Winter stirred. Ignoring Faraday, he looked across at Cathy Lamb.
‘No disrespect, skip.’ He touched his face. ‘But wouldn’t you be better off back here?’
Cathy shook her head and began to answer but Faraday stepped in.
‘I want Cathy on the ground,’ he told Winter. ‘She’s up to speed on the Maloney case and Dawn has a line to the management up there. It’ll do them good to see us buckling down to a bit of serious coppering.’
Winter stared at him. He normally had no trouble hiding his real feelings, but this time something in Faraday’s tone of voice had really got to him.
‘Tell me,’ he began. ‘This Maloney business. Is it a private party, or can anyone come?’
Faraday ignored the gibe. He wanted Cathy and Dawn Ellis at Port Solent as soon as possible. The quicker they started knocking on doors, the quicker they might turn up something worthwhile. He gathered his papers and stuffed them back in his file, then looked at the watching faces.
‘OK?’ he said.
Winter cornered Cathy by the staff notice board as she was on her way out of the building. Dawn Ellis was already warming up the unmarked Escort outside.
‘Something I never mentioned back there,’ he said. ‘Your friend Vikki Duvall.’
‘You mean Elaine?’
‘Yeah. She’s operating out of Port Solent now and she’s not a million miles from Muscovy Drive. Look for a house with yellow curtains.’
‘I thought she was still in London.’
Winter shook his head.
‘She made a packet there but got sick of the Arabs. Port Solent’s ideal. Good class of punter and nice place to live, too. She’s driving a Megane convertible, by the way. You might look for that, too.’
Cathy filed the information away. Through the window she could see Dawn looking at her. She knew Winter too well not to ask the obvious question.
‘Is this a freebie? Or are there strings attached?’
Winter looked briefly hurt, then shook his head.
‘It’s for you, skip.’ He sighed. ‘I’d have mentioned it earlier but the pillock never listens.’
Back in his office, Faraday lifted the phone and dialled the number of the local intelligence officer. The LIO manned a desk in the CID room. Faraday gave him three names to run through the Police National Computer: Charlie Oomes, Derek Bissett and Ian Hartson. He wanted details of any criminal records they might possess, plus any other information. Waiting for a response, he found himself looking at Bibi, Bevan’s secretary. Kate Symonds, the journalist from Coastlines, was downstairs at the front desk demanding five minutes of his time.
‘Demanding?’
‘That’s right.’ Bibi rolled her eyes. ‘And she seems to think you’ll thank her for it.’
The LIO had finished accessing the national computer. His inquiries had drawn a blank on all three of the entries he’d typed in, but two of the names had triggered a personal memory.
‘The man Bissett, sir,’ he said. ‘What kind of age is he?’
‘Mid-forties, I’d say, but I’d be guessing.’
‘Do you happen to know what he does for a living?’
‘No, why?’
‘We had a guy up at HQ at Kidlington. Same name. He bailed out early and joined a bloke called Charlie Oomes. Oomes ran an IT company. We bought a couple of systems from him.’
Faraday reached for a pad. The officer on the Intelligence Desk had come to Portsmouth North from the Thames Valley force.
‘Tell me more about Bissett,’ Faraday said. ‘What did he do before he went?’
‘He was an inspector, I think. Worked in one of the service departments.’
‘Which one?’
‘IT,’ the LIO replied. ‘Just a thought.’
Cathy Lamb had a minute or two alone in the car before she crossed the road to tackle Elaine Pope. Dawn Ellis was already busy in the next cul-de-sac, working slowly outwards, house by house from seven Muscovy Drive.
Swivelling the rear-view mirror, Cathy examined her face. She’d spent half the night boxing up Pete’s possessions, surprised at how much they seemed to have accumulated over the years. She’d made a separate pile of his clothes, bundling them into black plastic dustbin liners, and before she’d driven to work she’d left them in the doorway of the Sue Ryder shop in Fareham High Street with a note telling them to help themselves. Later in the day, she intended to phone the Fareham nick and leave a message for Pete. Her ex-husband had always been keen on secondhand shops.
