Turnstone

by Hurley, Graham

  Other ways?

  Faraday bent to the box of copier paper on the floor and fed a sheet into the printer beside it. If the threat was this explicit in a letter to a solicitor, then God knows what Maloney must have told his ex-wife. No way do you get between me and my daughter. No way do you crate your belongings, flog the house and steal off to Heathrow to start your new life. Not with Em. Not with my precious daughter. No way. Not now. Not ever.

  And Sandra? Or – more importantly – Patrick McIlvenny? What might they have done? Say their plans were cast in concrete? Say they’d even got a deadline, a leaving date, a buyer for the house? What would you do about a man as intransigent as Stewart Maloney? Might you try sweet reason? Might you try and buy him off? And if that failed, and you were that desperate, might you just phone for a cab? And come round to sort the issue out?

  Faraday retrieved the letter from the printer and walked through to the front room. The presence of the passport application form was much clearer now, Maloney’s bid to regain some control in this situation. With a new passport, Em could exercise an element of choice. Maloney could even keep the passport himself, making it impossible for her to leave the country.

  Faraday sifted carefully through the correspondence on the table, sorting out the uncompleted form and putting it on one side. There comes a moment in every investigation when instinct begins to harden into conviction and he knew that this was it. Beyond any reasonable doubt he’d established a motive. Where that motive might lead was still largely guesswork, but at least it was a start.

  By the window, he paused, listening to the howling wind, thinking of Maloney again. There were holes in this theory of his and one of them had to do with Sandra, Maloney’s ex-wife. If her new lover was really responsible for Maloney’s disappearance, then how come she’d volunteered the keys to this flat so willingly?

  Faraday shook his head, not knowing the answer, and then picked up the passport form. Next stop would be another visit to Sandra Maloney and the chance to put his suppositions to the test of a second interview. Faraday glanced at his watch, planning the evening ahead, relieved that he wouldn’t have to go home. He hadn’t trodden this path for years, and with a sudden rush of pleasure, he realised that he was enjoying it.

  Paul Winter was contemplating the prospects for the pub quiz when Morry Templeman phoned. The quiz took place on the second Monday of every month and August was especially good because so many of the better teams would be away on holiday. For Joan, in particular, the pub quiz had become the mainstay of her social diary.

  The phone was in the hall.

  ‘Paul? You got a pen there?’

  Winter recognised Morry’s thin wheeze at once. He reached for a Biro and closed the lounge door with his foot.

  ‘Go,’ he said.

  Templeman gave him an address and a phone number in Port Solent. It was nearly dark outside, terrible weather for August, and Winter had to turn on the table lamp to read it all back.

  ‘So who’s that, then?’ Winter was still peering at the address.

  ‘Juanita. Her second name’s Perez. And listen, Paul.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It didn’t come from me.’

  By the time Faraday got to North End, Sandra Maloney was preparing supper. Faraday offered to come back later but she said she wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t take long.’ She slipped the lettuce back into the fridge. ‘Is there any news?’

  Faraday was watching Emma laying three places at the table at the far end of the kitchen-diner. The girl darted to and fro with a deftness of movement that J-J had never quite managed to master, even now.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Faraday said at last. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to do this later?’

  Sandra shook her head and led the way through to the living room. Faraday shut the door behind them. The framed photo was still on the piano, the face beneath the enormous rucksack as stony-eyed and long-suffering as ever.

  ‘About this new relationship of yours …’ Faraday began.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Faraday caught the chill in her voice. There was surprise there, certainly, but defiance as well. What had Sandra Maloney’s private life got to do with the likes of Faraday?

  Faraday settled himself in the high-backed armchair by the window. He wanted to know about Sandra’s plans to move to Canada.

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘That’s not the way I heard it.’ He glanced round the big sitting room with its shadowed alcoves and brimming bookcases. ‘Is this place on the market by any chance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not planning to sell up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your partner, Patrick, is he—?’

  ‘Friend, not partner.’

