Turnstone

by Hurley, Graham

  Here was someone who would rarely be bored with her own company. Here was a woman who well understood the effect she had on others and seemed prepared to face the consequences. No wonder Stewart Maloney had succumbed.

  Faraday at last looked up. Jan Tilley was staring out of the window.

  ‘So what happened to the girlfriend?’

  ‘Hers was the best drawing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Maloney kept it.’ She turned back into the room and took an envelope from a drawer in the desk. ‘You might want to know who this woman is. I talked to the pay-roll people this morning.’

  Faraday opened the envelope. Folded inside was a white sheet of paper with a single name. He stared at it. Ruth Potterne.

  Cathy had returned to the station by the time Faraday got back. He produced the day-old fax from the Force Intelligence Unit. The CID office was empty.

  ‘This was in the Actions tray,’ he said briskly, ‘and it would be nice to know why.’

  Exhaustion had left its mark on Cathy’s battered face. She nodded at the row of wire baskets straddling the two desks. Faraday was right. Paper was beginning to spill everywhere.

  ‘Some people might say this is lunacy,’ she said. ‘And pretty soon I might be one of them.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I have. But you never listen.’ She glared at him for a moment, then nodded at one of the phones. ‘Charlie Oomes has been on. Apparently you left a message on his answerphone.’

  ‘Several.’

  ‘Fine.’ Cathy’s gaze returned to the fax. ‘I think he’s wondering what all the fuss is about.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Faraday was still sitting at his desk in the inspectors’ office, gazing at the FIU printout of the numbers on Maloney’s home phone. The recurrent number was so obvious that the processing clerk hadn’t even bothered to highlight it. A local number: 842871.

  Between Thursday and Friday afternoon, Maloney had rung it no less than nine times. None of the conversations had been long, but that didn’t matter. If you were looking for patterns, for evidence of an affair, then here it was. Black and white. A line of digits: 842871.

  So far, still haunted by Jan Tilley’s roll of sketches, Faraday hadn’t bothered to lift the phone. It would be her number, Ruth Potterne’s number, it had to be. Maloney was in love with her, head-over-heels, nine-calls-a-day in love with her. They might have met at one of Charlie Oomes’s parties. Or in a bar. Or in the street. Or any bloody place. They’d have shared a coffee, or a beer, and talked all that arty talk, and at some point thereafter – hours later, days later, maybe even weeks later – this relationship of theirs, this meeting of minds, would have tiptoed off to bed. Maybe her place. More likely his.

  Faraday made a mental note, visualising the tousled sheets in Maloney’s cluttered little bedroom. There’d be forensic there. Fingerprints. Curls of her hair. Her DNA on his toothbrush. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image of her body stretched out on Maloney’s bed, the body on the chaise longue.

  Faraday’s hand finally found the phone. 842871. The phone rang and rang until a recorded message cut in. It was a man’s voice, cultured, warm, almost amused. ‘You have reached the home of Henry and Ruth Potterne,’ it said. ‘Please leave your name and number and one of us will call you back.’

  Faraday let the print-out blur in front of his eyes. The voice of another dead man, he thought, slowly replacing the receiver.

  Sixteen

  Marmion Road, in the heart of Southsea, was busy at lunchtime. Faraday sat in his car, parked on a double yellow line, watching the shoppers swirl past. With their bulging Waitrose bags, and their fixed expressions, most of them seemed as walled-in and preoccupied as he was.

  Across the road was the Henry Potterne Gallery. One of the two front windows was dominated by a handsome oil painting on a wooden easel. The canvas depicted an episode from the Battle of the Nile, catching the moment when Nelson’s sweating gunners had found the French powder magazines. The treatment was a little operatic for his tastes – violent yellows and livid reds – but he knew exactly what the artist had been getting at. Put two combustible substances together, and the consequences could be incalculable.

  Faraday got out of the car and crossed the road. Inside the gallery, it felt suddenly cooler. Dozens of marine prints hung on the calico-clad walls while at the back of the display space, softly lit, were a couple of decent watercolours together with a line of beautifully framed black and white photographs. Something about the composition and choice of subjects drew Faraday towards them. Photo after photo featured small, natural objects rendered in fine-grain detail, and a moment’s study was enough to confirm Faraday’s initial suspicion. This was the eye that had framed the shots on Stewart Maloney’s wall.

