The TV Detective (8 page)

‘I was just wondering …'

Dan told Adam about his research in the news library, the impressive number of passionate enemies Edward Bray had accrued over the years.

‘So, I was wondering,' he continued, ‘whether shooting him in the heart was symbolic in any way. Whether it might indicate an attack motivated by sheer hate.'

‘A bit crime fiction, isn't it? More the stuff of books than real detective work.'

‘But possible.'

Adam nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, possible, I'll allow you that. Particularly when I add the bizarre piece of evidence the labs have given us.'

‘Which is?'

Adam took a couple of paces towards the felt boardsand tapped the picture of Edward Bray.

‘As part of the attack, the lost although apparently unlamented Mr Bray was kicked in the face. But get this …'

He paused like a veteran actor, ready to deliver the denouement of a play, wanting to be certain he had the audience's complete attention.

And he did.

‘Yes, get this,' Adam continued finally. ‘Edward Bray was kicked in the face– but only after he'd been shot dead.'

Adam allowed a long pause for the image to settle on the MIR. When the detective was sure the drama of his point had been made and it was time to leave the stage, he gestured to Dan and headed for the door. But there was one thing the apprentice investigator had to know first, however overawing might be these first moments of his initiation into a criminal inquiry.

‘Mr Breen, may I just ask a question?'

The sharpness of the look suggested not.

Dan swallowed. ‘It is a very quick one,' he persisted. ‘I promise.'

‘Go on then.'

‘What's that about, then?'

Dan pointed to the wall of the MIR, by the door. Hung there, in a plain black frame and set behind a sheet of glass, was a piece of paper, A4 sized.

On it was printed simply;

992 619U

Adam hesitated. ‘Ah, that,' he said, quietly. ‘That's the final question of one of the biggest cases we've ever investigated – and one we still haven't been able to solve, even all these years on. Do you remember the story of Mitchell Bonham?'

Chapter Six

I
T TOOK AN EFFORT
to concentrate on the road. Dan's head was full of that hour in the MIR, the revelations he'd already heard, and what they would do next.

The first interview with a witness.

Or, as Adam Breen had put it, ‘Initially a witness, anyway.'

‘Meaning?' Dan asked, as they walked down the stairs from the MIR.

‘It's remarkable how quickly a witness can become a suspect in this business.'

All it needed was a musical sting to emphasise the drama of the detective's words. Dan was beginning to suspect his new colleague was something of a frustrated actor. He certainly enjoyed a little theatre.

Which thought Dan deposited safely in his mental bank. It might just be useful, when it came to the need for a story.

Teasing his mind too was the case of Mitchell Bonham. It went back fifteen years, to well before Dan's time at
Wessex Tonight
, but the story had such notoriety he knew it anyway. Some of the older hacks still talked about it, using the whispered tones that, in generations long past, might have been reserved for huddles around the camp fire and the scariest of stories.

Bonham was a nobody and a nothing, a thin, balding, middle-aged clerk in a solicitors, a man who finally found meaning in his life by taking life. He killed once, then again and again, murdering for no better reason than curiosity, to find out what it felt like. To end the lives of his fellows, and yet still be able to walk amongst the milling throng, the mass of people passing by unaware of the invisible mark he carried so proudly.

He killed five people, mostly younger and homeless, without being caught and began to grow arrogant with it. Bonham taunted the police with a series of letters, boasting that he was too clever and would never be captured. The story became one of the biggest in Britain at the time.

Eventually he was arrested, as is so often the case, by a combination of luck and good policing. Dozens of extra officers were patrolling the streets. He was seen by a beat constable, talking to a beggar in a subway on the outskirts of Plymouth city centre. Bonham panicked and ran when he was questioned, but, after a chase, he was captured. Under interrogation, and with DNA evidence from previous crime scenes against him, Bonham admitted he had been planning to kill the man to add to the tally of his victims.

He was put on trial, convicted and sentenced to life in prison. It was one of the rare cases where life would actually mean life. And there was one particularly important reason for that.

Bonham showed no remorse. Indeed he appeared to struggle to understand what was wrong with what he had done. But there was a lingering suspicion he may have had more victims than the five murdersof which he was convicted.

Hundreds of people go missing in Devon every year, and many are never traced. It's difficult to be accurate, but statisticians estimate that in the whole of the country perhaps two hundred thousand people disappear annually.

Bonham was by no means forthcoming or helpful during his interrogations, and an obvious question was raised about his sanity. But he did sometimes burble names. Jim and Jack were the two most common males ones, Maria, Emma and Linda his three favourite females.

