The Death Pictures Page 2

  Silence, apart from the merciless tick of the radio controlled clock on the wall. Dan stood, frozen, as her roving eyes settled on him.

  He just had time to reminisce about what a pleasant day it had been. For once, there was no breaking news of murders, mutilations, explosions, fires, crashes, rapes or robberies that would force him to scramble to yet another miniature war zone. He felt much better off after getting through almost half of his paper mountain backlog of expense claims and he’d even researched a couple of stories too. The one about hoax calls to the police was his favourite for tomorrow. The Superintendent in charge of the 999 call centre had a tape of so called emergencies that included a request for a pizza, a report of a racing pigeon making its home in someone’s back garden and a broken washing machine. It would certainly amuse the viewers.

  He’d even had time to wonder about whether he should call Kerry. They hadn’t got together for days and he wasn’t so sure he wanted to see her at all, but he wasn’t doing anything else tonight, it was spring, the weather was pleasant and a grapple in the sheets would be a fine way to end the day. But then, she’d see it as some form of commitment – again - and he didn’t know if he could face the hassle.

  He’d checked his watch. Coming up to five o’clock it said, so probably about ten past. Dan mouthed the routine curse for the backstreet jeweller who had sold him the cheap Rolex. It hadn’t taken long to find out why the price was so reasonable. He’d started packing up his satchel. Time to quietly sneak off. He could get home, take Rutherford out for an evening run, then decide whether to call Kerry. There was no rush. It was an unusual feeling, but he seemed to be reasonably relaxed.

  The contentment vaporised as Lizzie launched.

  ‘You!’ she barked, striding over, her heels stabbing hard into the carpet tiles of the floor, the black bob of her hair flying. ‘You’ve been doing so-called ‘research’ today. So… what’ve you come up with?’

  Dan put down his satchel. ‘Hoax calls to the police…’ he began. ‘But I don’t have the tape of them yet…’

  ‘Useless then,’ she snapped. ‘What else? Come on!’

  ‘Err… big rise in the number of people being killed on our rural roads…’

  ‘Got enough to talk for a couple of mins about it?’

  ‘Err…’

  ‘Done then. Get out there. I’ll send the outside broadcast truck. I want you on a rural road. I want emotion. I want you yapping movingly for two mins. I want one of those places with a pile of flowers next to a spot where someone’s copped it. And I want it good. Go on then, what are you waiting for? Go!’

  Dan jogged and swore his way down to the studios’ car park to meet Nigel. He was leaning on the bonnet of his estate, polishing the lens of his camera. ‘Quick,’ Dan gasped. ‘Scramble call! Head north, towards Dartmoor. We’ve got to cobble together something for the programme… somehow. Bloody Lizzie.’

  Nigel battled their way through the traffic while Dan worked on his script. Every second saved could be vital in beating a deadline. 5.20, a tortuous time to leave the city, the sluggish roads clogged with weary commuters. And still the location to find and the live broadcast to sort out. It was going to be tight. The precious minutes ticked mercilessly by. Dan noticed his heart had begun racing.

  They headed for the A386, leading out of Plymouth towards north Devon. A racing track mix of single and dual carriageway, long, inviting straights and sudden, deadly bends. It’d seen a series of fatal crashes, particularly motorcyclists.

  He’d spoken to the mother of one young lad, Jason Rayner, a year ago when they’d covered a story about the rising number of bikers being killed in the region. Jason had died on this road when a lorry pulled out in front of him. His family made sure there were always flowers left to mark the spot.

  Dan remembered the interview well. Jason had been just 22 years old. He was a keen motorcyclist, had passed his advanced test and used to ride out into the South-west’s countryside to enjoy his other hobby, landscape photography. He’d been entirely blameless in the crash, as was so often the case with the deaths of bikers. The lorry driver simply hadn’t seen him.

  The man was charged with causing death by dangerous driving, but it was notoriously hard to prove and the case had collapsed. He’d eventually been convicted of careless driving and given a fine of two hundred pounds, with six points on his licence. Jason’s family had described that as an insult.