  A middle-aged woman appeared through a side door. She looked nothing like the model on the chaise longue. When Faraday inquired about the gallery’s owner, she confirmed that he was missing at sea.

  ‘What about his wife?’ Faraday said. ‘Where might I find her?’

  ‘She’s still in Plymouth. She’s been down there since Monday night, waiting for news. To be honest, it’s looking pretty hopeless. I think she’d be better off back here now.’

  ‘Do you have a number?’ Faraday slipped out his ID.

  She peered at the face in the tiny photograph then reached for a pen and a scrap of paper.

  ‘I should know it by heart by now,’ she said. ‘It’s a little B and B down near the Hoe. We talk at least twice a day.’

  ‘And she’s still there?’

  ‘She was this morning.’

  Faraday folded the number into his pocket, his eyes returning to the line of photographs. When he asked who’d taken the shots, the woman smiled.

  ‘Ruthie,’ she said. ‘Terribly talented, don’t you think?’

  Winter was in a second-hand shop off Fratton Road, trying to nail down a couple of nicked stereos, when his mobile began to ring. The lad who appeared to run the shop was having difficulty explaining a shedful of bikes round the back, and was grateful for the interruption.

  ‘Yes?’ Winter barked.

  Juanita was back at her flat in Port Solent. She’d unloaded her shopping and now she was lying on her bed, exhausted.

  ‘Not surprised. That lot. Need a massage?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Winter laughed, sharing the joke, and it was several seconds before he realised that she really meant it. Maybe this was the way things happened in Spain. Maybe this was why women like this were so bloody sure of themselves.

  ‘Now?’ He frowned, checking his watch. ‘This minute?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘I want.’ Winter nodded vigorously. ‘But not now. No way, José. How about later?’

  ‘Later I go to the hospital.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. I’m there all afternoon. Now would be good. Now, before I see him.’

  Winter scowled. He’d never underestimated his attraction to women, and he had dozens of conquests to prove it, but this was almost too good to be true. Part of him argued for caution, for a couple of deep breaths and a query or two about what she really wanted, but then the image of that golden body swam towards him and he found himself doing a rapid mental calculation, trying to work out how long it would take to get some sense out of the boy, take a statement, drive to Port Solent and still leave himself enough time to make it worthwhile.

  ‘No can do,’ he said regretfully, ‘Comprende?’

  There was a long silence. When the youth made a move towards the shed door, Winter edged sideways, blocking the exit with his body. Finally Juanita came back on the phone. She named a pub in the country, out near Wickham.

  ‘Half eight,’ Winter confirmed. ‘Drinks on me.’

  Charlie Oomes lived in a sprawling Tudor-style country house west of Maidenhead, with lawns that ran down to the Thames. Savagely barbered poplars lined the grav
el drive that swept up to the front door, and there was plenty of room beside a sleek red Mercedes for Faraday’s Mondeo.

  Inside, the house felt cold and over-furnished, and it was obvious at once that the place had become a monument to Charlie’s business and sporting triumphs. Waiting in the lounge for Oomes to appear, Faraday and Cathy sat side by side on one of the huge sofas, eyeing the silver-framed photos propped on every available surface. Charlie at Ascot. Charlie at some industry function, receiving a customer service award. Charlie on a marina pontoon, hosing champagne in every direction. Charlie kissing Liz Hurley in a showbiz receiving line. Charlie getting ever richer.

  Eventually, Oomes himself appeared, relaxed and expansive in slacks and a check shirt. The swelling around his jaw had gone down and the bruise beneath his left eye had virtually disappeared. He apologised for keeping them waiting. He’d been upstairs on the phone arguing the toss over some figures. The problem with bloody accountants was they never left you alone. He beamed at them both with his big, meaty smile and called for a tray of tea. It was several minutes before Faraday realised that the small, ghost-like, Asian-looking woman who’d let them in was in fact Oomes’s wife.

