The Judgement Book Read Online Free Page B

pound note. ‘Keep the change, but do me a receipt would you?’
    ‘Done,’ said the man, grinning and exposing a couple of gold front teeth. He handed Dan a piece of paper. ‘Me mobile number’s on there. Call me if you need anything and I’ll drop what I’m doing and come. I’ve always wanted to get into TV. The birds love it.’
    Dan couldn’t disagree. He knew he was a reasonable-looking man, had his own teeth, most of his allocation of hair still hanging on, albeit forlornly, was neither fat nor thin; in short, very average. But many of his romantic entwinements had been kindled by women recognising him from the television. They seemed to assume it guaranteed a level of quality that he usually failed to come close to living up to.
    And now those days were gone, Dan reminded himself. He was in a serious and contented relationship, about to buy a house with Claire. It was the first time he would live with a woman and attempt that intimidating and long-avoided phenomenon only ever whispered by men – and even then looking over their shoulders, as if in fear of the fabled bogey man – the thing known as “commitment”.
    Dan expected to feel a nudge of nostalgia for his carefree bachelor days, just a hint of regret, but was pleased to find none came. It must be right, this new way.
    He hoped.
    He and El walked quickly over to the house. A couple of uniformed cops stood outside on sentry duty. There was a line of cars and a white van on the road outside, Greater Wessex Police CID and scientific support staff standard issue, but there were no other journalists or photographers.
    ‘Great!’ hollered El, stroking the long lens of his camera lovingly. ‘We’re first on the scene and not another snapper in sight. I can whazz the pics off to all the nationals and clean up.’ He mimicked the sound of an old-fashioned cash register. ‘Kerching!’
    The photographer’s face warmed into a sleazy grin and he launched into one of his bizarre limericks.
    ‘There once was a dead MP,
    Who made poor El happy,
    He was mired in scandal,
    Which lit up El’s candle,
    As he did his snap snappy!’
    El raised his camera and began clicking off a series of pictures of the house. Staccato white flashes lit the darkening night.
    Freedman’s home was a politician’s choice. Pleasant and respectable, but not ostentatious, just right to fit in with his people. Semi-detached, circa 1930. Whitewashed stone, new slate roof, probably four bedrooms, safe and enclosed garden at the back for the kids. Couple of lemon trees and a patch of grass in the front garden, bird table with a half-full wire mesh feeder hanging down. It said family and contentment.
    Dan had never interviewed Freedman, but remembered he talked a good game of compassionate politics, not letting yourself get too far removed from your constituents. Living here he could claim to be one of them, even if his life was nothing like the nine-to-five office grind of most of theirs.
    A diesel engine rumbled and groaned. A large white van with Wessex Tonight painted on the side bumped up the pavement, slewing heavily from side to side. A thickly bearded face poked out from the driver’s window. ‘Loud’ Jim Stone, the outside broadcast engineer had arrived.
    ‘Bloody late for a call out,’ he grumbled accusingly. ‘I was getting ready to go to bed. Even had me pyjamas on.’
    The hairy head disappeared back into the cab. The truck jumped into reverse, lurched backwards and snapped a sapling. The two policemen watching from the drive exchanged glances and shook their heads. Dan smiled his best placating look at them and shrugged. He fumbled his mobile from his pocket and called Adam.
    ‘Not a good time,’ the detective replied, emphasising the first word.
    ‘Sorry, I know you’re busy, but …’
    ‘And I know you’ve got a bulletin in an hour,’ Adam cut in. ‘Working with you has ingrained them in my thoughts. I’ll give you a call in a while with some info.