The TV Detective (25 page)

‘What time do you make it?' he asked Nigel and El. Both had modern digital watches, plastic and cheap, but the kind that boast an accuracy of within a second a year. Both said noon.

Dan gave his flashy and expensive chronometer a thoughtful stare.

A couple of crows landed in the fieldand pecked at the furrows of mud. It looked a halfhearted gesture. Even the moods of nature can be shaped by the might of the weather.

The SOCO was standing up again, but this time slowly. And now he was bending over, reaching out. From down in the ditch his colleague's hand rose, and it was gripping a plastic bag. Slowly, very carefully, almost reverentially, the man took it, held it for a few seconds, as if to be absolutely sure it was real, then turned and walked directly towards the cameras.

Just as Adam had asked him to.

The picture was pure drama.

With each step the SOCO took, the contents of the clear plastic bag became ever more apparent.

It was dripping with water, wrapped with tendrils of weed and plant, coated with patches of dark and slimy mud and the odd long-dead and decomposing leaf.

But it was unmistakably a double-barrelled shotgun.

The report was a pleasure to write. It had natural suspense, and was just a case of letting the pictures tell the story, but adding a few words of embroidery to make clear what was going on.

First, a little build-up to heighten the tension.

‘The police were called to the corner of a field, near to the lay-by where Edward Bray was murdered, after a tip-off,' Dan wrote, while Jenny lay down pictures of the SOCOs working at the ditch.

‘Specialist Scenes of Crime officers carried out an extensive and careful search. Their objective – to preserve any evidence that may have been left here by the killer. For several hours, they worked through the ditch.'

Jenny added the shot of Adam looking on, the concentration intent in his eyes.

Now it was time to deliver the punchline.

‘Then, just after noon on the day before Christmas Eve, and ten days since the murder – the police hunting for the killer of Edward Bray had their breakthrough.'

And now Dan again used that most powerful of weapons in a TV reporter's armoury– silence. Jenny laid down the picture of the SOCOs fiddling around, and then walking towards the camera with the gun.

Some sights needed no explanation.

Next it was a clip of Adam, being upbeat and positive, but still lacing his words with a warning.

‘This is certainly a very significant development and could well be our breakthrough. It might just give us the vital clue that leads us to whoever carried out the murder. But first, we've got lots of forensics work to do, to see what the gun can tell us.'

To end the story, Dan did a piece to camera. He asked anyone who may have seen anything suspicious in the area where the gun was found on the evening that Bray was killed to get in touch with the police. It was a long shot, but worth a try. The report might just prompt a dusty memory.

The story was the lead on the lunchtime news, tagged as an exclusive.
Another
exclusive, Dan was tempted to add, as Lizzie was sitting within earshot. When the bulletin had finished, she pronounced the scoop “pretty reasonable”, but set off for the canteen wearing a rare smile. When she'd left the newsroom, a couple of other journalists voiced their relief and even thanked Dan for making their lives more comfortable by taming the ogre with the rich fare of an exclusive. Lizzie had been in a venomous mood all morning.

Adam rang just after the broadcast. The police had been deluged with calls from other journalists, checking the details of the story. It would soon be running everywhere. The labs were working on the shotgun now and promised to have some preliminary results by later this afternoon.

It is part of a scientist's training to be loath to draw any conclusions until an experiment had been performed and re-performed and re-re-performed to the extremes of repetition. But in this case, the technicians were already confident the gun had been found in time to give the police some highly significant clues as to who had killed Edward Bray.

Chapter
Twenty

T
HE ARREST WAS PRECISELY
timed.

Dan sat in the back of the CID car, behind Adam and Suzanne and kept quiet. It wasn't easy. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, and he wasn't even sure he should be here.

‘This feels – I don't know, a bit odd,' he'd said to Adam as they were about to leave Charles Cross.

‘In what way?'

‘Well, this is the real thing, isn't it? This is about as serious as it gets. An arrest on suspicion of murder. The first one in the case. And I'm only a hack, and …'

‘You wanted to know about police work,' the detective interrupted. ‘This is it, the real thing, as you so eloquently put it. You're part of the investigation, so you can see it through. We're almost there now.'

And Dan, despite himself, couldn't help shivering.

Adam had called just after four o'clock. The results from the labs were through. And they were damning. He explained what the scientists had found, and what it meant.

In around an hour's time, the police would be making an arrest. This was not for filming, or broadcast, Adam made that very clear, but if Dan wanted to come along …

Dan gulped hard and managed to find the breath to say yes.

He went to find Lizzieand tried to be as nonchalant as possible, but those laser eyes had a penetrating power. There were, he lied, no developments in the story yet, so he hoped a similar version of the lunchtime report would suffice for tonight. If that were the case, he'd like to go to meet some of the detectives just to check nothing else was happening.

Dan laced his request with vague hopes of finding a follow up story for tomorrow, another exclusive, naturally. Lizzie's mood had remained favourable, so the regal permission was loftily granted.

Dan left hastily, before she could start asking questions.

He had to concentrate hard on the drive down to the police station. The case was spinning in his mind. What the scientists had found, even if it wasn't conclusive, pointed clearly to the guilt of one particular suspect. But how could that be, given the person's alibi?