  Charlie made himself comfortable on the other sofa, warming to his theme. His company, Oomes International, was currently moving into CCTV and, although closed-circuit television was a natural fit with his other IT interests, there was never any satisfying the bean-counters. Many of his clients were in the public sector – local councils, National Health trusts, even the police – and the accounting standards were arse-tight. Take your eye off the ball for a single second, and these bastards would turn you upside down and shake the loose change out of your pockets. The public sector boys always wanted something for nothing. And playing that game was the shortest bloody cut to bankruptcy.

  Mention of the police prompted a question from Faraday. Was it true that he’d stolen Derek Bissett from the arms of the Thames Valley force?

  ‘Stolen’s a bit strong.’ Oomes grinned. ‘He jumped at it.’

  ‘Jumped at what?’

  ‘The deal I offered him. He and I had done business together. In my line you get to sort out the tossers from the rest. Derek was never a tosser.’

  ‘You sold him IT stuff when he was with Thames Valley?’

  ‘Yeah, small systems at first, with maintenance contracts, then much bigger stuff. I forget which department but it was worth a bit.’

  ‘And he’s stayed with you ever since?’

  ‘Yeah. In fact he’s the guy who’ll be heading the CCTV operation. I’m creating a subsidiary company, just for him. Derek thinks it’s Christmas.’

  ‘Is this recent, then?’

  ‘I made him the offer yesterday. He’ll be signing the draft contract tomorrow morning.’

  Faraday reached for his tea. If you wanted to shackle someone properly, to bind them to you body and soul, you could do worse than hand them a company of their own. A deal like that could set Bissett up for life.

  Cathy was sympathising about the missing members of Charlie’s crew. Was there any possibility they might still be found?

  Charlie looked abruptly grave and shook his head.

  ‘I’m on to the Search and Rescue blokes every day. They’ve already scaled the search down. Tomorrow, they’re jacking it in completely.’

  ‘Must be hard for you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Charlie nodded. ‘It is.’

  ‘What about a funeral?’

  ‘Pointless, love. We haven’t got any bodies.’ He sniffed. ‘There’s talk of some kind of memorial service but I’ve been thinking of doing something private, as well. Don’t know what, yet, but something tasteful, you know.’ He frowned, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Maybe some kind of trust fund, I dunno. Money’s not a problem but two of the guys were only kids. How can you compensate for that?’

  Faraday was trying to decipher the lettering on a big silver cup, prominently displayed on the sideboard.

  ‘Tell me about last Friday,’ he said idly. ‘That afternoon before the race. Where was the boat?’

  ‘Henry took it over to Pompey. With Ian.’

  ‘You told me it never left the island.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes. I asked you in hospital in Plymouth and you said you’d all stayed in Cowes.’

  ‘Then I was wrong. I was in a bit of a state. Sorry.’ He helped himself to more tea, adding three spoonfuls of sugar. ‘Actually me and Derek were buzzing around all day Friday, getting stuff organised for the off. Food and what have you. There was a problem with the life raft. They cost a fortune and I’d got a spare in the garage in Port Solent. Made sense for Henry to swap them over.’

  Faraday nodded. He was writing notes now. It was important to keep Oomes on the record.

  ‘Do you happen to know whether they met Maloney over at Port Solent?’

  ‘Yeah, they did. Henry mentioned it. Stu dropped in to say goodbye. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because he’s gone missing. Did Henry happen to say where he went afterwards? After Port Solent?’

  ‘No.’ He was looking Faraday in the eye. ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘Did that strike you as odd?’

  ‘Not at all. Bloke led a crazy life.’

  ‘Led?’

  ‘Leads.’ Oomes hesitated for a second, then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked Faraday in the eye. ‘What you have to understand here is that this guy’s into serious fantasy. Five minutes with Stu and he’ll be giving you a list of women he’s shagging but it gets to be a joke in the end. He’s piss and wind. He invents most of it.’

  Faraday glanced at Cathy, then mentioned Ruth, Henry’s widow. Did Maloney fancy her?

  ‘Daft about her, stupid about her. I keep telling you, the bloke’s a wet dream.’

