The TV Detective (6 page)

‘I know you did,' Dan said. ‘I've seen how it brought your family together. But in the case of the Brays, it led to a bitter split. And I can't help but wonder why.'

The Outside Broadcast van was parked a little further up the lay-by, “Loud” Jim Stone, the engineer was asleep in the cab with his feet up on the dashboard.

Dan took a malicious pleasure in hammering on the window. Loud opened one eye, curled his lip, picked some unidentified foodstuff from between his teeth, stretched, and finally opened the door.

‘Good of you to turn up,' he grunted, his thicket of a beard twitching.

‘Our pleasure,' Dan replied smoothly. ‘We've got an edit and a live to do.'

‘A canyon of the deepest and widest joy.'

Loud started spooling through the tape. His nickname came from his taste in shirts. Today's was a kind of red, white and blue paisley print that only a drunken, possibly drugged, and quite likely deranged designer might come up with. It was a commonly raised query in the newsroom how such a committed misanthrope could delight in so colourful a wardrobe.

No one had dared venture the question, let alone come close to finding an answer.

The edit was straightforward. It usually was with the best stories. They tended to tell themselves.

Dan started the report with some of last night's pictures of the lay-by and explained how Edward Bray had been found there, killed with a shotgun. Then it was into a long clip of Arthur. He had been as good as his word, told the camera that his son may have been disliked by many people, often even hated, but that he didn't deserve such a fate, to be blasted to death in a savage attack. Anyone who could do such a thing could not be allowed to roam free, must be brought to justice. His words were controlled, but powerful for that.

The edit was finished by just after one, giving Dan plenty of time to prepare for the live broadcast. Lizzie had demanded a doughnut. Newcomers to the newsroom were always puzzled by the term, a piece of pure TV jargon. In normal English, it meant the newsreader would introduce the story, Dan would come in with a live setting of the scene, his report would play, then he would sum up, or in this case, do an interview to end the sequence.

He was scribbling a couple of notes on what to say when a hammering at the door of the van stopped him. It was the kind of beat produced by someone practiced in official knocking. Peremptory and demanding of instant attention.

Outside stood the tall man and squat woman detectives of last night.

‘Good afternoon,' Dan said, warmly.

‘Is it?' Adam Breen replied, with a voice from the tundra. ‘From what I can tell, to go with the demands of my new and very high profile murder case, I'm in receipt of a whole set of additional troubles which have somehow been foisted upon me.'

‘Really? What?'

The detective gave him a cool stare. ‘You.'

‘Me?'

‘Yes. You.'

‘Ah.'

‘Ah indeed.'

‘So, I'm coming to join you then?'

‘So it would appear. I'm always asking for more staff, particularly on a big case like this, but I have to say you weren't exactly what I had in mind.'

They held a look. Dan reached out a hand. Adam Breen eyed it warily, then shook it with a firm grip. The woman did the same. Her grip was, if anything, even stronger.

‘I don't think I know your name,' Dan said.

‘Suzanne Stewart. Detective Sergeant Stewart to you,' she added meaningfully.

Another pause as they all stared at each other. Nigel coughed pointedly. ‘We're on air in fifteen minutes,' he said.

Dan nodded. ‘Let's sort out your interview, Mr Breen, then we can talk about the other stuff later.'

They walked over to where Nigel had set up the camera, looking back on the lay-by, and Dan explained what would happen in the broadcast. Most interviewees, when faced with being live on television, showed, at the least, a hint of nerves. It would often be a continual twisting of the foot, an interlacing of the fingers, perhaps the jingling of keys or money in a pocket. Not Adam Breen. He stood calmly, arms folded, waiting.

He was wearing a fine coat, which Dan suspected was cashmere, but wasn't knowledgeable enough in the ways of fashion to tell for sure. It was a subject he'd never really got the hang of. Today's suit was different from last night's, a charcoal grey, but equally bespoke and expensive. The only slight hitch in the detective's impeccable appearance was the shading of a shadow of beard, dark and pronounced, despite it being only halfway through the working day.

