Authors: Simon Hall
Crouch leaned forwards on his plastic chair, his face creased in a frown. ‘Women often stay with violent partners for years. Life’s not all so black and white as you seem to think. So I’m sorry, I don’t understand the point you’re making.’
‘The point I’m making is this,’ hissed Whiting, emphasising each word. ‘You’ve told us how important it is for a marksman to make decisions in a second or two. So in this first case, in Bodmin, this is what I’m suggesting. You’d taken up firearms for a simple reason – you wanted to shoot someone. You knew PC Gardener couldn’t see what was happening. In front of you was a situation, which wasn’t, as you claim, endangering the life of the woman, but just an ordinary row where the man had happened to pick up the knife and – in anger – point it as his wife. You saw the chance to shoot and get away with it. And so you did.’
Crouch was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘That is a disgraceful thing to say. That is utterly disgraceful. I want …’
‘And then,’ Whiting interrupted, speaking fast. ‘And then you had another chance in similar circumstances on Thursday, didn’t you? So you did it again. You killed another man because you knew you could get away with it. You’d done it before and you’d got a taste for it.’
Crouch’s eyes were wide. ‘That’s an appalling thing to say,’ he spat. ‘It’s disgraceful. It’s despicable to suggest something like that. I came here freely to be interviewed, but if you’re going to say such things, I am going to call in the Police Federation to come and represent me here, and …’
‘Because you’ve got a motive, haven’t you?’ cut in Whiting, his voice hard but quiet.
Crouch seemed to recoil. ‘What?’
‘You’ve got a motive.’
‘What motive? What the hell are you talking about?’
Whiting waited, stared into the marksman’s eyes. Claire didn’t like the man, but she did admire him. His tactics and timing were precise.
‘Your daughter,’ he hissed. ‘Marie was killed by her violent husband. So when you see a man beating up a woman in their own home, you can’t handle it, can you? That’s what made you shoot, wasn’t it? Maybe once I can believe you needed to shoot a man, PC Crouch … maybe in Bodmin. But not twice. You shot to avenge Marie, didn’t you? And because you were sure you could get away with it. You did it in Bodmin, so you decided to have another go in Saltash. That’s the truth of this, isn’t it, PC Crouch? You didn’t open fire out of any duty or necessity. It was simply revenge. And if you’re caught, then so what? What does it matter? By your own admission you don’t have much to live for.’
Claire studied Crouch. His face was set, a dull red, staring at Whiting. She expected some rage, some outburst of flaring anger, but it didn’t come. He closed his eyes and stroked his cross.
‘I came here willingly to cooperate,’ he said with a strained calm. ‘But if that is the kind of suggestion that’s going to be put to me, I will no longer do so without the benefit of a Police Federation representative. I am not under arrest so I’m free to go, and I am leaving now.’
He got up, reached for the door, paused. His eyes were set on Whiting, his breathing echoed in the quiet room, fast and shallow.
‘It’s not me who’s a disgrace to the force, Whiting,’ Crouch snarled. ‘It’s bastards like you. Passing judgement in your safe little offices without the guts to do a real job, and get out there and protect the public. You’re typical of all that’s wrong with policing nowadays.’
‘Well?’ snapped Whiting, taking the change from his pocket and carefully stacking it into a small pile on his office desk.
Claire looked at him, thought: the Smiling Assassin isn’t smiling now. She wondered if he knew his nickname. If so, would he see the irony in him accusing someone else of being an assassin? Someone who she’d say won that bout in the interview room by a fair margin.
‘I don’t think we’ve got a thing on him, sir,’ said Suzanne, with her usual methodical fairness. ‘I agree it was right to put the point about two shootings in such similar circumstances in five months to him, but that’s all we’ve got, isn’t it? Coincidence and suspicion. Nothing more.’
Whiting turned to Claire. ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘And the trouble is, all the evidence tallies with his account of what happened. In fact, it goes further. With both cases there’s evidence of considerable domestic violence before the actual shootings. So it’s entirely possible such an assault was going on when Crouch went into the house and that’s what he came up against. Then we’re left with the central question; was his opening fire justified? From the evidence, we have no reason to believe it wasn’t. I agree his daughter’s death looks like a good motive and it’s a hell of a coincidence to have two such similar fatal shootings in five months. But we just don’t have any evidence to back up our suspicions, do we?’
‘But we’re still suspicious?’ asked Whiting.
‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused.
