Turnstone

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘And the two lads?’

  ‘That was soon after. We’d gone arse over tit, pitch-poled. The cabin was full of water and we were broadside on. We were cream-crackered, whichever way you cut it. End game. Sayonara.’

  ‘You’d got into the life raft?’

  ‘Derek cut it free. Me and Ian piled in. Fuck knows how but we did. We had a rope to the yacht but in that sea you hadn’t got a prayer. Someone must have let go.’

  ‘Like who?’

  Charlie stared at Faraday for a moment.

  ‘That’s a fucking stupid question, if you don’t mind me saying so. We’re in this storm. We’ve had the shit knocked out of us most of the night. We’re knackered, we’re cold, and we’re frightened like you wouldn’t believe because we think we’re going to die. The fucking boat turns upside down and suddenly we know we’re going to die. Somehow we get out of it. Somehow we’re sitting in this life raft. And you ask who let go? Are you serious?’

  This outburst prompted a long silence. Then Faraday leant back in the sofa and capped his pen. Charlie was helping himself to yet more tea.

  ‘We need to take a look round your house,’ Faraday said, ‘down in Port Solent.’

  Charlie finished with the sugar, stirred his tea, then dug in his pocket for a pair of keys.

  ‘Be my guest,’ he grunted, tossing them across.

  It was still a beautiful evening by the time Winter pulled into the car park at the Forester’s Arms. He reached back for the tan leather bomber jacket, then had second thoughts and decided to stay in shirtsleeves. He could see Juanita’s all-black V-reg Cherokee Jeep up by the side entrance to the pub. She must be in there already, waiting for him.

  He combed what remained of his hair in the mirror, then set off across the car park, grinning to himself. He still hadn’t a clue what this women really wanted but it was going to be fun finding out.

  On the point of going into the pub, he heard his name called from the shadowed garden round the front. Juanita was sitting alone at a table beneath a cherry tree.

  The white Prada T-shirt was cut low around her neck and when she leaned forward across the table, reaching up to kiss him, it was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  ‘Hmm …’ she said.

  Winter gestured at her empty glass.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Orange juice.’

  Winter returned with the orange juice and a pint of Stella for himself. He’d asked the barman to put a double shot of vodka in with the orange but she didn’t seem to taste it. Instead, she came at once to the point.

  ‘I told him,’ she said, ‘I told him that I knew. And you know what? He just laughed, Laughed.’

  She was talking about Marty Harrison. She’d spent most of the afternoon at the hospital with him, and the fact that he was back in a state to do anything even half-sensible wasn’t altogether good news.

  ‘How is he?’ Winter asked.

  ‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘He takes a little food. He drinks a little tea. And every day he gets a little more better. He’s a strong man. Fuerte.’

  Winter looked down as she bunched her fist, remembering the message picked out across Harrison’s knuckles. Noel Blake had taken no prisoners. And neither did Marty Harrison.

  ‘He didn’t deny it? About Elaine?’

  ‘He laughed. I told you. He laughed so much it hurt him. How could I marry a man like that? How could I marry a man who laughs in my face about the whore he screws?’

  She reached for her glass and sank half the vodka and orange juice at a single swallow. Moments later her eyes were shiny and moist.

  ‘Nice,’ she said.

  They stayed in the garden, under the cherry tree, while the light drained from the sky. Juanita had a couple more vodka and oranges while Winter nursed himself along on refills of Stella. Her plan was to return to Puerto Banus just as soon as she decently could. She’d had enough of the English, with their crudeness and their aggression, and she’d certainly had enough of Marty Harrison. She’d been crazy, loco, to have believed anything he’d said in the first place. All he’d ever wanted was to screw her. All the plans to cut her in on the business, all the talk of partnership, had been lies. He’d never had the slightest intention of treating her like a real partner. Not in business, and certainly not in bed.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I see him. I watch him. The house with the yellow curtains. I told you.’

  ‘I meant the business.’