  ‘Do you think it’s reciprocated?’

  ‘Ruth? I haven’t a clue. Listen, I provide the boat, I pay for everything, I give the guys a good time, and in return I expect to win. Mostly, they don’t let me down. At Cowes we were creaming the opposition all week. A result in the Fastnet and we’d have cleaned up. Just like last year. No crew’s ever done that before. That makes me very proud of them. The last thing I do is poke around in their private lives.’

  ‘Maloney let you down,’ Faraday pointed out.

  ‘Stu let himself down. Next time he’ll go a bit slower on that fucking bike.’

  ‘You think he’s still alive?’

  ‘Of course he is. The only bit of Stu that’s dead is his brain and he’s been that way for years. He’s gone off for a while. He’s fallen in love again. He’ll be back. Bet your life on it.’

  Faraday bent to the notepad for a moment or two.

  ‘What about Henry Potterne?’ he said at last. ‘Did he ever let you down?’

  ‘No, never. Henry had his own problems. Fucking brilliant nav., though. The best. Just drank too much for his own good.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah, but you know something? That guy could drink a bottle of Scotch and still lay a decent course. Amazing.’

  ‘Would you say he was an alcoholic?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘A drunk?’

  ‘No way. He could handle it. You think I’d put my boat, my crew, in the hands of a drunk? No kidding, other skippers were queuing up for Henry. He could have had the pick of the fleet. But he chose to stay with us. That’s how tight we were.’

  Faraday nodded, then asked about the two lads, David Kellard – the university student – and Sam, Henry’s stepson. Charlie leaned forward again, warming to his theme, and for the first time Faraday realised that the man was a chancer, forever pushing the odds, forever in your face, making his case, telling you how good he was. Prudence would counsel him to say very little. But Charlie was a stranger to prudence.

  ‘They hated each other. Big problem.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Henry and Sam. In his own way, Sam was as good in a boat as Henry. But h
ands-on, unschooled, instinctive, you know what I mean? Sam was Ruth’s boy, been afloat since he was a nipper, born to it.’ Charlie was beaming now. ‘Sam hated Henry, resented him like fuck. Often happens like that, doesn’t it?’

  Faraday inquired about David Kellard, his Biro racing across his notebook. According to Charlie, he’d been a nice lad, and straight as a die. His father was an old mate of Henry’s. Lived down in the West Country somewhere. He’d been doing oceanography at Southampton University and was off to Africa for a year to sort out the fuzzies with some bunch of do-gooders before getting himself a job in the oil biz. Charlie just loved the combination. Rich by forty and guaranteed a place in heaven. Fucking wonderful.

  Charlie barked with laughter and called for more tea. While his wife disappeared into the kitchen with the tray, Faraday quizzed him about the storm, and about the exact sequence of events that had led to the boat breaking up. Charlie nodded, drawing a deep breath, then talked him through it, describing the hours in the cockpit, the turns at the tiller, the towering seas, and finally the growing conviction that they were stuffed.

  ‘Did you ever think of turning back?’

  ‘Of course we fucking did.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’

  ‘First off, we’re in a race. You want to hang in there. You think the wind’ll ease. You think any fucking thing just as long as you keep going. Second’ – he frowned – ‘we were out beyond the Scillys, thirty miles give or take according to Henry. In a sea like that the last thing you want anywhere near you is land, especially somewhere as evil as the Scillys or Cornwall. We wouldn’t have had a prayer.’ Oomes broke off, studying his enormous hands, then he looked up again. ‘Have you ever been in a sea like that? Bloody great waves coming at you from every direction? Rollers bigger than blocks of flats?’

  Faraday was watching him closely.

  ‘So who went over first?’

  ‘Henry. On top of everything else, we had a problem with the rudder blade.’

  ‘Was he roped on?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Who was the closest?’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Didn’t lift a finger – but then he couldn’t. One second Henry was there, the next he wasn’t. And it was dark, remember. Pitch fucking black. Imagine being in the ring with a dozen Mike Tysons and then the lights go out. That’s the way it was when we lost Henry.’