‘So let’s do some more research on him,’ hissed Whiting. ‘Let’s have a look at PC Gardener to see if there’s any kind of reason he might enter into a conspiracy with Crouch. And the two women whose husbands were shot too. Let’s see if there’s any evidence he might have known them or had the chance to conspire with them.’
‘And there’s that password we found at his house too,’ added Claire. ‘We didn’t get to ask him about that. He, err … decided to leave first.’
‘Yes,’ said Whiting, ignoring the reminder about how the interview had ended. ‘See what you can find out about that Claire. We know it’s not his home computer, so perhaps one somewhere else? Were there computers in the houses where the men were shot?’
Suzanne checked a note. ‘Yes sir. In both.’
‘Then that’s a possible lead. Get the technical division to go over them. There might be some connection with Crouch. Claire, please make that a priority. Then we’ll get him back in here and talk to him again.’
Whiting’s eyes flicked over them. ‘There is something very strange about this case, and we will get to the bottom of it,’ he hissed. ‘It is our duty to do so.’
That Saturday night he dreamt of Sam again and the way he’d died. It was mercifully quick, but so undignified and unwarranted. And he hadn’t been there, alongside his friend. He should have been, needed to have been. Soon after, yes, but not at the time, and he would never forgive himself for that. Sam hadn’t died with him there and it still hurt. It would never stop hurting. They would pay for that, for Sam’s death, all alone, and the eternally haunting memories he had been left with. They would never stop paying.
His raging brain registered a thirst. He got up, walked mechanically to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of chilled water from the plastic jug in the fridge, topped it back up from the tap, returned to the lounge and sat in the armchair for an hour, trying to calm his thoughts. Then he went back to bed, but slept only fitfully.
The living dreams never allowed him to truly rest. The machine-gun fire and mortars blasting around him, more screaming faces begging for the help he couldn’t give. He could still smell the mutilated bodies, even in his sleep. He felt the air around him slashed open by the whistling shrapnel, the pops and puffs of the friendly, blossoming explosions, the rank scent of raw death in the freezing air. And the corpses, so many of them, jumbles and tangles of stiffened limbs, testimony to the agonies of their deaths.
It was the young boy, Milan, whose face was always foremost in the panicking crowd, reaching out through the razor wire. Only seven or eight years old, an innocent in this hell, hated for the race he had unknowingly been born into. A target because of nothing he had ever had the chance to do in his brief life. Alone, amid the mass of sobbing, screaming faces, each so desperate to escape the pervading terror. And he, one of the thin line of pathetic soldiers, so close to disobeying the strictest of their orders, not to get involved, as those brown eyes stared at him, the silent mouth trying to find the words to beg for help.
He still wondered whether he would have reached out, if the boy’s pleas had lasted a minute or two longer. But the crowd had been silenced by the shock of gunfire. And then, amongst them, the bodies had started to drop, thudding into the frozen mud. And the screaming had begun again, with new fear and desperation. And Milan’s chest had exploded, a spray of the hot blood smattering the soldier’s face as he bent down to whisper his useless words of comfort.
He’d lunged forwards, tried to breathe life into the dying child, all the while so coldly aware of his futility. He’d only known the boy’s name because of the agonised wail of his mother, desperately pushing through the mass to fall across the body of her lost son. She’d screamed out her anguish, cuddling him, holding the fragile, unmoving shape, then looked up and spewed out her fury at the man in the uniform who had been sent here to protect her and her family and the thousands of others in this genocidal slice of Europe.
He’d never understood her words. But he knew precisely what she was saying.
On the few occasions he found the realisation within himself of the creeping insanity he’d come to welcome, he wondered if that was the moment it had touched him, begun its infectious passage through his brain. The body of the young boy at his feet, the bullets hissing in the air, more lifeless figures falling around him. If he could ever define a moment when the disease struck, began to pervade his life, that would have been it.
It was the point at which the hatred had begun. And it grew so fast, so very quickly. His comrades, his officers, his government, his society. All and everything, except for Sam. The only one he could ever truly rely on. Who he could trust. Would always be there for him. Would never let him down. And then Sam too had been taken by the same faceless forces that had propelled him into this torment. Those who would now pay. Who would never stop paying.
He woke in a panic. It was just after five o’clock. Too early to get up, but he wouldn’t go back to sleep. He didn’t want to return to the private hell where the dreams always took him. He was afraid.
He sat back in the chair, staring out of the window at the still and silent world. He tried to stay awake but couldn’t hold off the creeping, edgy sleep, and the sporadic visions came again, silver lines of vicious razor wire, the dark and evil forest, Sam, lying there, dying, always just out of reach as he tried to help, bring comfort.