  ‘The business? It’s the same. He screws me there, too.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By spreading himself everywhere. By going in with other guys. By selling more and more drugs.’

  ‘Different drugs?’

  ‘Sure. Cocaine, sure. Now heroin, too. All the time he does it. That’s why you’ll never catch him. He’s too clever for you, and maybe for me, too.’

  Winter nodded. In these situations it was always cool to pretend more knowledge than you actually had. Marty Harrison was obviously making moves to stitch up the narcotics supply city-wide and the news that he was moving into heroin would cause a sensation with Harry Wayte’s boys. But then Marty Harrison was that kind of guy, a born player who’d happily expand his cocaine and dope empire to include nests of skag-heads and little twists of brown powder.

  Winter leaned forward. Names would be good.

  ‘We’re talking Portsmouth, here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Winter waited. Would three double vodkas have been sufficient for Juanita to put her head in the lion’s mouth? Was she angry enough to grass up her sometime lover? To blow the whistle on Harrison’s fast-expanding empire? To light a rocket under Winter’s career?

  She beckoned him closer, naming three major players on the Portsmouth drug scene, plus someone else he’d never heard of. The names slipped effortlessly into that bottom drawer in Winter’s mental filing cabinet, the one that no amount of Stella could ever touch. These were the men Harrison had gone in with. This was the secret he thought he’d kept to himself.

  Winter watched as she leaned back, swaying slightly, delighted with herself. She’d done it. She was back in charge of her own life. And now she wanted to celebrate.

  ‘You’re serious?’ Winter raised an eyebrow and reached for his glass.

  ‘Sí.’ Juanita had produced a set of car keys. ‘You drive.’

  Winter drove away from the pub, trying to remember the grid of local roads that led to the forest. He’d been here before, never with someone so obviously up for it, and never with someone so beautiful, but he knew there were woodland car parks where it was possible to disappear for a discreet half hour or so. It was dark by now, the roads virtually empty, just a single pair of headlights way back in the distance. Juanita had her tongue in his ear and her hand down his trousers. Revenge, Winter had decided. This woman wants revenge. And why not?

  ‘Quick,’ she kept whispering, ‘quick.’

  Eventually, he remembered a particular bend in the road. A minute or so later, he pulled into a clearing edged with tree trunks. With the engine off, he could hear the wind in the branches overhead.

  Juanita had already clambered into the back, flattening the rear seats. When he joined her, she was naked. He caught a flash of white teeth in the darkness. She had a grin like a kid.

  ‘You tell me something,’ she said suddenly. ‘How come you all knew where he lived that morning you shot him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Marty.’

  Winter frowned. In the cramped darkness, he was having trouble getting his shoes off.

  ‘Everyone knew,’ he said.

  ‘But he was in his girlfriend’s house, not his house. So who knew that?’

  ‘Fuck knows, does it matter?’

  At last, the knot in his laces shook free. He kicked the shoe off and tore at his trousers, then lay back on the mattress, gasping. Then came the taunt of her fingernails dancing up the insides of his bare thighs.

  ‘Was it th
e boy at the police station?’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to send him a present, that’s all. You think he’d like this? You think this would be a nice present?’

  She was in Winter’s lap now, her fingers teasing him. He squeezed his eyes shut, determined not to come.

  ‘He’d love it,’ he said. ‘If he’d got any sense, he’d fucking love it.’

  Abruptly, she reached up, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. Then she settled herself on his face, supporting herself on her arms. Looking up, Winter could see her breasts swinging gently back and forth as she ground herself into his mouth. He began to lap at her, faster and faster, not quite understanding how deftly she’d managed to reverse the roles. Seconds later, with a deep groan, she collapsed full length on his half-naked body.

  There was an interior light switch on the roof above the passenger seat. She reached up for it.

  ‘I have something special,’ she said. ‘Something you’ll like.’

  The light was on for no more than a second. She was holding an aerosol can of some kind and her other hand had found its way to Winter’s crotch. She began to stroke him and her face came very close in the darkness.