  ‘Really?’

  Faraday let the question settle between them. Two decades inside J-J’s head had given him a very special appreciation of body language. In situations like these, he always looked for the tell-tale signs of anxiety: tiny facial movements, especially around the mouth; a reluctance to risk full eye contact; trouble keeping the hands still. Clues like these often flagged the path to a successful result but so far, to his surprise, Sandra Maloney had evidenced nothing more revealing than anger.

  She was perched on the edge of the Victorian chaise longue, her hands clasped together, her lips pursed. At length, she broke the silence.

  ‘For the record, Mr Faraday, Patrick and I are extremely good friends. I don’t know where you got hold of all this nonsense about me moving to Canada. If he hadn’t disappeared, I’d put money on the fact that you’ve been talking to Stewart. That’s the kind of thing he’d believe.’

  ‘You’re saying it’s not true?’

  ‘Yes, and it never has been true, either. Stewart’s paranoic. He jumps to conclusions all the time.’

  ‘But your friend is Canadian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re telling me he doesn’t want to go back to Vancouver?’

  Mention of Vancouver brought colour to Sandra’s face.

  ‘He does. That’s true. He doesn’t much like it here. And sometimes I don’t blame him.’

  ‘But you don’t want to go with him?’

  ‘What I want doesn’t matter. I can’t and that’s that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of Em, of course. She loves her home. She’s settled at school. All her friends are here. And then there’s her dad. That’s the irony, Mr Faraday, that’s what poor, dear, deluded Stewart never quite understands. His best guarantee as far as Em is concerned is the girl herself. Do I look the kind of mother that would just pack her up and haul her away?’

  ‘But otherwise you’d have done it?’ Faraday said. ‘Is that fair?’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Gone to Canada. With Patrick.’

  Faraday’s gaze strayed to the picture on the piano. Sandra was watching him carefully.

  ‘I might,’ she conceded.

  ‘And he knows that? Patrick?’

  ‘We’ve talked about it.’

  ‘And he wants you to go?’

  ‘Yes, he does. But men are like that, aren’t they? Want, want, want. Need, need, need. Not a thought for anyone else, let alone Em.’

  Faraday nodded, and produced a battered notebook. The interview was back where he wanted it. Sandra Maloney, for all her protestations, was the meat in the sandwich – not simply between two men, but between two men and her daughter. He hadn’t been wrong after all.

  ‘Do you happen to know where Patrick was on Friday afternoon?’

  Sandra stared at him.

  ‘For God’s sake—’ she began.

  ‘It’s a serious question, Mrs Maloney. You’d be well advised to answer it.’

  There was a long silence while Sandra studied her hands. Faraday could sense her hauling the rope of days back through her memory. At last, she looked up. The defiance was back in her eyes again.
>
  ‘He was here,’ she said. ‘With me.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘No. We were alone.’

  ‘So there’s no one else to … ah … corroborate that fact?’

  Faraday’s pen hovered over the notebook. In the depths of the house, he could hear a clock chiming. Finally Sandra shook her head.

  ‘Nobody,’ she said.

  ‘And you were both here all afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, we had a bit of lunch. Patrick had brought a rather good bottle of wine.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘We went to bed. It’s holiday time. The weather was miserable. Em was out for the afternoon. Oh, for God’s sake, why do I have to justify myself? What are you after, Mr Faraday? The details?’

  ‘He never left the house, then?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  ‘You’re absolutely certain about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And has he ever been to your ex-husband’s flat?’

  ‘Never. In fact I don’t think they’ve even met.’

  ‘Never?’

  There was another long silence. Then came the sound of a key in a door and Sandra was on her feet in an instant, a suddenly vivid smile on her face.

  ‘Ask him yourself,’ she said. ‘He’s just come in.’