Ex-husband?
She gazed at herself in the mirror. It was easy to be strong in this kind of mood, easy to parcel up eleven years of marriage, give the house a good Hoovering and tell yourself that things could only get better, but she was too wise, and too level-headed, not to believe that the going was bound to get tough. There’d be times, lonely times, when she’d miss him. There’d be evenings when she’d want to sit him down, pour him a drink and generally make a fuss of him. That’s what so much of their marriage had been about, snatched little moments in two busy lives when they could shut the door on the world and just be themselves. But those days, those moments had gone. They hadn’t been enough for him and in consequence he’d looked elsewhere. As with so much in her life, it was simple logic. The marriage was over.
Strangely heartened, Cathy readjusted the mirror and got out of the car. Elaine’s scarlet Megane was parked on the apron of hard standing behind the house with the yellow curtains, just the way Winter had described. From the front of the property, as far as Cathy could judge, she’d have near-perfect line of sight to the waterside frontage of Charlie Oomes’s place, less than a hundred metres away.
She crossed the road and followed the path to the front door. She’d known Elaine Pope since she was a kid. They’d lived within streets of each other in Paulsgrove, gone to the same scuzzy school, and in their separate ways they’d both battled out of the estate to make a better life for themselves. As far as Cathy had been concerned, that was definitely going to be the police force, but with Elaine Pope the options had been infinitely wider.
In an awkward, skinny kind of way she’d always had good looks, but the moment she hit adolescence it became obvious that she was going to be a stunner. Of five kids, she was the only one to have been fathered by the Swedish sailor with whom her mum had fallen in love. People on the estate had called him Blondie but he’d only stayed long enough to make Elaine’s mum pregnant, and the day after she broke the news he’d disappeared back to sea. As far as Cathy knew, no one had seen him since, but the calling card he’d left behind – young Elaine – had inherited both his temper and his startling looks. Blonde, long-legged, and far too passionate for her own good, it was small wonder she’d earned enough to buy a pad like this.
When she answered the door, she was still wearing a dressing-gown. Cathy hadn’t seen her for nearly three years, but London had done nothing to tarnish her looks. The same flawless complexion. The same perfect mouth. The same habit of theatrically widening those cornflower-blue eyes when she was taken by surprise.
‘Cathy? Cathy Lamb?’
They talked in a big upstairs sitting room while Elaine rustled up toast and coffee. They both knew that there was business to be done but for the time being, like any women anywhere, they simply compared notes. Good times. Funny times. Bad times. A marriage as familiar as an old sweater, wrapped in a bin liner and left in a shop doorway that very morning.
‘Shit.’ Elaine shook her head. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It was my own bloody fault. He must have been up to it for months, years probably. Fancy being that blind in my job.’
‘Your face OK?’
‘Fine. You should see hers.’
Elaine laughed her rich Pompey laugh. Three years in Holland Park hadn’t quite eradicated her Paulsgrove accent and at moments like these it came muscling back.
‘Men are lunatics.’ She ground out her third cigarette. ‘Fuck ’em all. What you doing?’<
br />
Cathy had gone to the window and seemed to be studying the view.
‘There’s a couple of questions I need to ask,’ she said, ‘about Friday afternoon.’
Faraday had left Kate Symonds waiting downstairs for more than half an hour while he talked to the Royal Ocean Racing Club people in London. As organisers of the Fastnet, they’d returned to their St James headquarters, and now they were sorting out documents for the official inquiry. Faraday wanted names and home addresses for Oomes, Bissett and Hartson, prior to arranging interviews, and when they faxed the information down he was surprised to find that it included next-of-kin. Charlie Oomes’s main residence was on the Thames, west of Maidenhead.
The information filed away, he finally went downstairs to meet Kate Symonds at the front desk. When she insisted on somewhere private for them to talk, he swiped her into the station through the locked side door and took her up to the empty social club, settling her at a table by the window. She said no to his offer of coffee and told him at once why she’d come. In her view, Bevan had been offensive to the point of professional suicide during their last meeting. Answering the summons to return to the office was only one of the reasons she’d felt obliged to leave.