Dan popped into his ear the moulded plastic which linked him to the outside broadcast van and studio, via a radio receiver clipped to his belt. He heard Loud muttering to himself about being late for lunch because of inconvenient news stories, followed by Emma, the director's voice.

‘Can you hear us OK, Dan?'

He gave a thumbs up to the camera.

‘Right, we're a few minutes to air. You're top story. The next time we talk to you it'll be for real.'

Dan mentally rehearsed his lines, felt the adrenaline starting to tingle its way through his system. There were few highs to beat live broadcasting. He suspected he would be doing plenty more of it in future. When he'd been covering the environment, he presented the odd outside broadcast, but they were more common on the most serious stories.

His new world.

The title music of
Wessex Tonight
played in his ear, then Craig, the newsreader came in.

‘An emotional appeal this lunchtime for public help in finding the killer of the notorious local businessman Edward Bray,' he intoned. ‘
Wessex Tonight
has been speaking to his father, about his shock at the killing. Our Crime Correspondent Dan Groves is at the lay-by where Edward Bray was murdered.'

‘Cue Dan,' Emma prompted.

‘Yes, Craig, it was here, last night, that police found Mr Bray's body.' He gestured along the tarmac. ‘They believe he was killed just about where I stand, the attacker using a shotgun. A murder investigation is now underway.'

Dan's report played. When it ended, he said, ‘Joining me now is the detective leading the hunt for the killer, Chief Inspector Adam Breen. So, how is the inquiry going?'

‘It's moving quickly,' he answered smoothly, still no hint of nerves. ‘We're working through Mr Bray's movements yesterday, who he saw, where he went. We're also talking to anyone who might have met him in the last few days, and going through his current business dealings too. Effectively, we're building up a picture of his life.'

‘To find a motive for the killing?'

‘That is one of my priorities.'

‘It's a difficult investigation?'

‘Mr Bray knew many people, and had dealings with even more. His business interests were extensive. I expect it to be a sizeable and lengthy inquiry.'

‘But you're confident you will find the killer?'

‘Yes, I am. I'll tell you this now. It may take a while, given the size of inquiry we're dealing with, but rest assured. I will find him.'

Dan thanked the detectiveand handed back to the studio. He pulled out his earpiece, let loose a long breath. The maiden live broadcast of his new life had been successfully navigated. The milestones were coming fast.

‘Right,' Adam Breen said, ‘if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to Charles Cross to get on with the inquiry. There's lots to do, to say the least.'

‘What do I do?'

‘You're going to come and join me. Report to the police station for nine o'clock prompt tomorrow morning, when your induction as a bizarre trainee detective will begin.' He paused, then added wryly, ‘I can hardly wait.'

Suzanne Stewart was shaking her head, her lips pursed and face set. But Adam Breen looked almost amused. Dan tried to keep the excitement from his voice, insteadto make it as calm and commanding as the detective's.

‘Fine,' he said. ‘That's good for me. I'll see you then.'

Nigel drove them back to the studios, and they grabbed some of the last remnants of what had been lunch from the canteen. Shepherd's pie.

‘Made with real shepherds from the taste of it,' the cameraman observed, but quietly enough not to offend the chef.

Dan picked at his foodbut didn't feel hungry. He left half of it, Loud pouncing eagerly on the bonus meal. Instead he walked upstairs, found Jenny and they started work on the report for the evening news. They kept it much as lunchtime's, starting with the dramatic, night-time pictures, then hearing from Arthur Bray. It was classical television, the strongest images and interviews first.

Then they added a clip of Adam Breen, talking about how the investigation was going, before Dan summed up by saying the inquiry might take time, but the police were confident of finding the killer. Lizzie checked the report, approved it in her usual less than wholehearted way, and, after pleading a late finish last night Dan was free to go home, naturally with the proviso he would return to work within seconds if there were any developments.