He shook himself awake. He felt more tired now than before he’d rested. It was seven o’clock. Time to get up, shower and shave, get ready for work. But first he had to finish the preparations for the next stage of the beautiful plan. The note was written, the pig’s heart ready. This part was riskier, but he was confident in his work.
The evening would come around quickly.
Chapter Eight
‘I’
D RATHER YOU SAID
it now and didn’t try to soften it. I’d prefer you just got on with it and told me.’
The words tumbled out. He couldn’t stop them. He needed to have an answer, however much he feared it. But all he got was bafflement.
‘What on earth are you talking about? And what the hell have you got a police guard on the door for?’
Dan pushed the leaping, yelping Rutherford away, out of the hallway and into the lounge and shut the door after him. The dog loved Claire, but this was human time. He hadn’t meant to come out with it so soon, but the feeling had been gnawing at him all of Saturday.
He wasn’t sleeping, despite another assault on the whisky bottle. The urge to keep looking over his shoulder hadn’t faded, and the Swamp was still greedily sucking at his spirit. He couldn’t take the fall of going for a walk, starting to enjoy himself, relaxing with her, beginning again to hope for the future, then be told somewhere halfway up a Dartmoor tor their relationship was over.
‘You said you had something important you wanted to discuss,’ he said, looking into her eyes. She had such beautiful eyes. ‘I’d rather hear it now and get it over with.’
She frowned, tilted her head so her dark bobbed hair half fell across her face in that way he found irresistible. He was sure she knew it. ‘Well, OK, if you want to, but I don’t see why …’
Rutherford began scrabbling at the lounge door. He hated the thought of missing out on anything, particularly when he sensed a walk.
‘Shhh, dog,’ Dan said. ‘It’s because I don’t want to go through the “it’s not you, it’s me, or I’m not ready”, or any of that stuff. I’ve heard it all before, too many times. I’d rather just get it over with.’
She shook her head, ruffling her hair, and looked even more beautiful. Damn her, he thought. I’ve been trying to convince myself I don’t fancy her, or won’t miss her and it hasn’t worked at all. Damn, damn, damn.
Claire fixed her hands to her hips. ‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve just about managed to get a few hours off and I thought we were going for a walk. I’ve been looking forward to it. That’s it.’
She looked genuinely puzzled, but he wasn’t going to allow himself hope. It would hurt too much when the brief, kindling flame was ruthlessly extinguished. He might as well say it.
‘Dumping me. You said we had something important to talk about. I know exactly what that means. End of relationship. So let’s get it over with here, not out on Dartmoor somewhere, so we have to drive back together in a horribly awkward atmosphere, and then do the pathetic “we can still be friends” bit.’
She stared at him, silent. Dan felt himself freeze, ready for the final words, but her face warmed into a smile.
‘Oh, you idiot. Is that what you thought?’ She wrapped her arms around him in a squeezing hug and he made no move to resist. ‘You lovely idiot. It was nothing like that, nothing at all. I’ve been really looking forward to seeing you.’
‘You have?’
‘Of course.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes!’
‘Oh … err … right … then … what did you want to talk about?’
‘It’s only a work thing. That’s all. Just work.’
She leaned back and found his lips, kissed him hard, then stood back and looked at him again.
‘You’ve been worrying about that since we talked?’
‘Maybe … a bit … well … just a little … all right, yes.’
‘I’m so sorry. It’s only a work thing. I really am going to have to find a better way of telling you there’s something we need to talk about, aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ he replied with feeling, wanting to grab her, cuddle into her, hide the prickling in his eyes which told him they were starting to shine.
Dan went to hold her, but a howl echoed through the lounge door, followed by more scrabbling.
‘Bloody dog,’ he muttered.
‘Hadn’t you better go and reassure your mad hound that he’s not missing out?’ Claire asked. ‘Come on, let’s get going. I need a walk. It’s been a hell of a week.’ She took his hand, held it tight. ‘Where are you taking us?’
Dan realised he hadn’t even dared to think about it, but now the rushing, warming relief revived his languid brain.
‘Not too far if we haven’t got long. Just to the south-west of the moor, about a half-hour drive. I thought I might take us to a place which is famous for its mad dog. Rutherford should fit in nicely.’