A pedestrian crossing turned red and he had to stamp on the brakes to stop the car, such was his preoccupation. Dan swore to himself and forced his mind back on to the drive.

All would soon become clear.

At Charles Cross, he'd found Adam in a buoyant mood. ‘It looks like the High Honchos might get their wish and see the case cleared up by tomorrow,' he said. ‘Then we can all have a Happy Christmas – apart from our newly exposed murderer, of course. He gets to rot in the cells while we all eat turkey.'

They chatted a little more about the scientists' findings, then Adam said, ‘Yep, you're right, we're going to have to demolish the alibi, but I reckon that's not beyond us. In fact, I'm hoping for a quick confession and an early resolution. We might even be able to celebrate with a couple of beers tonight, if you're up for that. I always like to toast the successful end of a case. Are you ready to go?'

Dan had grabbed his satchel and followed Adam and Suzanne down the stairs.

‘I always like to make the arrest in a big case,' Adam said, as they walked. ‘Some of the other chief inspectors steer clear of this bit. They think it's a little tawdry and leave it to the troops. But I reckon it's a senior officer's prerogative.'

Suzanne had driven them, as methodically and carefully as she carried out her investigations. She didn't once exceed the speed limit and fed the steering wheel through her hands in a way that would make a driving instructor nod with pleasure. They were at their destination by a quarter to five, and there, just around the corner and out of sight, they parked and waited.

‘We just need to get the call to say we're good to go,' Adam said. ‘That should come through in the next few minutes.'

A couple of sizeable, uniformed constables were waiting around the back, just in case their suspect should make a run for it. All was in place for the arrest.

The next few minutes passed more slowly than any Dan could remember. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of Christmas. Rutherford and his smiling face as he smelt the turkey roasting in the oven. El, his malt whisky and whether there was any way to get a snap of the scoutmaster, and Kerry, and what she would make of her present.

He even wondered what Claire, the dark haired detective, was doing over the holiday time. Whether she was celebrating with a boyfriend. Or if she could perhaps be single.

None of these thoughts had any chance of taking hold. All Dan could think of was the man, at work in the office around the corner, oblivious to what was about to unfold, and how he could possibly have murdered Edward Bray.

Adam eased his seat backwardsand stretched out. He was as relaxed as a holidaymaker who'd journeyed for hours to finally reach the promised beach, complete with comfortable lounger and cold lager. Suzanne worked through her notes.

Cars and vans drove past, even the odd cyclist, despite the weather. The rain continued to pound down, drumming relentlessly on the roof. It was dark in the car, only a distant streetlight casting a faint amber glow.

Dan took out his mobile, fiddled and fussed, changed the screensaver, then decided he preferred the original version and changed it back again.

Slowly, the clock turned around to five.

Adam's mobile rang. He listened, then hung up and said, ‘Right, that's it. Julia Francis has gone home. He won't be able to call her now. He's all ours. So let's go.'

They pulled on their coats, dodged the growing puddles, jogged around the corner and up to the door. Adam took the lead, then Suzanne, Dan hanging back a little.

The man standing by the filing cabinet turned, a professional smile ready for the newcomers. It faded fast when he saw Adam, and the expression on the detective's face.

And it died entirely at the words, ‘Gordon Clarke, I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Edward Bray.'

The scientists had not found the Holy Grail of detective work, no flakes of skin, hairs or fingerprints on the gun which would give them an instant means of identification of the killer. They concluded whoever had brandished it had worn gloves, as they had expected, but also probably some kind of coat, or overall, with a hood, tightly drawn around his or her head, and perhaps even a hair net. It was an increasingly common technique amongst the more intelligent criminals, and further evidence the killing had been thoroughly researched and planned.

But what they had found were some minute fibres, near invisible to the human eye, stuck in a crack between the stock and barrels of the shotgun. The conclusion was that the weapon had probably been placed on, or into a piece of plastic sheeting, and put in the boot of a car after the murder. But the movement of the vehicle on that journey to the edge of a farmer's field had shaken it loose.

The killer was, unsurprisingly, in a hurry to leave the lay-by and thus had done a poor job of wrapping or securing the gun, so the theory went. He probably drove quickly, cornering at speed, and the weapon had slid around in the boot.

During that process the tiny but telltale fibres had become attached.

The scientists' view was that whoever had then taken the gun from the boot had realised the potential danger and made another hasty attempt to sanitise it. But once more he was in a hurry, fearful of being seen. It was dark and wet, and the fibres were so very small. He had not been thorough enough.

That was the investigation's golden break, the beam of sunshine of progress through the bank of dark cloud.

The thin black curls of material, no more than mere shavings, had been isolated, analysed, and the information fed into a database. Then, it was just a question of waiting, only a short period, but one which felt very long indeed.

The wait had been worthwhile. The results came back within half an hour and they were definitive.

The fibres were from a batch of materials used to line the boots of BMW three series saloon cars, made for the British market between late 2003 and mid 2004.

The owner of one such car was Gordon Clarke.

