often with luck, one piece of fortune gave rise to another. If it were not the case, the break could so easily have been missed.

The detective who answered the phone in the MIR had a whole and unprecedented ten days off for Christmas, starting from tomorrow, the eve of the big day itself, and a four-year-old son who was filled with infectious festive joy. She had slept well, there were no traffic jams on the way into Charles Cross, only that rarest of wonders, a smooth and easy commute, and DC Cathy Tingle had also just heard that she was soon to become a DS. Those sergeant's exams she had worked so hard for, despite the demands of her young son, she had passed, and passed well.

It was going to be a great Christmas. And that was before even came the call.

DC Tingle had only been in the MIR for ten minutes. She'd got in to Charles Cross well before nine, had time to forage a coffee from the canteen and share the news of her impending promotion with a couple of colleagues, before settling in the MIR to continue her work: more inquiries into the background of Edward Bray, just in case there might be a hidden motive for murder lurking there.

And then the phone rang.

The operator had taken a couple of minutes to discern what the man wanted before patching him through. He was nowhere approaching either coherent or eloquent.

And if DC Tingle had been a more impatient woman, and in less of a warm mood, she might not have teased out what it was the man had to tell.

He was speaking in a thick Devon burr, and his syntax made his sentences an oral version of a maze. He was also one of those people who know they have a point to make, but instead of getting to it continually circle around.

‘What I want to tell 'ee, well, I's sorry if I be bothering 'ee, but I sees the news yer see, so I knows about the murder, that killing thing of the bloke that no one liked, the guy who got killed, just up the road from 'ere it was …'

DC Tingle waited for a brief pause in the passing shower of words and prompted, ‘You mean the Edward Bray murder?'

‘That it be! That be it! That's the one, m'luvver.'

‘What do you want to tell us about it?'

‘Well, see, it be Christmas, and there ain't a lot going on, not on the farm, not at the moment like, so I don't like being idle, not me, me dad said that always made work for the Devil see, idle hands and all that, so I's thought I'd do some ditching like.'

‘Ditching?'

‘Aye, bit of ditching like.'

‘Digging a ditch?'

The burr took on a surprised tone. ‘Digging? No me lover, no digging, we's got plenty o' ditches. Hundreds of the buggers we's got. Clearing! Clearing 'em oot. Them gets blocked up see, specially in all this rain and mud like. Ain't yous never 'ad to clear a ditch?'

DC Tingle couldn't say she had. ‘So, what was it you wanted to tell us about the ditch?' she persisted.

‘Well, that's it see. I's was clearing me ditch from first thing, the one runs down bottom of long meadow, down by the road see, and that's when I saws it. I's found it, I did. I's didn't know what ter do at first, I's just looked, then I thought about it and remembered all that fuss with the police and on the telly and all that, so I thought I's best be calling yer like.'

DC Tingle waited for another rare gap in the rustic monologue, then prompted, ‘Saw what? Found what?'

There was a pause on the end of the line. The answer, when it came, was simple, but not helpful.

‘It. That's when I's found it.'

One more try, Cathy told herself, and then she would get on with some real work.

‘What did you find, sir?'

And then, amongst the great heap of ice shone the hidden diamond.

‘The gun. That's when I's found the shotgun.'

Dan had been sitting in the news library, attempting to avoid Lizzie, but well aware it was a hopeless task. It was like trying to dodge your destiny.

He'd arrived at work, plodded up the stairs to the newsroom and heard her berating the early producer for the lack of decent stories in the breakfast bulletins before he'd even reached halfway up the flight. He rapidly turned around again and made for the canteen. Dan just had time to get a coffee before the fast thud of stilettos warned of the prowling editor beast's imminent arrival, so he slipped out of the back doors and headed for the library.

It was only a temporary respite, but better than nothing. Sometimes it took a while to start the day, and the onslaught of Lizzie could set back progress by several hours.

