The Balance of Guilt (29 page)

T
HE GIFT OF A
philanthropist, St Matthias’s Church was built in the 1850s on a grassy, greenfield site on the northern outskirts of the Victorian city centre. But the sprawl of the passing years prompted Plymouth to grow, cluster and cuddle around it. Where once its shining limestone tower would have dominated the area known as North Hill, now, like a shy suitor, it competes forlornly for attention amongst the blocks of flats, shops and stores, and glass towers of the university.

Today, it is a true city centre church, its once sizeable yard eaten away by endless development and limited to a small and defiant periphery. Its fine stone is continually under attack from the corrosive fumes of the relentless traffic and in need of regular cleansing to keep the old lady looking her best. The church has also become host to a modern-day tradition; gangs of smokers, barred from the environs of the surrounding offices and bars gather under its portico to share the shame of the social outcast.

St Matthias’s is rare amongst the churches in the city in surviving the Plymouth Blitz almost undamaged. Some believe that was deliberate, endowing the church with an unfortunate legend. Its distinctive tower was reputed to have provided a useful landmark for the German bombers as they rained down their destruction.

After a brief discussion, it was here they decided to come first. Dan was working on the principle it was better to get the most unpleasant task out of the way. Nigel took his camera out of the boot and checked it over, shaking his head the whole time.

‘I’ve only ever filmed one dead person,’ he kept saying. ‘And that was by accident. It was a car crash. I was doing a close-up when I realised the body of the driver was still in the front. I had nightmares for months.’

‘I’m not exactly filled with delight at this either,’ Dan replied. ‘But we’ve got to do it.’

He’d sent Ali off to talk to the vicar, to apologise in person. He very much didn’t want either of them around during the filming. She’d calmed down a little now, but was still intensely fragile and kept whispering to herself, “My John, my poor John, what have they done to my John?”

Dan did his best to comfort her, but with what she had been through it was hopeless.

And there was worse yet to come.

He made a quick call to Adam, giving nothing away, but checking all was as he suspected.

‘How’re you doing?’ Dan asked his friend, hoping his tone was light and chatty enough to put anyone who might be eavesdropping off guard.

‘I’m doing some paperwork. It mounts up when you’re out on a big case.’

‘You at Charles Cross?’

‘Yeah.’

Now Dan tried to sound as nonchalant as he ever could. On a day like this it wasn’t easy.

‘And how’re our dear friends, the spooks?’

‘Who cares?’ Adam grunted.

‘But they’re still around, I take it?’

‘Yeah. They’re downstairs in some office they’ve taken over. They’re working on tidying up a few loose ends in the case, or so they say. I’m trying to avoid them, to be frank.’

The question was answered. The pieces of the puzzle were in place.

‘Are you around all morning?’ Dan said.

‘Given this pile of paperwork I’ll probably be around all month. Why?’

‘It’s just that I could do with popping in for a chat. Nothing important, only a discussion about a few ongoing cases.’

‘Sure. I’ll be glad of the distraction.’

So, all was set for later. But first, there was another ordeal to face.

The church’s walls were panelled with dark oak, amplifying the sound of their careful footsteps. It reminded Dan of Wessex Minster, where this whole story had begun. It was only days, but it felt a long time ago now, with all that had come to pass.

One corner was given over to a memorial for lost children, an entire section devoted to those who had died in the Blitz. There were so many tiny stone panels, wooden crosses and words redolent with grief. The inscribed ages were all poignant, from days and months to only a handful of years.

Together, Dan and Nigel walked softly past the rows of pews, candlesticks and tapestries, and towards the altar. It was dominated by the whorls and eddies of an intricately carved wooden screen. They reached the plain dark mass of the coffin, its brass handles shining in the gentle church light. The lid was closed.

And here they stopped. And looked. First at the casket and then each other.

‘You open it,’ Nigel said. ‘I can’t.’

‘Down to me, is it?’

‘All this is your idea.’

‘Get your camera ready then. I don’t want to spend any longer here than I have to.’

Dan braced himself and opened the lid. It was surprisingly light, moved easily. He groaned at the sight. The jeans, T-shirt and hoodie that John Tanton wore on his bombing mission were clearly recognisable and mostly intact, except for a few rips and holes, edged with bloodstains. But the corpse’s face was mutilated.