Records were checked and investigations carried out. Bonham's lifestyle and movements were analysed, but no evidence was found, nothing was proved.

At his trial, when Bonham was convicted, the judge addressed him in the dock. He told the man he might hold out some hope of being released from prison – albeit in many long years time – if he told the police whether he had indeed killed others, and now confessed who they were and where their bodies had been hidden.

Bonham stood in silence, staring straight ahead, then quietly asked for a piece of paper. The packed courtroom, lawyers, police, journalists and public all watched as, behind the plate glass of the secure dock he scribbled hard. It was the purest of dramas. The wait for what the killer would write. His last secret finally revealed.

The sheet was then passed back to the judge.

On it was scrawled;

992 619U

They were driving north, out of the city centre, towards Crownhill, part of the conurbation that is modern-day Plymouth, a mix of housing estates and offices. It was where Bray's company was based, and, Dan reminded himself, where Kerry lived.

He wondered where they would go for their date. A restaurant would be the classical choice, but he wasn't at all keen on dininglike that, preferring the informality of pubs to uncomfortably high backed chairs and customers spending much of their time watching each other. Maybe a gastro pub would be a good compromise, except that the city hardly boasted much of a choice.

He sighed. Romance was such trouble. It was odd that whenever he was in a relationship he tended to want to be out, and whenever out, then to be in. Perhaps that was just human nature.

Dan slowed the car for a pedestrian crossing, a couple of older ladies were bumbling along carrying a myriad of multicoloured shopping bags. Both wore thick coats, hats and scarves, despite the day being mild on the winter's scale.

He'd ended up driving. ‘If I'm stuck with you, I might at least make use of it,' Adam had said charmingly, then lapsed into a silence as he studied some of the notes contained in a folder Suzanne had given him.

Dan's happy flare of excitement at the prospect had quickly been extinguished. He'd hoped for a police car, the enjoyment of watching other motorists slow subserviently, glancing over nervously as he passed. All he got was a battered old Vauxhall, which smelt of rotting sandwiches and stale cigarettes.

His disillusionment must have been apparent. ‘We like to blend in with the crowd,' noted the annoyingly observant Adam. ‘That's another lesson for you. No marked cars for the CID.'

Before they'd left Charles Cross, Dan told Adam about his interview with Arthur Bray, the man's estrangement from his son, and also his shotguns. Without a word of appreciation or thanks Suzanne noted it down for further investigation that morning. They had been about to leave when one final irritant was inflicted on Dan.

A young man walked into the office, eyed him with interest, and said, ‘I've lost then. Damn.'

‘What was that about?' Dan asked Adam as they'd walked across the car park.

‘You don't want to know.'

‘It's about me, isn't it?'

‘Well spotted.'

‘What is it?'

‘Are you sure you want to know?'

‘I think I'd rather know than not.'

‘OK then. There's a sweepstake running. On how long you'll last.'

‘Is there?'

‘Yep. And Jim there, he drew the shortest time. An hour, I think it was.'

‘Oh. Well, I'm dreadfully sorry for him.'

‘Don't worry. His loss will be someone else's gain.'

‘You really know how to make a man feel welcome, don't you?'

Adam stopped, and Dan wondered what he was going to say, whether whoever had got the next time slot in the sweepstake was about to scoop the pool.

‘Listen,' the detective said, but his voice wasn't hostile. ‘Let's get one thing straight. It's absolutely true we didn't want you. There's no space for passengers on a big case, particularly a high-profile one like this. But as you're here, I'm prepared to give you a chance. I suggest you keep your head down, keep quiet and learn what you've come to learn. The police haven't come anywhere near to this modern world of politeness and political correctness, pretend though we sometimes may. We still like our goading and teasing. The best you can do is to try to rise above it. OK?'

‘It does get a little wearing.'

‘Then wear it. OK?'

Dan nodded. ‘OK.'

And off they had driven. To see their first witness, or, potentially, their first suspect. Edward Bray's long-serving secretary, Penelope Ramsden, a woman with a surprising story to tell.

Bray's office was an undistinguished, functional 1970s building of concrete and dark glass, which had been left as far behind by the advances of fashion as flares and platform soles. Dan recognised the complex from the story he'd seen, when it was besieged by protesters. He parked just outside the main doors.

Adam got out of the car, made to walk in, then stoppedand asked, ‘What are you waiting for?'

‘Well, I didn't know whether you'd want me in on this.'

‘Why not?'

‘It feels – I don't know, sensitive I suppose. This is the real thing, isn't it? The heart of what you do. Interview people and try to work out whether they might be a murderer.'