Dan had already rung Adam, who hadn't been surprised to hear from him. ‘No, there are no developments yet,' the detective said patiently. ‘Yes, I will call the moment something happens. Yes, I know you need a story but I can't just create them, however much I might like to.'

So, he would face Lizzie without a sacrifice to offer. Still, at least he'd resolved one issue this morning. Another text had arrived from Kerry, asking again about plans for Christmas, and Dan had steeled himself and given her a call. He would love to see her, of course he would, but he had a lonely, vulnerable and sensitive friend who he'd promised to look after on the day itself and he couldn't break that pledge. How about they get together on Christmas Eve, to exchange presents and celebrate the season?

There had been disappointment in her voice, but she'd taken it well enough. Best not to tell her the lonely and sensitive friend was Dirty El, as vulnerable as a fortress and surely one of the most scurrilous and insensitive people to shame the planet.

El had called earlier too, not to ask about Christmas but instead whether there was any possibility of getting a snap of the scoutmaster. He was still being held in the cells at Charles Cross and the papers were howling for it.

Not yet, Dan said, but perhaps. While in the police station canteen yesterday, he'd overheard a conversation between a couple of officers which might give them a chance. It would require working a little trick and some waiting for the moment and opportunity, but should be possible.

The clock ticked round to a quarter past nine. Time for the newsroom morning meeting: the forum for ideas for tonight's programme. The facing of Lizzie could be postponed no more.

And then came the call.

The gun had been found in an overgrown ditch on the edge of a field by the road to Ermington. It was no more than a couple of miles from Gordon Clarke's office.

Dan thought he knew Adam well enough now to see what the detective was thinking. Clarke would have driven this way most days. If he was planning a killing, he would need somewhere to get rid of the shotgun. He wouldn't want to risk driving far with it in the boot of his car. The ditch was only a few miles from the lay-by, perhaps five or ten minutes drive at the most. And Clarke would know it was in a remote spot where no one was likely to walk, deep, very overgrown, and filled with water. If the gun were ever found at all, it would be likely to take a long time.

But they'd been lucky. They'd got their break. Courtesy of a bored farmer and his Christmas ditch clearing.

Dan had run into the newsroom, stopping the morning meeting in a second.

‘What?' Lizzie snapped, arms folded, lips thin and heel grinding the carpet; a true triple whammy, three danger signs at once. My, she was in a bad mood today.

‘Bray case, cops, they've found the shotgun that killed him.'

‘Can we film it?'

‘Yes,' Dan panted, without hesitation.

‘Interview the cops?'

‘Yes.'

‘Splash it on the lunchtime bulletin?'

‘Yes.'

‘As an exclusive?'

Now Dan paused. He hadn't asked Adam about any of this. But the climb down from the self-inflicted summit was far too vertiginous to contemplate.

‘Yes,' he heard himself say.

‘Go on then, get moving. What are you waiting for?'

Dan had grabbed Nigel and together they'd driven to find Adam standing at the edge of the field. The area had been cordoned off, a bored constable patrolling back and forth, more to keep warm than for any purpose of maintaining the security of the site. A couple of Scenes of Crime officers, all clad in their white overalls, were on their hands and knees, leaning into the ditch. The sky was grey with a fine and drifting rain and a wakening wind blew at a line of trees.

Nigel hooked the camera onto the tripod and started filming. Adam took off his overcoat to reveal a smart black suit, drew himself up to his full height and adjusted his tie to make sure it was impeccably straight. He looked on at the SOCOs in magnificent, studied silence, with the air of a vengeful Angel of Justice whose moment had finally come.

Such was the act, Dan was tempted to shout “cut” when they'd finished filming.

Nigel took a couple more shots of the area, to provide some context, then Dan sidled up and whispered to Adam, ‘What's the plan?'

‘Get the thing out and get it analysed. It'd normally take days, but with the less than subtle help of the High Honchos' clout it's going to be done straight away.'

‘And in terms of the media?'

‘By which you mean you?'

‘Yes.'