  The interview with Emma Rayner had been powerful and poignant. She hadn’t cried, instead maintained a calm but intense dignity, which somehow had been more moving. She was only a young woman herself, in her early 40s, and had gone on to join the charity Roadpeace to help campaign to reduce the number of deaths on the roads. Dan had spoken to her a couple of times since about various motoring safety issues. They’d always got on well. He’d even been invited to Jason’s funeral, a gathering of hundreds of friends and family and filled with touching eulogies.

  An idea started to form. He could easily talk for a couple of minutes to take up the required airtime. Painful experience of hearing the dreaded words, ‘Fill, fill, we don’t have the next report,’ in his earpiece on many an outside broadcast had quickly taught him the art of padding. But better, so very much better, to hear what losing a young life in a crash meant from someone who really knew.

  Dan delved into his satchel, found his contacts book. Early in his career he’d got into the habit of writing down the phone number of every person he spoke to, and had been glad of it so often. It distinguished a good hack. You never knew when you’d need to talk to someone at short notice.

  ‘Emma,’ he said gently into the phone. ‘It’s Dan, from Wessex Tonight. How are you?’

  She sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him and they chatted for a couple of minutes before he explained what they needed to do. He called, he said, because it was only fair to warn the relatives of people who had died that their cases were about to be featured on the television. Even many years on, some still struggled to come to terms with their loss and could be shocked at the images suddenly appearing before them, often as the family sat down for dinner.

  ‘That’s fine Dan, absolutely fine. You’ve always been very sensitive about what happened. You know my views. The bigger the publicity the better. If featuring Jason’s case might make people drive more carefully, you’ve got my full blessing.’

  Dan thanked her, paused, then explained his idea.

  She didn’t sound surprised, just amused. ‘What, right now? You don’t ask much, do you? I’m about to cook tea.’

  ‘Anything good?’

  ‘A bit of pasta. Nothing that can’t wait, I suppose…’

  ‘So…’

  ‘But I don’t have any make-up on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say you needed it. Me yes, certainly, but not you.’

  ‘Charmer. You think I’m cheap enough for a bit of flattery to persuade me?’

  Dan kept quiet. A series of good-natured tuts echoed down the phone, then, ‘I’ll be there in half an hour. As it’s you.’

  The car’s glowing clock read half past five. Less than an hour until they were on air. Behind, in the morass of traffic, Dan could see the outside broadcast van. He worked through a quick mental calculation. Twenty minutes to get the satellite link working. Another ten to talk Emma through the interview. Fifteen more for him and Nigel to sort out how to present the broadcast. They could do it. Just.

  ‘Got to get some fuel,’ Nigel said, turning the car off the road and into a petrol station. ‘We’re running on fumes.’

  Dan groaned. ‘Not that time’s against us or anything.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s been so busy lately I haven’t had a chance to fill up. But if I don’t get some petrol we’re going nowhere. Just two minutes. I’ll only get a few quid’s worth.’

  Dan ground his teeth, went back to w
orking on his script, then looked up, noticed something on the forecourt. Another idea kindled. It was remarkable how the jabbing pressure of a looming deadline could spur your brain into action. He got out of the car, walked fast over to the kiosk, jogged back.

  Nigel gave him a look. ‘What’re you up to?’

  ‘Shhh. No time. You’ll see later.’

  The cameraman accelerated around a roundabout and the road broke free from the concrete of the city, onto the open moor. The horizon stretched with a ragged line of the famous tumbledown piles of granite of Dartmoor’s tors. Golden gorse flecked the hedgerows as they sped past. Weatherbeaten ponies chewed hard at lush pockets of grass. Dan kept watch. He scanned each junction eagerly. No flowers… no flowers.

  The miles clicked by. 5.45 now. No flowers… no flowers… no flowers.

  Dan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His back was sweating. If they didn’t find somewhere to do the O.B. in the next few minutes they’d be out of time. He’d never before missed a deadline and didn’t want to make this an unhappy first.

  He breathed out a hiss, tried to remember exactly where the crash had happened. It must have been farther out of the city than he thought. Still no flowers. More time slipped past. 5.50.