  ‘You know what’s in this can?’

  Winter shook his head. He thought he was going to burst.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Spearmint cream. My second favourite taste.’

  ‘Second favourite?’

  ‘Sí.’

  Winter heard the hiss of the aerosol in the darkness and a sudden chill in his lap. When he looked down, he could see nothing but white foam. Juanita was using the aerosol again, this time to cover her breasts. Her fingers uncovered her nipples and as the headlights swung into the car park, she offered one to Winter.

  ‘What the fuck’s that?’

  Winter was up on one elbow, peering out through the window. He could see the low outline of a car behind the headlights. The headlights were pointed directly at the Jeep, as steady as a gun.

  ‘Shit.’

  He reached for his trousers. He was four pints down. He was covered in spearmint foam. And he had an erection that made getting out of the car geometrically implausible.

  None the less, it had to be done. He’d been in these situations before. The last thing you did was wait for the inevitable. He’d never in his life done that. Not once.

  Zipping up his trousers, he found the rear door handle and got out of the Jeep on the blind side. The car was maybe ten metres away. He could hear the engine and it began to dawn on him that this wasn’t, after all, a spoil-sport patrol car. They’d have been out by now, with their torches and their notebooks, and the minute they sussed he was CID they’d piss themselves laughing. No, this was a private job. And infinitely more menacing.

  Cautiously, Winter circled round the edge of the clearing, hugging the treeline. The car was a big Volvo and as he approached the driver’s door he could see a face behind the wheel. It was a face he recognised and he paused in the darkness, staring at it. Slowly, the driver raised a single middle finger and shook his head. Then the back tyres spun, showering Winter with loose gravel, and the Volvo accelerated hard towards the blackness of the country road. Seconds later, it had gone.

  Winter made his way back to the Jeep. Juanita was still crouched on the mattress, dribbles of spearmint foam dripping onto her bare knees. She looked badly frightened.

  ‘Who was it?’ she whispered.

  ‘Dave Pope. Elaine’s brother.’ He was trying to catch his breath. ‘Works for Marty, doesn’t he?’

  She closed her eyes a second, then reached for her T-shirt.

  ‘I want to go home,’ she said.

  Seventeen

  For the first time that Cathy Lamb could remember, Faraday skipped morning prayers entirely, abandoning the usual nine a.m. meet in the empty social club for an earlier and more intimate conference in the CID room. She’d been in for nearly half an hour when he arrived, nursing a cup of black coffee as she re-read the letter from Pete for the umpteenth time. It wasn’t contrite, or even apologetic, but she recognised the voice behind it from the old days. He’d made a mess of things. He was camping at his mum’s in Gosport. If she ever fancied a drink, he had plenty of time on his hands.

  Faraday had a list. He plugged in the electric kettle, readied a tea bag in an empty cup, and produced an envelope from the pocket of his jacket. As far as Faraday was concerned, Cathy knew that lists spelled trouble. The DI normally carried everything in his head.

  ‘Maloney,’ he said briskly. ‘We need to talk to the Queen’s Harbour master and anyone else who might have been on the water that Friday afternoon. Skippers on the Fast Cat. Guys on the blue boats. Fishermen. Anyone. I want to know exactly what was happening on the harbour between four o’clock and seven. Same for the coastguards, and guys out on the Solent. Ferry skippers. Big boats in and out of Southampton. Even the Navy. But push the times on a bit, add an hour at least. We’re interested in Spithead to Cowes. The boat would have been back in Cowes by dark. Check out the exact time it got back. Find out which marina they were using, and which berth. That should give you the names of his neighbours – other skippers and crews. We need phone numbers and we need to talk to them. Anything odd they might have seen around Marenka, anything—’ he frowned, glancing up – ‘unusual.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Cathy was making a list of her own, a series of increasingly savage squiggles.

  ‘Like lots of cleaning aboard, like sackloads of stuff coming off. That boat was a scene of crime. They had plenty to clear up.’

