The Shadows of Justice by Simon Hall Page B

she wasn’t feeling well. She was wearing more make-up than usual. Perhaps it was to cover for the effects of some bug.
    The convoy left the police station, crossed the bridge over the River Plym and headed into the open countryside of the South Hams. Adam was about to start reading the file when Dan saw his moment and interrupted.
    “I’ve got an idea.”
    “Why does that make me worry?” Adam replied.
    “Call it a way to make up for my stupid clumsiness.”
    As they jogged out of the police station to rejoin the convoy, Dan spotted an officer carrying a video camera. In the blindness of his preoccupation with the case, he collided with the man, knocking the camera to the floor. Bumped off balance, Dan had also trodden on it, breaking the lens. It was all down to the rush; he apologised repeatedly and perhaps over-effusively. Wessex Tonight would pay for the repair, or a replacement.
    “That’s not the bloody point,” the officer remonstrated. “It’s the only one we’ve got.”
    Adam was eyeing Dan with his special detective’s look. It was loaded with all the suspicion of more than twenty years as a policeman, a generation’s experience of deception.
    “Get on with it,” he said. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
    “It’s just – video can be such powerful evidence.”
    “Really? Thanks, I’d never have thought of that. It is why we bring a camera along – or try to, anyway,” he added, pointedly. “What are you up to?”
    “Nothing, nothing at all. Only that – maybe I can help.”
    “Let me guess. By getting Nigel along to film?”
    “Oh! What a brilliant idea. Just to help you out, of course. To make up for my little accident.”
    “In return for which, you get exclusive pictures?”
    “Well, I never imagined it like that. My only thought was for the interests of justice. But since you come to mention it…”
    Adam clicked his tongue. “What do you think, Katrina?”
    She accelerated the car around a bend, generating g-forces akin to a roller-coaster. “Dan is right, a recording could be useful.”
    “All right,” Adam said, when the offending reporter had finished his performance. “Now, if you’re quite done with your devious little manoeuvers, would you like to hear who we’re up against?”

Chapter Thirteen
    A cinema of the mind formed within the car, as the detective narrator began chronicling a criminal CV.
    “The story of Brian and Martha Edwards,” Adam recounted. “An extraordinary and I suppose sad one, too – if it wasn’t for the way it turned out.”
    Even the drive through the marvels of the Devon springtime didn’t distract from the story. The trees were lit with candle buds and rained blossom. In the fields, cows and horses watched the wailing convoy pass with that magnificent detachment of the animal world. The meadows and pastures were full of the colours of the warming land, prompted from hibernation by days once more blessed with light.
    The Edwards were born in Plymouth and remained in the city for their growing years. Both were educated – if that wasn’t too optimistic a word – at Eddystone Comprehensive, the same school Roger Newman attended.
    “Interesting,” Katrina noted.
    Their criminal careers began modestly. It was clear from the notes that, initially, they were considered relatively small time. They were assessed as not violent, nor a significant danger to the public.
    One remark from the first of the cases, written by a junior detective, said, All this was about was taking the piss .
    “Hang on,” Dan objected. “What’s that kind of comment doing on an investigation report?”
    “Because,” Adam replied emphatically, “none of this exists. Our little storage room is there for a reason. It’s off computers, off the books and beyond the reach of Freedom of Information and Data Protection laws. And particularly journalists. Ok?”
    “Well, I—”
    “That’s only if you want to hear more. I could just stop.”
    “Ok,” Dan