One eye was gone, the dark socket gaping open. Part of an ear was missing, sliced away, a couple of teeth broken, their edges jagged and yellowing. Skeins of muscle, like dark, woven cords stood out in the ochre pastiche of dried blood, flecked a dirty white with exposed ridges of bone.

Dan turned away and concentrated on counting off the seconds as Nigel took his shots. The cameraman was whimpering as he worked.

‘Just get it done,’ Dan urged. ‘As quick as you can.’

‘Damn right I will. Do I have to do close-ups?’

‘Yep. Close-ups, wide shots, the lot. Everything.’

A heavy smell of chemicals was rising from the body, slowly drifting in the still air. The embalmers had been at work. Dan gritted his teeth and had to force himself not to be sick. He made his mind picture Rutherford, collecting him from the vet’s later, taking him back to the flat and settling the dog in the warmth of the bay window. In a day or two, they would try their first walk since the poisoning. The sun would shine and this dreadful case would finally be left behind.

‘That’s it,’ Nigel gasped. ‘Enough.’

‘One last task,’ Dan replied. ‘Look away.’

‘What?’

‘Just look away!’

Dan took out the scissors he’d borrowed from Ali, braced himself and did what he had to do. He went to close the coffin lid, but it slipped from his sweating fingers and fell. Wood crashed onto wood, the noise booming thunderously loud in the quiet hollowness of the church.

‘Come on, let’s get Ali and get out of here,’ he said, his voice shaky and thin.

Nigel was already heading for the door.

In moments of tension and suspense, a pressured mind can often find a little release in a whim or musing. Just one such came to Dan now.

They were effectively creating their own version of the infamous grassy knoll in Dallas, he thought, albeit hardly on the same scale as that which shook the world back in 1963.

By the side of Charles Cross Police Station, amidst the bars, church and library of North Hill, is a small harbour of green, sloping gently between the main road and the Art College. It’s topped by a couple of bushes and a compact gang of trees, only mere saplings on the botanical scale, but sufficient enough to provide cover for a small group of people who might want to hide themselves.

The plan was in place. Nigel would wait here, camera set up and microphone ready. Ali had decided to stand with him. Dan would join them later.

‘Look, you can stay in the car you know,’ he told her. ‘You don’t have to come for this bit.’

‘I want to,’ she said forcefully. ‘For what those bastards have done, believe me I want to.’

‘You might be waiting a while. Stake-outs are like that.’

‘I’ll wait all day if I have to.’

She nodded hard to emphasise the words. The tears had dried, the shock and grief of earlier turning fast to anger. She was ready to be interviewed later, when Dan had confirmation of what he thought he already knew, and Ali promised that what she had to say would be powerful.

He gave her a hug and shook Nigel’s hand. ‘Be careful in there,’ his friend said, in his pastoral way. ‘You know what kind of people you’re up against.’

‘All too well,’ Dan replied and headed for the police station doors.

Adam was waiting in his office. He put a finger to his lips, got up and beckoned Dan out of the door. They walked in silence, up a couple of flights of stairs to the top of the station. By the lift was a door marked
Plant Room
. Adam looked around to check there was no one else about, took out a key and opened it.

The cramped, dark space was full of heavy pulleys and shining metal cables, rumbling, grinding and groaning as they worked the lift. It smelt of oil. Dan pushed some dusty cobwebs away from his face. Adam closed the door, magnifying the relentless noise.

He leaned over and said, ‘I reckon this is the one place they’ve got no chance of bugging. They’ve made me paranoid, I can tell you that.’

‘Wait till you hear what else I’ve got to say,’ Dan replied. ‘How did you know I needed to talk to you in private?’

‘You’ve got that look on your face which says you’re up to something. And I heard it in your voice earlier. I’ve never known you want to have an innocent little chat about anything.’

Dan smiled, but without humour. ‘Yep. Let me tell you what I reckon they’ve done, and why.’

He related the story to Adam. The detective leaned back against the door and blew out a long breath.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said finally. ‘You really think that’s what happened?’

