‘Worm.’
‘Worm?’
‘Yes. We don’t know if we’re hunting a man or woman, and worms are hermaphrodites. Plus – well, Worm seems to sum up the kind of person our blackmailer is.’
Adam nodded. ‘Worm it is.’
The door swung open and rattled against the wall. A uniformed sergeant bumbled in. He was chubby and red-faced.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mr Breen,’ the man said, with a hint of a Welsh accent.
‘Yes, Taff?’ replied Adam. The police had never been renowned as the most imaginative organisation, particularly with their nicknames.
‘Something you should know about, sir. Two of the bobbies on patrol have just reported something bizarre. They’ve arrested a bill-poster. He was sticking up a board near the city centre, one of those huge ones out in the middle of the Marsh Mills roundabout.’
The sergeant looked around at the expectant faces. ‘Go on,’ replied Adam.
‘This billboard, sir. It only had writing on, not like those fancy posters with pictures that you see, just these great big letters. But it was what it said that made me think, sir, given what happened yesterday …’
‘Just tell us, man,’ snapped Adam, losing patience.
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It said –’
The sergeant squinted at his note book. Everyone was watching him intently. Dan was tempted to ask the assembled to hold a quick vote on whether Taff’s nickname should henceforth be changed to procrastinator.
Adam folded his arms, glared. A perfectly polished black brogue tapped irascibly on the floor.
The sergeant looked up and finally the elusive information came. And, remarkably, it was worth waiting for.
‘I’ve got it now, sir. Here it is. It said – “Vote Will Freedman MP, Prostitute Party.”’
Chapter Five
A DAM RAN DOWN THE police station stairs, Dan following. Their clattering footsteps echoed from the cold concrete and chased them along the flights. A series of uniformed officers and traffic wardens stood back to let them through. The MIR was on the fourth floor, but Adam wasn’t at all breathless.
‘Come on,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ve had the world’s press on the phone to the station this morning wanting interviews. You can tell me what you reckon’s best to do while we go see this poster. I think we just found out how our Worm planned to expose Freedman.’
Adam jogged over to a battered blue Vauxhall Cavalier and climbed in. The car smelt strongly of stale cigarettes. The detective pushed a series of buttons until one rolled down a window. He breathed in the clean air, gunned the engine and accelerated out of the police station.
‘What are you going to do with the poster?’ Dan asked, as they followed Exeter Street eastwards, out to the edge of the city. He fumbled to clip the seat belt around him. Adam’s driving wasn’t reassuring.
‘Look at it, get it photographed, then taken down and bagged up for forensics to check.’
Perfect, thought Dan, but didn’t say so. Not yet. He was thinking his way through the scoop he wanted, and how to sell it to Adam.
Yet again he was serving two masters. He needed to bank some credit with Lizzie, appease her with a sacrificial story to be sure of securing time to work on the case. Over the past few years he’d had to learn to become adept at balancing the two interconnected worlds, hack and amateur detective, keeping both Lizzie and Adam happy. It could usually be done, but sometimes required near-shameful cunning and the kind of deviousness which would make Machiavelli rise from the ground and applaud enthusiastically.
The car’s clock said it was coming up for half past ten. The timings might just work out.
‘And what about the media?’ Dan asked, holding on to the door strap to fight the force of Adam’s cornering. A couple of horns blared from the blurs of the cars they passed.
‘Haven’t thought about that yet. Got more important things to worry about.’
They turned onto the embankment, the sun laying a
‘Worm?’
‘Yes. We don’t know if we’re hunting a man or woman, and worms are hermaphrodites. Plus – well, Worm seems to sum up the kind of person our blackmailer is.’
Adam nodded. ‘Worm it is.’
The door swung open and rattled against the wall. A uniformed sergeant bumbled in. He was chubby and red-faced.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mr Breen,’ the man said, with a hint of a Welsh accent.
‘Yes, Taff?’ replied Adam. The police had never been renowned as the most imaginative organisation, particularly with their nicknames.
‘Something you should know about, sir. Two of the bobbies on patrol have just reported something bizarre. They’ve arrested a bill-poster. He was sticking up a board near the city centre, one of those huge ones out in the middle of the Marsh Mills roundabout.’
The sergeant looked around at the expectant faces. ‘Go on,’ replied Adam.
‘This billboard, sir. It only had writing on, not like those fancy posters with pictures that you see, just these great big letters. But it was what it said that made me think, sir, given what happened yesterday …’
‘Just tell us, man,’ snapped Adam, losing patience.
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It said –’
The sergeant squinted at his note book. Everyone was watching him intently. Dan was tempted to ask the assembled to hold a quick vote on whether Taff’s nickname should henceforth be changed to procrastinator.
Adam folded his arms, glared. A perfectly polished black brogue tapped irascibly on the floor.
The sergeant looked up and finally the elusive information came. And, remarkably, it was worth waiting for.
‘I’ve got it now, sir. Here it is. It said – “Vote Will Freedman MP, Prostitute Party.”’
Chapter Five
A DAM RAN DOWN THE police station stairs, Dan following. Their clattering footsteps echoed from the cold concrete and chased them along the flights. A series of uniformed officers and traffic wardens stood back to let them through. The MIR was on the fourth floor, but Adam wasn’t at all breathless.
‘Come on,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ve had the world’s press on the phone to the station this morning wanting interviews. You can tell me what you reckon’s best to do while we go see this poster. I think we just found out how our Worm planned to expose Freedman.’
Adam jogged over to a battered blue Vauxhall Cavalier and climbed in. The car smelt strongly of stale cigarettes. The detective pushed a series of buttons until one rolled down a window. He breathed in the clean air, gunned the engine and accelerated out of the police station.
‘What are you going to do with the poster?’ Dan asked, as they followed Exeter Street eastwards, out to the edge of the city. He fumbled to clip the seat belt around him. Adam’s driving wasn’t reassuring.
‘Look at it, get it photographed, then taken down and bagged up for forensics to check.’
Perfect, thought Dan, but didn’t say so. Not yet. He was thinking his way through the scoop he wanted, and how to sell it to Adam.
Yet again he was serving two masters. He needed to bank some credit with Lizzie, appease her with a sacrificial story to be sure of securing time to work on the case. Over the past few years he’d had to learn to become adept at balancing the two interconnected worlds, hack and amateur detective, keeping both Lizzie and Adam happy. It could usually be done, but sometimes required near-shameful cunning and the kind of deviousness which would make Machiavelli rise from the ground and applaud enthusiastically.
The car’s clock said it was coming up for half past ten. The timings might just work out.
‘And what about the media?’ Dan asked, holding on to the door strap to fight the force of Adam’s cornering. A couple of horns blared from the blurs of the cars they passed.
‘Haven’t thought about that yet. Got more important things to worry about.’
They turned onto the embankment, the sun laying a
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