They drove north, out of Plymouth and onto Dartmoor. It was a clear but blustery day, high spears of white cloud speeding across the cold blue sky. They crossed Roborough Down, the great granite rock marking the boundary of the old wartime airfield, now home to hundreds of meandering sheep, their white fleeces flecking the yellow gorse and lush green moorgrass. A buzzard watched loftily from the top of a telegraph pole as they passed.
Dan explained about the note addressed to him and Adam’s suggestion for the police guard. He tried to make a joke of it, that at least his chaperone didn’t have to spoil their romantic moment and follow them onto the moor, but he could see from Claire’s look she was concerned. She wanted to talk about it but he changed the subject, didn’t want the thought spoiling their time together.
There were none of the usual ponies on Dartmoor, he thought to distract himself, then remembered they’d all have been drifted into farms for the annual sales. It was a story he covered every year when he was the Environment Correspondent, the moor’s farmers and landowners coming together for the ritual rounding up of the thousands of semi-feral creatures. The south-west’s equivalent of the wild west, he’d called it. It was an amazing spectacle, to see a herd of grey, white, brown and black ponies, their hooves thundering in a gallop as they were corralled by deft riders on horseback and buzzing quad bikes.
Dan expected to feel a sting of nostalgia for his old job, but nothing came. The shadowy realm of crime had sucked him in, the fascination of the lurid underworld that he now dealt in and the detectives who tried to shine the faltering light of justice into it. It was how he’d met Claire too. He stole a glance at her, sitting next to him, gazing out at the view. She was beautiful, there was no other word for it. He still hadn’t calmed the welling relief at hearing she didn’t plan to dump him, but it was an oddly enjoyable emotion. He wasn’t at all sure he’d managed to disguise it.
They turned off the road at Burrator and headed past the great Victorian reservoir. The cheerful blue ice cream van was in its usual place, the road lined with the cars of those who’d come for their weekly escape from the city. The reservoir was low for the time of year, a band of grey shingle fringing the bumpy expanse of wind-battered water.
They crossed the narrow granite bridge and trundled through the hamlet of Sheepstor, following the road as it narrowed, rumbled over a cattle grid and climbed out onto the open moorland. Another slow mile and they reached a small car park by a ford.
‘Where are we?’ asked Claire, getting out of the car.
‘Just east of Burrator Reservoir,’ replied Dan, opening the door to allow Rutherford to explode out. The dog ran barking to the ford, then back to the car, then to a hedge, then back to the car, sniffing ecstatically around him wherever he went.
Dan watched, shook his head resignedly, ‘Like a canine pinball, that dog.’ He pointed south to a hill topped with a ramshackle pyramid of granite rocks. ‘That’s Gutter Tor. But we’re heading east.’
They walked up a well-used, granite-paved track, hedges, occasional wind-beaten trees and rambling dry-stone walls giving way to the open moor. It was a persistent but not aggressive climb. Rutherford spotted a pool just upstream from the ford, sprinted to it and plunged in. He swam across, casting occasional looks back, his mouth open in his smiling face. Claire took Dan’s hand and laced it around her waist.
They passed a small dark copse of dense trees, a bright and well-maintained stone cottage nestling into its side. ‘That’s a scout hut,’ Dan explained. ‘Lots of groups use it as a base for exploring this part of Dartmoor. I’d like to say I’ve stayed there, but I’m not great when it comes to camping. I love a good walk, but I also like a hotel at the end of it with a bar, hot bath and soft bed, not a cold tent on some rocky ground.’
Rutherford found a stick and proudly brought it over. It must have been almost four feet long. Claire tried to take it, but the dog locked his jaws and wrestled with her, growling determinedly.
‘I will never understand why he brings you a stick, but then doesn’t want to let go of it,’ she said, releasing her grip. Dan shrugged. He’d long ago given up trying to explain his dog’s behaviour. He looked around, saw another stick and picked it up, shouting in delight and holding it proudly, waving it through the ragged wind. Rutherford whirled around, dropped his stick and ran after Dan’s. Claire picked up the discarded one and whistled. The dog’s look of acute confusion and dilemma made them both burst out laughing.
‘So what was this work thing you wanted to talk about?’ asked Dan, taking her hand.
‘I’ve been put on the marksman inquiry,’ she puffed as they continued climbing. ‘You’ve met Whiting, haven’t you?’
‘Oh yes. We took an instant dislike to each other. It saved time that way.’
‘Yes, I heard you didn’t exactly hit it off.’
‘How come?’