  A flash of colour caught his eye. ‘Stop!’ Dan yelled. Nigel slowed hard, bumped the car off the road. A blare of angry horns from other drivers buffeted them. They ignored it, clambered out of the car.

  A tapestry of flowers lined the fence, interlaced reds, blues, yellows and pinks, ruffling gently in the breeze of the passing traffic. One card read, “Jason, always in our thoughts…” Another, “Forever missed, your smile lit up our lives.” Jason’s mischievous face grinned out from a photograph, handsome, dark haired and swarthy.

  Dan’s mobile rang. ‘Hi Lizzie,’ he said, making a face at Nigel. ‘Yes, I know the programme’s in real trouble unless we get this sorted. Thanks for pointing that out. Yes, I know you’re relying on us. If we could just get on with it…’

  A babble of words burst from the phone. ‘Yes, I think you’re right Lizzie,’ Dan replied nonchalantly. ‘We should have thought of asking someone who’s lost a relative in an accident to join us for an interview.’

  The phone buzzed as the attack intensified. ‘Oh, sorry, yes, what I meant was I should have. Yes, I entirely agree, it would have made much better television… far more emotional.’ He paused, waited, gave Nigel a knowing wink, then finally added, ‘Oh, hang on… that was what I meant to tell you… it’s just what I’ve already done.’

  The Outside Broadcast truck skidded to a halt beside them. Nigel held out a microphone and Dan took it, started rehearsing his lines.

  ‘There are few roads you can drive down in the countryside without seeing a poignant memorial to a fatal crash,’ he intoned in his best sombre voice, kneeling by the bouquets. Nigel nodded, focused the camera.

  Emma arrived at quarter past six and gave Dan a hug. He wasn’t surprised to see she didn’t look in the least flustered by the prospect of broadcasting live to half a million people. They were ready with three minutes to spare. Close, but he’d known tighter.

  The director barked a cue into his earpiece, Dan showed the camera the flowers, crouched down to quote one of the tributes, explained what had happened to Jason and Nigel panned the shot to find Emma.

  She talked movingly about losing her son, the pain it still caused every day, her anger at the senselessness of his death and appealed for people to take more care on the roads. Her words were as powerful as ever, couldn’t have been better scripted or delivered by Hollywood professionals, Dan thought. After the broadcast he thanked her, then reached into the back of the car and gave her one of the bunches of flowers he’d bought at the petrol station.

  He waited until Emma had driven away, then carefully placed another of the bouquets at the end of the line of tributes. It just didn’t do for anyone to suspect that such a hardened hack as him had a soft centre.

  Nigel gave him a look, then peered into the back of the car. ‘There’s one bunch left. So who’s that for?’

  Dan adopted an enigmatic smile. If he did decide to go and see Kerry tonight, the flowers should soothe his passage into her sheets beautifully.

  Dan took Nigel for a quick beer at the Moorland Inn after the broadcast. It was his way of saying thanks for rushing around and making sure the story got on air.

  Lizzie called. Not to thank him Dan noted, but to burble about a story for tomorrow.

  He sipped contentedly at his pint and held the phone away from his ear, but still managed to catch most of the words.

  ‘It’s an extraordinary story, one of the best we’ve ever had. It’ll send the ratings soaring. I want top coverage and lots of it. I want reports and live broadcasts. I want emotion. I want poignancy. I want… are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course. Every single word.’

  ‘Right, well, you know the story of that dying artist McCluskey and the Death Pictures riddle? It’s that. I want you to mug up on it. I want you to be our expert. I want you all over it. I want you to know it inside out. Are you back home yet?’

  ‘No, I, err… I’m… checking out another story first.’

  ‘Right, well, one of the researchers will drop off a briefing at your flat. You’d better read it until you know every detail. Tomorrow’s a big, big day. I want top coverage.’

  They finished their pints and Nigel drove them back to Plymouth. Just as Dan climbed out of the car, his mobile rang again. He sighed wearily and was going to ignore it, but Adam’s name flashed up on the display.

  ‘Hi mate, how you doing?’ he said.

  ‘Bad. I’ve got a really nasty case and I need your help.’

  ‘Fire away Adam. I owe you after all the help you gave me on the Bray story.’