  Before Faraday could get to his feet, she was out of the room. Faraday heard the low murmur of voices in the hall, then the man on the footpath was standing in the open doorway. He was an inch or two over six feet. His scarlet anorak was dripping from the rain and what was left of his hair was plastered over his scalp. He ignored Faraday’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Faraday was still cursing himself for not being quicker into the hall. Five seconds was time enough to establish an alibi, especially if you were guilty.

  McIlvenny was still waiting for an answer. Faraday explained briefly about Maloney, and about Emma’s visit to the police station. He was here to help her find her father.

  ‘Would you have any objection if I asked you for your fingerprints?’ Faraday inquired.

  McIlvenny stared at him for a long moment.

  ‘For what purpose?’ he said at last.

  ‘Elimination.’

  ‘Elimination from what?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you at this point in time. If I could, it might be easier for all of us.’ He paused. ‘I understand you’re thinking of going back to Canada.’

  McIlvenny glanced at Sandra and then nodded. Trying to teach anything in this country had become a joke, especially in schools as appalling as Portsmouth’s, and the higher you got in the pecking order, the more you realised that the problems were probably insoluble.

  Faraday recognised the veiled threat.

  ‘Where do you teach?’

  McIlvenny named one of the big comprehensives. Then, for the first time, he permitted himself the ghost of a smile.

  ‘At the moment I’m acting headmaster,’ he said bleakly, ‘until they find some other poor sap.’

  Before he left them to their supper, Faraday took Sandra aside and told her that he’d appreciate a word with her daughter.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Sandra looked him in the eye, wanting to say no, wanting him to leave, then shrugged, too weary to argue. Emma was upstairs in her bedroom. Faraday could ask her whatever he liked, as long as Sandra was there.

  ‘No problem, Mrs Maloney.’

  Sandra led the way upstairs. Emma was sitting on her bed, watching television with the sound down. Faraday wondered whether she’d been at the top of the stairs, trying to eavesdrop.

  Sandra explained about Faraday being a policeman.

  ‘Detective, Emma,’ Faraday murmured. ‘Sounds more glamorous.’

  The girl looked up at him. She was still a child, half frightened, half fascinated. Faraday reversed a chair and sat down, his chin on his folded arms.

  ‘Just the one little question, Emma. Your dad’s flat, those pictures on his wall in the front room. You know the ones I’m talking about?’

  Emma nodded. The faint, whispery voice went with the freckles and the brace on her front teeth.

  ‘You mean the photos?’

  ‘Yes. Just imagine you’re standing there now, looking out towards the window. OK?’ Emma glanced at her mother, wide-eyed at this new game, then nodded again. ‘Good. Now look just a bit to your left. There’s a picture at the end of the row of photos, a bit bigger than the rest. Got it?’

  Emma frowned with concentration, then began to giggle. Faraday was smiling, too.

  ‘Know the picture I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s the picture of?’

  There was a long silence. Emma was still giggling. Then Sandra broke in, her patience exhausted.

  ‘Just tell him, Em. Tell him what it is.’

  ‘It’s a lady.’

  ‘A photograph?’ Faraday asked. ‘Like the rest?’

  ‘No, a picture, a painting, something someone’s done.’

  ‘And what’s it like? What’s the lady doing?’

  ‘She’s sitting on a sofa thing. More lying down, really.’

  ‘Is that all? Is that why you were giggling?’

  ‘No, it’s just that …’ Her eyes went to her mother again. ‘The lady hasn’t got anything on.’

  ‘Nothing at all? You mean she’s naked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Faraday nodded, letting the silence stretch and stretch. He felt Sandra stiffening beside him. Just one more question, he thought. Then we’re through.

  ‘This lady, Emma’ – he gestured up at Sandra – ‘is she your mummy?’

  The child looked briefly startled at the suggestion, then shook her head vigorously.

  ‘Oh, no, she’s different … all over.’

  There was a long silence, then Sandra manoeuvred Faraday out on to the landing and closed the bedroom door behind her. McIlvenny was at the foot of the stairs, waiting for them both to come down.