‘Professional suicide? Bit strong, isn’t it?’
‘You were there, Mr Faraday. I’m not making this up. Describing someone you’ve nearly killed by mistake as scum isn’t great PR.’
‘Scum?’ Faraday looked puzzled. ‘I don’t recall that.’
Symonds dug in her bag and passed over a long white envelope. Faraday could feel the shape of the audio cassette inside.
‘That’s a copy.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve still got the original.’
Faraday was thinking fast. An expression of outrage would be wasted on this woman. She was too ambitious, too driven to think of anything but her next precious headline. Whatever Faraday said would simply become part of the story.
‘Are you taping this as well by any chance?’ he inquired.
‘No.’ She pulled open her jacket. ‘Search me if you want.’
‘OK.’ Faraday nodded towards the door. ‘Then I suggest we widen the discussion. Mr Bevan’s office is along the corridor there.’
‘I’d prefer not.’
‘Why? It’s his call, not mine.’
Symonds leaned forward over the table. Faraday didn’t move. In certain lights, he thought, she might almost be attractive.
‘We’re in a competitive business,’ she said softly. ‘It would be nice to steal the odd advantage.’
‘Steal is a good word.’
‘Just a phone call from time to time.’ She ignored the sarcasm. ‘And maybe the odd meeting.’
Faraday tried to hide his smile. The irony was too obvious.
‘You’re asking me to become a grass?’
‘No, I’m asking you to compare notes.’
‘That’s what the briefing was supposed to be about.’
‘Hardly, Inspector. I came in good faith. All I got was abuse.’
Faraday said nothing. Then he picked up the envelope again, weighing it in his hand. Bevan was in deep enough trouble with the media already. The after-shocks of the Harrison shooting were still rumbling on and quite soon he’d have to deal with the results of Pete Lamb’s blood test. Add the possible consequences of last night’s punch-up – two policewomen brawling in public – and Kate Symonds might just’ be right. There comes a point in any man’s career where the liabilities can tip the balance against him. Given Bevan’s already volatile relationship with HQ, it might be wise to spare the world the contents of the audio tape.
Faraday got to his feet, pocketing the tape. Symonds reached for her bag.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Faraday grunted.
‘Is that a yes?’
Faraday smiled for the first time, shepherding her towards the door, saying nothing.
*
Back in his office, minutes later, Faraday took a call from Cathy Lamb. She was still with Elaine but she’d hit a problem.
‘What is it?’
‘She won’t talk without you being here.’
‘Why not?’
‘She wants some guarantees. From someone more senior than me.’
‘Ah …’ Faraday nodded. ‘Has she got much to say?’
‘I think she may have, yes.’
‘How come?’
‘Charlie Oomes is one of her clients.’
Faraday drove to Port Solent. Cathy met him at the kerbside, and briefed him before leading the way back indoors. There were two potential hiccoughs. One was obvious. Elaine made a good living from her services and wasn’t keen on interference from either the locals or the Inland Revenue. The other was more personal. Like a doctor or a lawyer, she had objections to discussing her clients, especially when it concerned a head-case like Oomes.
‘Is that her description?’
‘Yes. Apparently he pays good money but she says he can be difficult.’
‘How come?’
‘Strange tastes. She wouldn’t go into it but I don’t think four hundred pounds a pop buys him tea and sympathy.’
Cathy led the way indoors. Elaine was busy in the kitchen so Cathy took Faraday straight upstairs.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘Elaine’s a good mate of Marty Harrison’s, too. He’s been using one of her brothers on various jobs. Dave Pope his name is. I think Marty keeps an eye on her just in case things ever get rough. That’s the feeling I get.’