  Faraday ploughed on. He was interested in the two lads on the boat, the ones who had been lost at sea. They might have noticed tensions amongst the crew – especially between Maloney and the navigator, Henry Potterne – and they might have buddied up with other crews. Find these guys. Talk to them. Nail down the gossip.

  Faraday paused, struck by another idea.

  ‘The boy David Kellard,’ he said. ‘His parents live in the West Country somewhere. Talk to them, too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He might have made a pre-race phone call. Said goodbye. Shared the odd thought. It’s a long shot, but give it a go.’

  Cathy had nearly run out of paper.

  ‘And just where do you suggest I start with all this?’ she said finally.

  Faraday was pouring hot water on to his tea bag.

  ‘Get bodies working the phones, the new lads, Moffatt and Pryde. There’s no one left in Cowes, the boats have all gone, but the marina people are still there and they must have kept records. The boy Kellard should be simple. The race organisers will have his details. I’ve got their number.’

  Faraday stirred yesterday’s milk into his tea and made for the door. Cathy watched him, bemused.

  ‘I’m still not with you,’ she said. ‘What are we saying here? Where’s Maloney in all this?’

  Faraday glanced back at her. He was trying to nudge the door open with his foot.

  ‘I think he was killed on the yacht at Port Solent,’ he said. ‘And I think they dumped him on the way back to Cowes.’

  Bevan listened, plainly unimpressed.

  ‘It’s bollocks,’ he said bluntly when Faraday had finished. ‘The busiest stretch of water in the country? At the busiest time of year? All those ferries? Container boats? Warships? Trawlers? Yachties? You’re telling me they’d dump a body when the whole bloody world’s watching? It’s half-baked, Joe. If I saw this in a movie, I’d want my money back.’

  Faraday didn’t shift an inch. He’d been in this situation a couple of times before in his life, not as a DI, not as top dog, but as a lowly DC working under a boss with – as he’d thought – more imagination than sense. On both occasions he and his mates had privately scorned theories that stretched the known facts to breaking point – and twice they’d been proved wrong.

  Like the time when a psychopath with a passion for necrophilia had killed his girlfriend and then spent half the night screwi
ng her dead corpse. The only evidence was an empty box of Kodacolour Gold at the scene of the crime but the DI had thought the crime through and was convinced that this was the kind of lunatic who’d take pictures of himself in action. Everyone thought the DI was crazier than the killer, but when they finally arrested the guy in a run-down North London bedsit, his camera was on the dressing table and the undeveloped pictures were still inside it. Just one of those shots was enough to put him away. Case closed.

  Now, Faraday heard himself paraphrasing that same DI.

  ‘Chuck out what’s absolutely impossible,’ he told Bevan, ‘and in the mess that’s left behind you’ll somewhere find the truth.’

  Bevan wasn’t having it. His division was hurting badly from lack of CID cover and a couple of overnight burglaries hadn’t helped.

  ‘Chuck out what’s absolutely impossible,’ he snorted, ‘and you’re left with fuck-all.’

  ‘You said seven working days, sir,’ Faraday reminded him.

  Bevan was staring out of the window.

  ‘Did I?’ he murmured.

  Paul Winter found Harry Wayte in his office at Havant police station. Between calls on break-ins at three Cosham off-licences, he just had time to drive up there for a meet.

  Harry had once been in the Navy and he still had the beard to prove it. Unkinder souls thought he’d kept it to hide the wreckage of his complexion and that, as Harry was the first to admit, wasn’t too far from the truth. An appetite for good Scotch had veined a face already cratered with teenage acne, and under certain circumstances a first meeting with Harry Wayte could be a scary experience.

  Paul Winter had known him for years. When Harry was still a lowly DC, they used to drink together – on and off duty – and Winter had a fund of stories about Harry that could, he’d assure young CID aides, guarantee the guy early retirement. So far, Winter hadn’t managed to convert any of this leverage into a posting on Harry’s Drugs Squad, but he was a born optimist and rarely gave up without a fight.