Adam rolled his eyes. ‘Come on in. You're here to learn about police work, and this is an important part of it. Just remember, you're here on trust, so keep quiet, observe, and later you can tell me what you make of her.'

They walked along a corridor, all tiles and brick, punctuated by the odd door, water fountain and poster advertising fitness classes and diet plans. All in preparation for the heavy guilt which inevitably followed the excesses of Christmas. There was no sign of any festive decorations.

An automatic door swung aside, and they were in a large, open-plan office containing rows of desks with people bent over them. No one looked across at the visitors. It was strangely quiet and felt clinical and sterile. In front of them was a larger desk, behind which a woman was sitting.

‘Ms Ramsden?' Adam asked.

She looked up. She had dark hair, overlarge glasses, and a figure which polite people would call full. Her chubby face was puffy and her eyes small and tinged with red, the colour magnified by the thick lensesof her glasses.

‘Yes?' she said quietly. Adam introduced them, then asked, ‘I know this is a difficult time. How are you?'

She stared at him, gulped, and suddenly sprang up from her chair and lumbered towards the door. It swung open and she disappeared down the corridor and into a toilet. Adam let out a groan and followed.

Dan stood one side of the door, Adam the other. From inside they could hear the sound of sobbing.

‘Is it, err – is it always like this?' Dan asked.

‘No. This is one of the more straightforward interviews,' Adam replied heavily. He knocked on the door, called to her, but received only more crying as a response.

‘What do we do?'

‘We wait.'

Several minutes passed. Dan sat himself on the floor. Adam paced back and forth for a little longer, then did the same.

From the toilet came a low wail, followed by more sobbing.

‘I'm no expert, but I'd say she was upset,' Dan ventured.

‘Well spotted. You really are going to be a valuable addition to the investigation.'

Adam rubbed at a dot of dust on his polished brogue, reached over and knocked again at the door. There was no response, save perhaps a small diminution in the crying.

They waited on. To fill the time, Dan asked, ‘Do you live in Plymouth?'

‘Why?'

Dan sighed. ‘It's for
Wessex Tonight
. I want to do an exposé. Senior detective in living in a house in city where he works shocker. It should make a great splash. Or I might just have been making conversation while we wait for the storm of grief to blow itself out.'

‘OK, no need for sarcasm. Yes, I live in Plymouth.'

‘Where?'

‘Peverell. Down by Central Park.'

‘Not far from me. I'm up in Hartley. You got any family?'

In the half light of the corridor, Dan couldn't quite be sure, but he thought Adam flinched. The detective ran a finger over the thick gold band of his wedding ringand said quickly, ‘We'll have to get her out in a minute. We can't hang around here all day.'

He got upand knocked on the door again, harder this time. From inside the toilet came slow footsteps, and Penelope Ramsden emerged. She was clutching a handful of tissues, her face lined with misery.

‘He's dead,' she said, so quietly they had to strain to hear. ‘And I never told him. He never knew.'

‘Knew what?' Adam prompted.

‘That I loved him. All these years I've worked for him. All these years and he never knew.'

The tears were starting to fall again. Adam led her to a side officeand sat her down on a chair.

‘I can see you're very upset, Ms Ramsden. We won't bother you for long. But there are a couple of things I need to check. First of all …'

‘He was a good man!' she interrupted, her voice a yelp. ‘All those things people said about him, they weren't true. He was always kind to me. I know I'm not thin and pretty, like those young secretaries. But he gave me a chance and he always looked after me. He was a good man!'

‘No one's saying he wasn't …'

‘I loved him,' she sobbed. ‘And he never knew. And now he'll never know. Poor, poor Mr Bray.'

It took Adam another half hour of gentle coaxing and questioning before he found out all he wanted to know from Penelope Ramsden. The time was punctuated by continual bursts of tears, and much wiping of eyes. On two occasions Dan was dispatched to fetch more tissues.

He thought about pleading the environment and the future of the planet in an attempt to stem the flow, but decided against it. Long and sometimes embarrassing experience had taught Dan that his humour, like a holiday in a desert, could be too dry for many, and it hadn't exactly worked well so far.

During the second errand, his mobile rang. It was Lizzie, and she was in an unusually jovial mood.

‘How's the crash course in police work going?'

Dan looked through the glass, at the senior detective with the pained expression comforting the lachrymose woman.

‘It's not quite what I was expecting, but it's certainly interesting.'

‘Good. But don't forget the deal. I don't just want you disappearing for days. The Bray murder is a big story. I want updates on it. I want exclusives. I want reports.'