Faraday was looking round. The spotless lounge. The carefully lit marine water colours on the pale grey walls. The rack of CDs beside the audio stack. This place could belong to any successful career woman, and in a sense it did, but not for a moment could he imagine the naked bulk of Charlie Oomes spread-eagled over the dainty Paisley-patterned sofa.
He walked across to the big picture window. The view across the marina pontoons was busy with yachts.
‘That’s Oomes’s place, there.’
Cathy was beside him. He followed her pointing finger, recognising the back of the house. A pair of magpies were cavorting on the tiny square of turf. One for sorrow, Faraday thought. Two for joy.
‘She had a perfect view,’ Cathy was saying, ‘and she definitely remembers the boat being there.’
‘How come?’
‘She was dreading Oomes being back and getting on his mobile. She knew he was away racing all week, but apparently he’s the kind of guy who’s always changing his mind. Some weeks he wants it all the time. Then she won’t see him for a month. Sound familiar?’
Faraday glanced at her. With her sunglasses off, the damage to her face was worse than he’d thought. Maybe that was why these two women got on so well, comrades-in-arms on the same front line.
Elaine reappeared with a laden tray. Faraday couldn’t mask his astonishment.
‘They’re chocolate biscuits,’ Cathy pointed out gently, ‘and I told her you like those.’
Elaine wanted a deal: a blind eye to her business dealings in return for whatever she could remember about Friday afternoon. On principle, Faraday hated this kind of bartering. To him it smacked of Paul Winter’s style of detective work, creating a web of obligation and counter-obligation, but Maloney’s disappearance was beginning to matter a great deal to him, and he sensed that the breakthrough would only come from a remorseless examination of events on Friday afternoon.
‘OK,’ he said in the end. ‘Nothing to the management here and not a word to the Inland Revenue.’
‘Can I have that in writing?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘So how do I know …?’ Elaine looked to Cathy for help.
‘You don’t,’ Cathy said quickly. ‘You have to trust us.’
‘Trust you? In my business that gets you screwed.’
There was a long silence. Faraday refused to go further. Finally she shrugged, then kicked off her slippers and sat on the sofa with her long golden legs tucked under her. The yacht, she said, had arrived around luncht
ime. She’d known at once that it was Marenka because Charlie was subtle that way and had made a point of scrawling the name in huge white loopy script across the side. Marenka was his mum’s name and he wanted the whole world to know how proud he was of her. White on red. You couldn’t miss it.
Faraday helped himself to another chocolate biscuit. Marenka had been the next of kin on the fax from the RORC people in London. Only her surname was Dunlop, not Oomes.
‘That’s Charlie’s real name, too.’ Elaine was playing with the thin gold chain looped around her neck. ‘His dad was some kind of gangster. Ronnie Dunlop?’
Faraday frowned. The name triggered a distant memory. Way back in the fifties, a Ronnie Dunlop had run with the Richardson gang, terrorising whole swathes of South London.
‘Charlie hated him. That’s why he got rid of Dunlop. He did it by deed poll. Oomes is his wife’s name. He showed me pictures once. She’s Dutch-Indonesian.’
‘He’s still married?’
‘Far as I know. Though she never comes down here.’
Faraday at last produced the photos, spreading them on the low glass table in front of the sofa. Elaine had been watching the yacht on and off all afternoon, just in case Charlie was aboard.
‘Did you spot any of these guys?’
Elaine studied the photos one by one. Finally, a scarlet nail descended on Maloney.
‘He was the one who came later. He went on board the yacht. He was wearing a leather jacket and there was something wrong with his arm.’
‘Had you seen him before?’
‘No.’
‘Not in Charlie’s house?’
‘I’ve never been in Charlie’s house. Charlie doesn’t mix business with pleasure.’
She returned to the photos. There were two other faces she recognised. One of them was Ian Hartson. The other was an older man, standing beside Charlie in the well of the cockpit. Faraday studied him closely, hearing Mrs Beedon’s querulous tones. Tall man. Gaunt-looking face. And, yes, a red anorak.
‘What was he wearing when you saw him on Friday?’
‘That same top. The red thing.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
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