Adam pulled Dan away from the site. ‘Look,' he said, ‘We've got to be a little careful. I can't even say for sure it is the gun that killed Bray.'

‘I know that, but realistically? In a field this close to the murder scene? And so near to the office of the prime suspect?'

‘What do you want to do?'

‘Film the SOCOs doing their bit, then the gun when it's brought out and put in on the lunchtime news.'

‘I don't know. It may be a bit premature …'

‘It'll be great for public reassurance. It'll show you're making progress with the case. And I can put an appeal for witnesses into the story, in case someone saw the gun being dumped.' Dan paused, then added, ‘We'll have to interview you, of course. And once we've put it out – as a little exclusive, naturally – everyone else will pick it up and the story will be splashed everywhere. Along with your picture and quotes.'

Adam began nodding. ‘Well, if you put it like that then, I suppose it's OK.'

Dan thought it was one of the poorer shows of reluctance that he'd seen.

In many detective dramas Scenes of Crime Officers are lauded as modern-day miracle workers, blessed with a nigh supernatural ability to find the elusive piece of killer evidence that solves a case. That may well be true, Dan thought, but there is a drawback to SOCs that the writers don't feature. They work slowly and, like bus drivers, council workmen, or civil servants, they cannot be rushed.

Dan chafed. It was half past eleven, he was wet through, very cold, and still the shotgun hadn't been removed from the ditch. There were only two hours until the lunchtime news was on air, he'd already suffered half a dozen calls from Lizzie, demanding progress reports, and he still didn't have the golden shot, the one that told the story in a second.

It would be the headline which would run around the country, a white overalled officer carefully lifting the murder weapon from its watery hiding place.

Adam had explained the need for patience. The SOCOs had to work their way around the gun, to make sure they found any evidence that may have been left. And when it came to the weapon itself they had to proceed painstakingly slowly, so as not to lose any fibres, hairs or flecks of skin, that vital evidence which might give away the identity of the person who last handled it.

The person who, in all probability, murdered Edward Bray.

They were closing in on their killer.

But it was taking time.

The stoic Nigel stood beside his camera, hood pulled tight over his head, ready for the moment the gun would appear. El was beside him, camera tight to his eye. Dan had pointed out to Adam that for maximum coverage all the newspapers and websites would need a high quality photograph as soon as possible, and he had a simple way to ensure one was available.

Adam chewed briefly at his lip, then nodded his assent and Dan had duly summoned the paparazzo. The promised reward was a bottle of the finest malt whisky to help their Christmas Day pass jovially.

The bonus prize was the look on Adam's face as the chubby bumbling man with the bodywarmer and wild hair panted his way up to the scene, and launched one of his dreadful assaults on the world of verse.

“As a way to get the boot,

It's surely no great hoot,

Certainly not much fun,

Being shot with a gun,

But to El it means lots and lots of loot!”

No one could find any words to reply. Dan noticed that for the remainder of the time the photographer lurked around the scene Adam kept a watchful eye upon, and wary distance from, him.

It was probably a fifteen-minute drive back to the studios from here, maybe twenty, depending on the traffic. It would take at least half an hour to edit the report, perhaps a little more. So that meant, realistically, they had until half past twelve. Adam had been interviewed and said all the right things, although it had taken him a couple of efforts to get the words precise enough for his exacting standards.

All they needed now was the shot of the gun. And the two SOCOs were still on their hands and knees, bending over the ditch.

The weather was closing around them, a shroud of grey, the rain coming in harder, a gentle beat on the surrounding leaves. The odd car swished past, but the road was pleasantly quiet.

One of the white overalled figures stood up. Nigel and El both leaned forwards.

The man stretched his arms, rolled his neck, then knelt back down again. Dan swore, prompting a reproachful look from Nigel. The SOCOs resumed their work.

A distant clock rang noon. Dan checked his beautiful new watch, which he'd now given up trying to get other people to notice. Still no one had. It said ten to twelve.