The TV Detective Read Online Free Page B

do. We’ll hold a press briefing when we’ve got more to tell you.’
    â€˜Can we name him yet?’ a younger woman asked.
    â€˜We’re not doing so officially, but that’s up to you, of course. His family – what there is of it – is being told now.’
    â€˜And is any of this on the record?’
    The woman folded her arms, and there was some muted laughter from the pack.
    â€˜Guess that’s a no then,’ one of the photographers said. ‘So when do we get some snaps and quotes?’
    â€˜When Chief Inspector Breen gets here. He won’t be long.’
    Dan just had time to glimpse some of the other reporters’ notebooks. The pages were filled with writing. He had managed only a title, “Lay-by murder.”
    That was hardly going to make a story. He looked around, to see if he knew any of the other hacks. One woman looked vaguely familiar.
    â€˜Hello,’ Dan said, above the noise of the rain. ‘It’s, err, Kate, from the Daily Press isn’t it?’
    â€˜Karen, from the Weekly News.’
    â€˜Sorry, yes, of course. So, what did she say? The detective?’
    â€˜Sorry, I haven’t got time to talk at the mo. Got to file some copy. They’ll be doing another briefing later.’
    Dan looked around for someone else to ask, but the pack had dispersed, returning to their cars to shelter from the rain. He swore again and jogged back to his own car.
    The dashboard clock said it was coming up to nine. The late news was on air at half past ten. It was a fifteen-minute drive back to the studios and it would take at least twenty minutes to cut a report, if they really shifted. So he had to leave here by ten, at the very latest. He had an hour and he possessed no facts and an equal number of pictures.
    Thunder rumbled around the sky.
    It was not proving to be one of the better days in the life of Daniel Groves.
    A thumping on the window startled him. The flattened distortion of a chubby, beaming face pressed up against the glass. The door opened and the soaking figure tumbled untidily in to the passenger seat. Such were the dramatic entrances of Ellis Hughes, the paparazzo known simply as Dirty El, a nickname he had worked hard to win and richly deserved. El’s deviousness in pursuit of a lucrative picture was legendary.
    â€˜Evening, Dan mate. Surprised to see you here. Is there some angle about the local wildlife being frightened off by the shooting then?’
    Dan explained that he was now a former environment correspondent, but a serving crime reporter.
    â€˜Yip, yip, yahoo!’ El reached out a dripping hand and shook Dan’s. ‘Welcome to the foul world of filth. You’ll love it. Looks like we’ll be working together plenty now then.’
    They’d long been drinking buddies, El living just half a mile down the road from Dan, right in the city centre, but they seldom met on stories. The photographer wasn’t interested in the cute and fluffy animal and countryside tales which were Dan’s staple. The snaps that sold were the shockers, so where there was scandal, there was El.
    Which could now be very useful indeed.
    â€˜What do you know about what’s happened then?’ Dan asked.
    El looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t you get that briefing?’
    â€˜No. I got here too late.’
    â€˜Didn’t you get a tip-off?’
    â€˜No,’ said Dan patiently.
    â€˜So you don’t know nothing?’
    This time Dan didn’t bother replying. El grabbed one of Dan’s scarves from the back seatand started drying himself off. ‘You got to get up to speed mate,’ he chuckled. ‘You’re so way behind you’re not even off the starting blocks. You’re trying to race Formula One in a Robin Reliant.’
    Dan freed the scarf from El’s grip. It was his favourite. ‘So, what’s happened?’
    â€˜It’s Bray, Dan mate. Big bad Edward Bray, the bastard