Clarke didn't say a word for the whole of the journey back to Charles Cross. He sat in the back of the car, alongside Dan, and stared at the falling rain picked out in the passing streetlights. Occasionally, he would glance at Adam or Suzanne, and shift position in his seat, but otherwise he was still.

One search team was going through his house, another his office. The High Technology Crime, or Square Eyes divisionas they were known, were searching his computers, looking for any evidence he may have been planning a murder. Forensics officers were examining his car for any traces of Edward Bray's blood, and its boot for evidence the shotgun might have been carried there. It was an extensive and expensive operation, but the High Honchos had willingly authorised the overtime.

The final draft of their beloved annual report was on hold, ready for some new and proud headlines.

At the police station, Adam booked Clarke into the custody suite. Even then, the businessman spoke only to confirm his name. He was asked if he wanted a solicitor and allowed to make his call to Julia Francis's offices. They were closed until the morning. Just as Adam had hoped, Clarke didn't have her home number.

He was offered the duty solicitor, but refused. For the first interviews, Gordon Clarke would have no lawyer to shield him.

The plan was working.

Adam held a quick discussion with a Crown Prosecution Service solicitor, a young but effective man called Richard, to consider the evidence they had against Clarke. It was a ruthless dissection of the case and a forthright exchange. The eventual verdict was that the evidence was suggestive, but in truth only circumstantial, by no means yet sufficient for a charge of murder and certainly nowhere near to being strong enough to convince a jury.

Clarke had means and motive, but it was the opportunity which was the problem. They could show he hated Bray with a raging passion, and they could speculate that it wouldn't be difficult to get hold of a shotgun. But in his visit to Bristol the man had an alibi, one which had yet to be properly punctured.

Even the trump card in Adam's hand had a weakness, and one which would be fatal to any case. The fibres on the gun might match those from Clarke's car, but they would also match similar BMWs from an eight-month period of manufacture. The database had no precise answer as to how many cars that would be, but the estimate was at least several thousand.

At that point in the discussion, Adam went quiet.

The conclusion of the case conference was that they were still some way short of securing sufficient evidence to consider the killer of Edward Bray identified and caught.

And so the strategy for the evening changed. Adam had been keen to interview Clarke as soon as possible, pile the pressure on him and see if he could be pushed to make a mistake and incriminate himself. But now he decided to wait, to see what the search teams and the Square Eyes turned up.

They needed more evidence. As Richard put it, with the case they currently had the Crown Prosecution Service would be most unlikely to be able to find a barrister willing to argue it before a court. Even if they did, he estimated the jury would scarcely need to retire to consider their verdict before pronouncing Gordon Clarke not guilty.

There was another advantage to letting the evening run. Some quiet and solitary minutes inside a small, cold and uncomfortable police cell might also prompt Clarke to consider his position and make him more inclined to talk.

So wait was what they did.

It was hardly the way Dan expected to spend the night before Christmas Eve.

He sat on the windowsill in the MIR and watched the people passing by. Despite the rain the city was busy, hundreds making their way between restaurants, bars and clubs. Most were obscured from his view and only apparent by the procession of colourful umbrellas they carried.

The room was silent. Adam was standing, arms folded, staring at the green boards, rapt in thought, Suzanne sitting at a desk working through some files.

The mood had changed. The breakthrough had become tarnished with reality. The euphoria of earlier had evaporated fast. The results from the search teams had come back. They had turned both places inside out and there was nothing incriminating in either Gordon Clarke's home or office. All that remained was to wait for the Square Eyes to report their findings.

‘It's just about our last hope,' Adam said quietly. ‘If they don't come up with any evidence we've got nowhere near enough.'

‘Clarke still might talk when we interview him,' Suzanne said, although her voice sounded anything but hopeful.

Adam snorted. ‘Fat chance. He's not daft. He'll soon realise we haven't got anything. He'll just stay silent until the morning, then get that solicitor to come and release him. And we won't have anything to stop it. There's no way I'll get a magistrate to let us keep holding him over Christmas on the evidence we've got.'

A couple of sharp phone calls from the High Honchos, demanding updates, hadn't improved the detective's mood. His usually impeccable tie was hanging low on his collar and he looked jaded.

It was almost eight o'clock and growing colder in the MIR. Dan pulled his jacket around his chest. He comforted himself with the thought that at least two outstanding issues in his life had been resolved. Earlier, he'd asked Adam how long it would be before anything happened this evening, been sullenly reassured he had an hour or more, and had driven home to feed Rutherford and give him a quick run around the garden.

‘Sorry for neglecting you old fellow,' he called to the dog, as he cantered around the garden in the rain, ‘but the investigation's at a crucial phase – or at least I hope it is. We will have Christmas together though, I promise you, and I will get you that turkey.'

Dan drove back to Charles Cross via El's flat. He picked up the photographer, as they'd arranged earlier, and did his best to calm him. It wasn't easy. El was like an excitable child at the best of times, but given the prospect of what might be about to happen he was a blur of agitation. Yes, Dan soothed, he was sure it would work – well, almost sure anyway. Whatever, it was certainly worth a try. El might have to wait for a few hours, hidden in the footwell of the car's back seats, but it would happen.