  ‘I hope you’ve got a good reason for all these questions,’ Sandra said icily, ‘because you’re sure as hell going to need one.’

  Eleven

  Faraday found the envelope on his desk when he got back to the station. The night shift had just booked on and the traffic crews were milling around the coffee machine along the corridor. Inside the envelope was a bunch of photographs secured with an elastic band. The top one showed a group of men clambering aboard a yacht, and it took Faraday a second or two to realise that these were the shots from Maloney’s roll of film.

  Cathy was next door in the CID room, bent to the phone. She gestured for him to come over, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

  ‘Checking on Pete again,’ she muttered.

  Faraday squeezed her shoulder and returned to his office, settling down to sort through the photos. They all seemed to feature the same yacht. The weather looked pretty similar throughout, so Faraday assumed that they must have been snapped on the Tuesday or Wednesday of Cowes Week. The name of the yacht – Marenka – was black-lettered on the crew’s scarlet sweatshirts and, judging by the expressions on these men’s faces, the day’s racing must have gone well.

  Towards the bottom of the pile, Faraday came across a shot that somebody else must have taken. Marenka was back on the pontoon amongst all the other yachts and the crew were crowded together in the cockpit for a victory pose. There were six of them in all, a mix of ages, two of them young, four of them older. With the exception of the man in the very middle of the group, they were all punching the air, Maloney’s fist raised highest of all.

  Faraday lingered for a moment on the three-day growth of beard that was rapidly becoming familiar, then he returned to the man in the middle. He was heavily built. He had a big, meaty face, and the same red sweatshirt and matching shorts, but unlike everyone else his head was turned to t
he left, his gaze directed elsewhere. One arm was up, his middle finger raised in a derisive salute, and the expression on his face was close to a snarl.

  Trying to imagine the wider picture, Faraday half closed his eyes. Marenka had obviously won but for this man, at least, victory hadn’t been enough. He’d spotted the opposition. And he wasn’t going to let the moment pass. Something the girl in the Fastnet office had said came back to Faraday. ‘They don’t come more competitive than Marenka,’ she’d told him. And here was the proof.

  Cathy appeared at the open door, zipping up her anorak. When Faraday raised an inquiring eyebrow, she shook her head.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘No one’s heard a peep since last night.’

  ‘Maybe the radio’s out.’

  ‘That’s what they said.’

  Faraday nodded, trying to think of something else to say, some other crumb of comfort, but Cathy was gone already, the clack-clack of her footsteps fading away down the corridor.

  Reaching for the phone directory, Faraday found the number for Aqua Cabs and then dialled it. When he finally got through to the shift manager he asked what kind of records they kept.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Missing-person inquiry.’

  The woman grunted then explained that a tally of all calls and fares were kept on hard disc for a week. Then wiped. Faraday inquired whether she’d got a pen handy. When she asked why, he gave her Maloney’s name, the address on the seafront and last Friday’s date.

  ‘I’m looking for a pick-up around four in the afternoon,’ he said, ‘Give or take.’

  He heard the snort of laughter at the other end, then she was back on the phone.

  ‘We’re turning over more than a thousand calls a day at the moment,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re not in a hurry.’

  Back home by ten, Faraday found a scribbled note from J-J explaining that he’d gone to stay with a friend for the night. A couple of panes of glass in the greenhouse had been smashed by flying debris during the day, but he’d done his best to block the holes with sheets of plywood. He’d signed the note with a big loopy ‘J’ and added a pair of seagull wings underneath, and the gesture brought a smile to Faraday’s face. It was the first sign of affection from the boy since his return from France.

  Minutes later, standing in the lounge listening to the storm blowing itself out, Faraday answered the phone. It was Cathy. She was laughing. She’d just had a call from the Search and Rescue people telling her that Tootsie’s crew had been picked up by helicopter and flown to hospital in Plymouth. Pete was suffering from exposure but otherwise appeared to be OK. First thing tomorrow, she wanted to drive down to collect him.