‘I’m sure of it. Why else would the spooks still be here? And why in Plymouth today, instead of Exeter?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And look at what Oscar came out with when you whacked him. That thing about having medics who can work miracles. Now it makes sense.’

A couple of levers clunked loudly and an electric motor ticked, then whirred. A spray of sparks crackled in the gloom.

‘OK,’ Adam said. ‘I wouldn’t put it past them, not at all. So what do you want to do now?’

‘Confront them.’

‘I thought you might. But before that – you do realise you could be walking into a whole world of trouble? They’re powerful people and they’re not exactly keen on you, as it is.’

‘Yep. But the same goes for you.’

‘Yes, it does. So let’s go do it.’

They slipped out of the Plant Room. Adam brushed off his jacket and they started down the stairs.

The spies had taken over an office which was used by the Child Protection Team. The room was small, just half a dozen desks arranged in an irregular rectangle. On the walls were posters warning of the dangers of childhood, one modern, one timeworn; the internet, and the shadowy outline of the foreboding stranger. The office was three floors up, a long window looking out to the north of the city, all houses and streets. A couple of cactuses drooped at either end of the sill.

Through the glass in the door they could see Sierra sitting at a desk, Oscar standing beside her, the briefcase at his feet. They were involved in a whispered conversation.

She leant back on her chair, nodded and began writing a note on her pad. His face warmed into a smirk.

Adam pushed open the door and was about to walk in, when Dan shouldered his way past. The two spies looked round.

‘What the fuck are you doing here, dickweed?’ Oscar snapped.

Many words Dan had been rehearsing, ready for this moment. He was tempted to shout abuse at them, blurt it all out, even try to find some dramatic Hollywood-style line about justice and truth.

But instead, all he could say was , ‘I know.’

There was just a second’s pause, if even that. But how revealing can be a hesitation. It was long enough. The two simple words had hit the invisible target.

There was a secret hidden in the silence.

Adam saw it too. Even people so very well trained and experienced in the art of deception can give themselves away.

Oscar slipped a fast glance at Sierra.

And Dan knew. It was all true. Speculation had turned to certainty in an instant.

He knew, too, what was coming next. The last desperate refuge of the liar. A final bluff.

‘What do you know?’ Oscar took a step towards him, fists knotting. ‘What the fuck do you think you know?’

And now Dan found himself laughing. It was stupid, ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. First a chuckle, then building momentum to great, wracking guffaws. Of all the reactions he had expected from himself, it wasn’t this. But the spies were at last naked before him, and it was bizarrely comical.

‘What the fuck do you think you know?’ Oscar repeated. He was almost in Dan’s face now, his expression hot and dangerous. ‘And who the fuck do you think you are?’

Adam was at Dan’s shoulder, a calm, menacing presence.

‘And if you don’t want a bottom lip as fat as the top one, you’d better back off,’ he said quietly.

Oscar glared at him. ‘You were lucky last time. You caught me by surprise.’

‘I’d be very happy to do it again with you fully prepared.’

The spy held his look for a second, then took a step backwards, his hand raised to the swollen lip.

‘Come on then,’ he grunted. ‘Entertain us – wanker. What do you think you know?’

Dan waited, let the moment run. The story was so extraordinary he scarcely knew where to begin. Sierra stood up from her desk. ‘Yes, please Dan,’ she said, in a friendly voice. ‘Do tell us. Particularly if it might help with the case.’

She gave him a warm smile. In reply, Dan snorted. ‘Trying it on to the last, eh?’

‘Just get on with it will you?’ she retorted. ‘We don’t have time to waste with amateurs.’

Dan nodded. ‘So – the nice spy act didn’t last long then, did it? You know Sierra, or whatever your name is, I was almost convinced by your little show of tears yesterday. In fairness, I think it was a tough call, letting Tanton explode his bomb. But knowing what I do now, I don’t think you had any hesitation whatsoever.’

He sat down on the edge of a desk. ‘I can’t help you with the case, as well you’re aware, because you’ve been in control of it all along.’

‘We’ve been through all this,’ she replied. ‘Is that it, this revelation of yours? Because if that’s all …’