Free The Judgement Book by Simon Hall

turned it off.
    ‘Alex?’ she said. ‘Alex?’
    She opened the wardrobe door, then knelt down and checked under the bed. A few old board games, balls of fluff and dust, but no Alex. Claire walked over to the window. It was open, and the garden shed was just below. An easy jump. She leaned out. No sign of Alex. ‘Shit,’ she said to herself.
    Claire sat down on the bed, suddenly felt tired, longed to lie back and close her eyes. No chance. No time. They had to find Alex. But first, she allowed herself the luxury of a few precious recuperative seconds.
    Claire rubbed her eyes and caught a sight of herself in the wardrobe mirror. It might have been the angle, or the light, but she was convinced she was growing fatter.
    She was going to have to tell Dan soon.
    It was one of the busiest press conferences Dan had seen. The room was packed with journalists, cameramen and photographers. Dirty El stood at the front, grinning happily. Dan noticed he’d bought himself a new pair of jeans, the fashionably grimy and battered look. He’d never fancied a pair himself, didn’t see the point of something new that was produced to look so worn. It was hardly value for money. They’d be falling to pieces in weeks. He prided himself on resisting the more absurd dictates of fashion.
    A friend once remarked that Dan Groves had found a style he liked in the mid 1980s, and had stuck with it ever since. He’d been about to remonstrate when the fire of his argument was dowsed by the realisation that the claim was entirely and annoyingly true.
    ‘Beers on me next time we go out,’ El gushed, stroking the long lens of his camera, then added, ‘Like my new jeans? All courtesy of our dead MP.’ He did a little twirl, ran his hands unappealingly down his ample backside and launched into one of his impromptu and forever dreadful rhymes.
    ‘The MP may be totally dead,
    But he’s feathering Dirty El’s bed,
    He snapped up his shots,
    Gave the tabloids the hots,
    And lifted his bank balance way out of the red.’
    For once, Dan struggled for words. He thought it was one of the worst he’d heard, and that was against some very strong competition. El didn’t seem to notice, still less care.
    ‘Your tip-off meant I was the first one with pics of Freedman’s house and the cops on the scene,’ the photographer continued gleefully. ‘I hoovered up the cash. Sold the snaps to everyone. Even better, all the papers want a follow-up too. They love their dirt. Especially when it’s an MP who’s been caught with his pants down. Naughty naughty!’
    Adam walked in at exactly midday. Dan had never known his friend be late, another of his quirks. He sat down to a blaze of photographers’ flashes and blinked hard. A cluster of microphones rose threateningly on the desk in front of him, all propped up on a strip of white plastic bearing Adam’s name and the Greater Wessex Police crest.
    Dan had sat himself at the back of the room, Nigel alongside, bowed over his camera. He and Adam always tried to make sure it wasn’t obvious how well they knew each other. It could raise awkward questions from the other journalists. And it was particularly important today, given how they’d agreed to stage-manage the press conference to make it their own little drama.
    Adam straightened his already perfect tie and welcomed the gathering. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, thanks for coming here. We are investigating a highly distressing case and we need your help in finding the person responsible.’
    Dan checked his notes. Adam was sticking exactly to the script he’d written a few minutes earlier.
    ‘Will Freedman was a popular and talented Member of Parliament for the Tamar constituency of Plymouth. Yesterday evening, he was found dead at his house. We can now confirm he committed suicide.’
    Adam looked around the room. All the journalists were taking notes, the cameramen intent on their shots.
    ‘Mr Freedman left a note, which said he was the victim of blackmail over