The TV Detective Read Online Free Page A
Author: Simon Hall
mean work.
It was Lizzie, and sounding more excitable even than usual. Her voice fizzed and crackled from the phoneâs speaker. A manâs body had been found in a lay-by, just outside Plymouth. The circumstances were what the police, with a great bound of insight, and the application of considerable analytical skills, were describing as suspicious.
The man had been blasted to death with a shotgun. The whispered word amongst those who knew had it that the victim was a well-known local businessman. Well-known perhaps, but far from well-liked. The talk already was of a revenge killing, for any one of an impressively long list of notorious misdemeanours.
Lizzie Riley, Editor of Wessex Tonight , wanted her newly appointed Crime Correspondent on the scene instantly, if not sooner. He would be fully briefed up and comprehensively knowledgeable, and ready to cut a report about the killing for the late news.
It was proving to be quite a day.
Chapter Two
T HE RAIN HAD REGROUPED its forces and pounded down with renewed fury. Dan squinted through the gloom. Red tail lights blurred in the cascades of water washing over the windscreen and a film of mist fogged the windows. The car hadnât yet warmed up, and he shivered.
It felt like a perfect night for a murder.
His flat was in Hartley Avenue, just outside the city centre, and only five minutes from the dual carriageway A38, the main road between Plymouth and civilisation. The lay-by was just a few miles to the east. It shouldnât take long to get there.
His first story as Crime Correspondent.
Heâd expected it to come tomorrow, maybe the day after if he was lucky. To have time to sleep on the idea, to grow accustomed and acclimatised to the new world. And, more importantly, to read up on police procedures, research the running stories.
Not to be cast straight into the fire.
Perhaps it was better this way. Get stuck in, donât procrastinate with too much thinking, allow the nerves to grow. Just learn as you go.
He didnât come close to convincing himself. Dan wasnât surprised to find his eyes watering. He dabbed at them with a sleeve.
He wondered how wise it had been to leave behind the bottle of pills, hidden at the back of the bathroom cabinet. Heâd taken it out, stared at it, even opened the lid, been tempted to take one, maybe more, but stopped himself. They hadnât worked before. There was no reason to think they would now.
He turned on the radio, twisted the volume up loud. This was no time to let it take him.
A big story, his first in the new job.
Dan flicked the wipers onto maximumspeed, their frantic arcs forcing back the torrents of rainwater. The car had reached the edge of the cityâs sprawl, the lines of concrete and brick, the beacons of the streetlights falling behind. Darkness lingered, punctuated only by rushing white headlights. The wheels slewed through the wash of the road.
Now the glowering sky changed colour, tinted with strobes of blue.
Dan indicated, turned off into the lay-by and pulled up by the line of cars and fluttering police tape.
The pack was already there. A dozen of them, clustered around a woman. They were hunched up in their coats, some sheltering beneath umbrellas, all taking notes. A few Dan recognised. Reporters from local papers, news agencies, websites and radio stations, photographers too.
Everyone knew. Everyone had been tipped off. Everyone except him.
Dan swore to himself, pulled on a coatand jogged over. Rain splashed up his trousers and into his shoes.
The woman was short, squat, wearing a long mac which almost reached the ground. All the hacks were listening to her intently.
ââ¦Â so, weâre searching the lay-by now, then weâll start going through everyone who might have had reason to want him harmed.â
âThatâs a hell of a list,â an older man grunted, prompting some nods of agreement.
âMaybe, but itâs what weâve got to
It was Lizzie, and sounding more excitable even than usual. Her voice fizzed and crackled from the phoneâs speaker. A manâs body had been found in a lay-by, just outside Plymouth. The circumstances were what the police, with a great bound of insight, and the application of considerable analytical skills, were describing as suspicious.
The man had been blasted to death with a shotgun. The whispered word amongst those who knew had it that the victim was a well-known local businessman. Well-known perhaps, but far from well-liked. The talk already was of a revenge killing, for any one of an impressively long list of notorious misdemeanours.
Lizzie Riley, Editor of Wessex Tonight , wanted her newly appointed Crime Correspondent on the scene instantly, if not sooner. He would be fully briefed up and comprehensively knowledgeable, and ready to cut a report about the killing for the late news.
It was proving to be quite a day.
Chapter Two
T HE RAIN HAD REGROUPED its forces and pounded down with renewed fury. Dan squinted through the gloom. Red tail lights blurred in the cascades of water washing over the windscreen and a film of mist fogged the windows. The car hadnât yet warmed up, and he shivered.
It felt like a perfect night for a murder.
His flat was in Hartley Avenue, just outside the city centre, and only five minutes from the dual carriageway A38, the main road between Plymouth and civilisation. The lay-by was just a few miles to the east. It shouldnât take long to get there.
His first story as Crime Correspondent.
Heâd expected it to come tomorrow, maybe the day after if he was lucky. To have time to sleep on the idea, to grow accustomed and acclimatised to the new world. And, more importantly, to read up on police procedures, research the running stories.
Not to be cast straight into the fire.
Perhaps it was better this way. Get stuck in, donât procrastinate with too much thinking, allow the nerves to grow. Just learn as you go.
He didnât come close to convincing himself. Dan wasnât surprised to find his eyes watering. He dabbed at them with a sleeve.
He wondered how wise it had been to leave behind the bottle of pills, hidden at the back of the bathroom cabinet. Heâd taken it out, stared at it, even opened the lid, been tempted to take one, maybe more, but stopped himself. They hadnât worked before. There was no reason to think they would now.
He turned on the radio, twisted the volume up loud. This was no time to let it take him.
A big story, his first in the new job.
Dan flicked the wipers onto maximumspeed, their frantic arcs forcing back the torrents of rainwater. The car had reached the edge of the cityâs sprawl, the lines of concrete and brick, the beacons of the streetlights falling behind. Darkness lingered, punctuated only by rushing white headlights. The wheels slewed through the wash of the road.
Now the glowering sky changed colour, tinted with strobes of blue.
Dan indicated, turned off into the lay-by and pulled up by the line of cars and fluttering police tape.
The pack was already there. A dozen of them, clustered around a woman. They were hunched up in their coats, some sheltering beneath umbrellas, all taking notes. A few Dan recognised. Reporters from local papers, news agencies, websites and radio stations, photographers too.
Everyone knew. Everyone had been tipped off. Everyone except him.
Dan swore to himself, pulled on a coatand jogged over. Rain splashed up his trousers and into his shoes.
The woman was short, squat, wearing a long mac which almost reached the ground. All the hacks were listening to her intently.
ââ¦Â so, weâre searching the lay-by now, then weâll start going through everyone who might have had reason to want him harmed.â
âThatâs a hell of a list,â an older man grunted, prompting some nods of agreement.
âMaybe, but itâs what weâve got to
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