Back at the flat, he took Rutherford for a run around Hartley Park, then made an almost passable supper of pasta with a tomato sauce. It was remarkable how the tang of a bit of fried bacon could cover up bland and banal cooking. Dan ate as he watched his report on
Wessex Tonight
. Rutherford, as ever, looked back and forth between the television and his master, the puzzlement clear on his face. He'd never come to terms with Dan's magical ability to be in two places at once. Walks, food and the occasional bit of fuss were all he needed for happiness.

Dan wondered what to do with the rest of the evening. The adrenaline of earlier had long since ebbed. He kept thinking about tomorrow, noticed he was finding it hard to settle again. He wondered what kind of reception he would get. Suzanne Stewart and Adam Breen hadn't exactly sounded delighted that he would be joining them.

Dan wandered around the flat, picking up books and putting them down, shifting a couple of ornaments, then putting them back where they were. It was a beautiful flat, mid Victorian, high ceilings with ornate plasterwork, but it could sometimes feel large and hollow with just the two of them here, particularly during the dense, dark nights of the winter.

He paced slowly into the bathroom, opened the cabinet, gazed at the plastic container, reached out and tapped it, then pushed it back into its hiding place and walked into the lounge.

Dan logged in to the internet, looked up police procedures in murder cases and read for half an hour or so. But he could sense the information wasn't settling in his mind. An advert for computer dating flashed up at the side of the screen. Apparently love, excitement and ecstasy were all only a few seconds away. That was quite a claim, but nonetheless alluring– he could do with some. He clicked on it, and was taken to a matchmaking site.

They were offering a free month long trial, so, purely out of journalistic curiousity, Dan entered his details and searched for women in Plymouth. He thought he'd better dispense with anyone under thirty. Tempting though the prospect might be, they were likely to be overly demanding. Well into his thirties now and with the fire of the teenage libido quenched, bed was a place largely dedicated to sleep in Dan's pragmatic eyes.

It was remarkable how many local women there were, all avowedly in search of love. When he'd ruled out those who went on at length about their star sign, others who described themselves as cuddly, and the impressively large number who were interested in “a good time”, he came down to Kerry. A professional, she said, also in her mid 30s, slim and attractive. She liked to keep fit, particularly walking the moors, but also going out, in particular enjoying eating and drinking.

Dan typed a brief reply:

I liked your ad. Snap! to all your description, bar the attractive – will reasonably decent looking in a rugged, weatherbeaten kind of way do?! This fellow Plymouth professional would like to know more.

He found some music to listen to and a book which was mostly entertaining, spent an hour reading, then decided to go to bed. An early night was a good idea. Tomorrow promised to be an interesting day.

Dan still wasn't quite sure whether to be excited or daunted.

He was about to shut down the computer when it pinged with a message. Kerry:

Weatherbeaten sounds good, rugged even better! Where's this hunk been hiding then?! Whereabouts in the city are you?

He typed a reply, got one straight back. They exchanged a few emails, Dan talking about having a busy job and limited opportunities to meet people, her sharing the lament. They did favourite foods, places to go out and preferred haunts before Dan finally realised her messages were filling with hints.

So –
when
do you go to your
favourite places
, and
who
with? And
when might you be going there next?

It was only the bold text and italics which switched on the light of understanding. Otherwise, Dan thought ruefully, he could have been emailing her all night and still not getting it. No wonder he'd been single all these months.

I was wondering whether you fancied meeting up?

he typed, and sat back nervously, waiting for the response.

Sometimes short seconds could stretch so long.

An advert for a sailing holiday flickered across the top of the screen.

Dan tapped a finger on the keyboard, ruffled Rutherford's fur.

She was good enough not to keep him waiting, and even better to resist the lure of sarcasm, however justified:

Well, that would be lovely. When?

Tomorrow?

Another jittery wait, but another mercifully quick reply:

Done. Look forward to it.

They exchanged mobile numbers, agreed to call, or being thoroughly modern professionals to text, said goodnight, and Dan shut down the computer and headed for bed.

Tomorrow promised to be an interesting day indeed.