‘You know what cops are like. Word quickly got round about your little showdowns in Saltash. Whiting isn’t much liked, you know. Some of the team were delighted you were giving him a hard time.’
‘I heard he wasn’t popular but no one’s told me why. Do you know?’
‘Only rumours. Something about an old Detective Inspector whose career he finished with some investigation. I don’t know the details. DCI Breen knows much more. The word is that he was this DI’s sergeant and learnt the trade from him. They were supposed to be very close.’
Interesting, thought Dan. That would explain Adam’s dislike of Whiting. They hadn’t been for a beer for a while now, not since Adam had moved back in with his wife Annie and young son Tom. And he’d been seeing Claire too when he had some rare free time.
Adam hadn’t said anything about that, and he didn’t want to ask what the detective thought. He was protective of his staff and knew too much about Dan’s disastrous history of relationships for his liking. Perhaps it was time they had a beer and a chat? After a couple of lubricating pints, Adam might be more inclined to tell him about Whiting. It sounded well worth hearing.
‘Anyway, it was Whiting I wanted to have a word about,’ continued Claire. ‘He had me in his office to talk about the inquiry. It was all routine, but at the end he said something odd. It was about not wanting to see any more coverage in the media, no matter who asked. I can’t help but wonder if he knows I’m seeing you and was giving me a warning.’
Dan turned as Rutherford poked another stick into the back of his knees. He pushed the dog away.
‘Well … that’s going to be tricky, to say the least. It’s a big story for us and I’m bound to have to cover more on it. What do you suggest? That we don’t talk about it? That’d be a shame. I like hearing what you’re up to.’
‘And I like telling you. It’s an important part of my life, something I want you to share in, not feel excluded from.’
‘Sure. So any ideas?’
She stopped, looked around her and hopped elegantly up on a small granite boulder.
‘Come here,’ she said and he did, standing looking up at her. ‘I trust you,’ she went on, rubbing the top of his head. ‘So I will tell you about the inquiry if you promise not to use it in your reports.’
Months or years ago, that would have been impossible for Dan, to know the fascinating details of a highly newsworthy story but not be able to report them. Now though, he didn’t even think about his answer.
‘Sure. No problem. Deal.’
‘Great. Then that’s all sorted then. You can lift me down from my judge’s rock now.’
He did, stealing a kiss in the process. ‘There is one thing I won’t tell you though.’
‘Uh huh?’ It didn’t seem important after that kiss.
‘The marksman’s name. The High Honchos are paranoid about it getting out and him being hounded when there’s absolutely no evidence – yet, anyway – of him doing anything wrong. Is that OK?’
‘Sure, but there is one slight problem,’ replied Dan, thinking of Dirty El and his mission.
‘Which is?’
‘A picture of this guy is going to be worth thousands. I know at least one photographer is trying to find out who he is and get a snap. And if it becomes public, Wessex Tonight would have to use it. Probably in one of my reports too.’
Claire tilted her head, the flowing hair falling across her face. ‘It hasn’t happened yet, has it? Shall we tackle that when we come to it? I’ve had enough of worrying about work. I need a few hours off.’
They were on higher ground now and the wind gusted around them, flapping noisily at their jackets. Rutherford faced west, instinctively towards the breeze, the invisible power flattening his coat and making it shine in the sunlight.
‘Great views from here,’ shouted Claire above the wind.
‘Yes. You can see the sea at Plymouth,’ he said, pointing to the south and the smooth sheet of silver that hugged the jagged coast. ‘Over to the west is Bodmin moor. That spire is an aerial, the Caradon Hill transmitter. It brings TV pictures to much of the region and so is blessed with transmitting me most weeknights.’
She chuckled. ‘Idiot. I hope it’s specially reinforced to cope with your ego. We’re pretty high up here, aren’t we?’
Dan had been hoping she’d ask. ‘Yes, I’d say about …’ He paused, picked up a stone, held it at head height, dropped it. ‘About 420 metres,’ he said finally.
Claire whistled. ‘Blimey. That is impressive. How can you tell?’
‘I looked it up on the Ordinance Survey map before we came out.’
She ran at him, grabbed him and blew a raspberry in his ear. He caught her and kissed her, and they wrestled together into a hug. Rutherford came running over and leapt up to join them.
What a lovely family picture, Dan thought. Was he happy? He suspected so, but the feeling caught him by surprise. He wasn’t used to it and it was more than a little scary. As easily as it was given, so it could be taken away. Those three big words were illuminated in his mind, but he waited and let them fade before they could take hold and escape from his mouth.