  ‘We’ve got a rape, Dan, and it’s a weird one, very weird. A guy forced his way into a woman’s home and attacked her. It was savage, one of the worst I’ve seen. She’s a right mess.’

  Memories of the case they’d worked on together filled Dan’s mind. The shotgun killing of Edward Bray, the notorious businessman, how he’d been allowed to shadow the police investigation, the uncovering of the conspiracy of Bray’s enemies that had led to the murder. How he, a journalist, had seen the vital detail that solved the case. How they’d become unlikely friends and the Chief Inspector had confided in him about the rape of his sister, Sarah, its shattering of a promising life.

  It was that which had pushed Adam to become a detective, a sort of legitimised vigilantism, he’d said. No wonder he sounded dangerous.

  ‘You hear this all the time, Dan and it’s become a classic police cliché, but I’m worried the guy could strike again,’ Adam continued. ‘He did something very odd in the house, which makes me think this is just the start. I need a broadcast to warn women and to get out the description we’ve got to see if anyone recognises him. Can you get something on air for me?’

  Dan paused, could imagine Lizzie interrogating him about the story. Who can we interview? What pictures can we show? He knew what she’d want, but didn’t know how to tell Adam.

  ‘Dan? You there?’ The phone buzzed with the detective’s anger. ‘We’ve got to get this bastard.’

  ‘Yes, I’m here, mate,’ Dan replied. ‘We can probably help you, but there’s one problem. We have a policy of not doing too much crime. There’s so much of it about we could easily fill the programme every day and leave the viewers scared witless. We just tend to do the major stuff, and only then if we can talk to the people who are really affected. And in this case, that’d mean talking to the victim.’

  He heard a hiss of breath over the humming of the phone line.

  ‘Is she up to talking, do you think?’ Dan continued. ‘We could make her anonymous. I know it sounds daft, but we’d need to hear from her what effect i
t’s had.’

  Silence, a couple of clicks on the line. Dan could imagine Adam squeezing the phone in his grip.

  ‘She’s in a dreadful way,’ the detective said finally. ‘But she’s trying to be strong. She’s already talking about not letting him beat her and saying she’ll help us all she can. I think she might be up for it. I’ll have a chat when I go back in to see her. I’ll call you later.’

  She seemed swollen with her suffering. Her face red, blotched, streaked and stained from the tears. Her head hung loose, lifeless, as though she couldn’t find the strength to support it. Her eyes were narrow lines from the endless tears and flinching as she revisited her torment, again and again. One of her hands hung over the stark, sterile white of the hospital sheets, a fiery diamond lightly gracing the wedding finger, a glittering contrast to her hunched darkness. Her fiancé had been traced, was on his way down from Birmingham and he dreaded the man’s reaction when he arrived, dreaded her seeing it too. He’d find a different woman to the one he’d loved.

  Adam could sense the freeze spreading inside her, the shrinking of feeling before it, the blossoming of fear and mistrust in its wake. He’d seen it before, with Sarah, seen what it did to her. A life tainted in one sickening, uncontrolled, attack. She could act a smile now, years on, but she could never feel it.

  Rachel would be the same. She would survive, physically recover, allowing friends and family to enthuse about how much better she was looking. They’d all try to instil life back into her. But it was what it did to you inside, the severing of the fragile bond with humanity. No one would ever know that but Rachel. She and the small band of fellow sufferers who’d been violated by a man’s sexual rage.

  Adam turned away again, looked out of the window, west, to the sun settling on the springtime fields of the Tamar Valley. Shadows stretched ever longer over the amber glow of the patchwork land. He hardly registered its beauty.

  He clenched a fist, breathed out slowly through tightened lips, allowed himself to enjoy a fantasy he knew would stay with him until the case was over. It was how it had been with the other rape investigations. Tracing, chasing, tracking and cornering this man, not the metallic clunk of the handcuffs, but instead his fist planted in the rapist’s face, his knotted knuckles, beating, pounding, time and again, then the hard leather heels of his shoes stamping, pummelling, feeling the dull crack of a skull and smelling a spurt of blood, grinding him into oblivion.