Turnstone

by Hurley, Graham

  Had she sold it? Did it still belong to her? He didn’t know. A sudden squawking attracted his attention and he lifted his binoculars to find half a dozen seagulls locked in a dogfight over a beakful of food. It looked like a sliver of mussel. The bird in possession twisted in the air and then dropped it. A couple of other gulls dived in pursuit but quickly lost interest.

  Faraday crossed the road, putting the traffic between himself and the blue houseboat, then studied each of the windows through his binoculars. Behind the biggest, he sensed movement. The curtains blurred the detail, but the longer he looked, the more convinced he became that there was someone aboard. Ruth?

  The café where he’d left the car sold sandwiches. Faraday bought two, eating one and tearing up a triangle of bread from the other. Passing Kahurangi, he tossed the bread on to the afterdeck. Within seconds, a cloud of seagulls descended, wheeling and shrieking as they fought for the bread. By now, Faraday was back across the road, half concealed behind a car, his binoculars trained on the door at the back of the cabin. Moments later, it opened and a face appeared. Faraday tweaked the focus. It was a man’s face, a face he’d last seen in an upstairs flat in a suburb of west London. The mop of grey-streaked curls. The suggestion of wistfulness around the eyes. The slight stoop as he stepped carefully on to the afterdeck. What was Ian Hartson doing on a houseboat in Bembridge Harbour?

  The door was wide open now as he shooed the gulls away, and through the binoculars Faraday was able to glimpse the interior of the saloon. It looked cosy enough and even from this distance he could recognise Ruth’s handiwork. The rich terracotta finish on the wood panelling. The handpainted scrollwork around the full-length mirror. On the table was an open laptop, the screen glowing blue amongst the shadows.

  The gulls gone, Hartson kicked the remains of the bread on to the foreshore and retreated back inside, leaving Faraday with an ever lengthening list of questions. How long had he been here? Had Henry once given him a key? Had Ruth? Faraday shook his head, knowing only that he faced the simplest of decisions. Either he arrested him now, at once, or he called for help. Help would be wise. There might be others aboard. Another pair of eyes and ears might be useful, too. Corroborated testimony always survived better in court.

  Keeping the houseboat in sight, Faraday walked back to his car and called Cathy on his mobile. She was on the point of leaving for an early lunch. Things were quiet for once and she’d arranged to meet a friend. Faraday explained what had happened and asked her to come over. Quickest would be the hovercraft from Southsea and a taxi to Bembridge. She was to look for his Mondeo outside a café at the bottom of the hill.

  ‘But why are we doing this?’ Cathy couldn’t keep the impatience out of her voice. ‘Inquiries have been suspended. You’re supposed to be on bloody holiday.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s important. Just do it.’

  ‘I’m scheduled to see Bevan this afternoon. Annual assessment.’

  ‘Then tell him you can’t make it.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘And you want me to tell him why?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Even on leave, he was still a DI, still her boss. Get down to the hovercraft. Bring some handcuffs. He’d expect her within a couple of hours.

  Reparking the car to give himself a better line of sight, Faraday settled down to wait, wondering what Hartson might be writing on his laptop. Was he still in touch with Charlie Oomes? Was it another draft of the feature film he’d researched? Or was there something buried amongst the debris of the past couple of weeks that Faraday had somehow missed? The longer he thought about it, the more convinced he became that summoning Cathy had been the right decision. One way or another, the next couple of hours would draw a line under the Maloney inquiry. If he’d got it wrong, if Hartson and the rest of them were indeed in the dark about their missing crew mate, then Faraday would have dug an even deeper hole for himself. If, on the other hand, this was the breakthrough he’d been praying for, then there might yet be some prospect of nailing Charlie Oomes.

  To Faraday’s astonishment, Oomes himself appeared within the hour. Faraday caught sight of the Mercedes in his rear-view mirror as it coasted down the hill behind him and he recognised the bulky silhouette behind the wheel. Oomes drove past without giving the Mondeo a second glance. He swung the Mercedes on to the grass verge beside the houseboat and clumped aboard. He pushed the cabin door open without bothering to knock and then slammed it shut behind him. Minutes later, he was out again, carrying the laptop. He put the laptop in the boot of the Mercedes, locked it, then returned to the houseboat.

  Faraday glanced at his watch. It was early afternoon and Cathy was due any time. He waited and waited, lifting the binoculars to try and tease some clues from behind those net curtains, but the sun was reflecting off the glass now and the explosion of white light through the lens gave him nothing more than a headache.

  At last the taxi arrived. Cathy had obviously dressed for an important lunch date. She rarely wore a skirt.

  ‘This had better be important,’ she warned.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says Bevan.’

  Faraday gestured towards the line of houseboats and the red Mercedes parked at the far end.

  ‘Guess who,’ he said.

  He started the Mondeo and drove slowly past the houseboats. Beyond the Mercedes, he turned the car in a cul-de-sac and then parked on the grass verge. With the engine off, Faraday could hear gulls again.

  ‘You’re serious about arresting these guys?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Conspiracy to murder. The least I want out of it is the laptop – and the chance to search the houseboat.’

  ‘Do we have a warrant, by any chance?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Cathy gave him a last, despairing look and then got out. There was no plan beyond gaining access to the boat. She’d follow Faraday just the way she’d always followed him, and when things became a little clearer she’d enjoy a word or two of explanation. Bevan’s parting advice had been to take a precautionary can of CS with her. From the expression on his face, she half suspected that his target might have been Faraday.

  Access to the houseboat took them over a couple of builder’s planks, laid side by side. The afterdeck was still littered with crumbs. Faraday hesitated for a moment at the door, then knocked twice and stepped inside. Cathy was right behind him.

  Charlie Oomes was sitting behind the table, nursing a tumbler of Scotch. Recognising Faraday, he made no move to get up. Faraday began the formal caution. When he’d finished, Oomes lifted his glass in a toast.

  ‘You’re like one of my mum’s old records when the needle gets stuck,’ he said. ‘If you weren’t so pathetic, I’d think this was a joke.’

  Cathy pushed past him, looking for Hartson. She disappeared through a door at the other end of the tiny saloon. Faraday heard voices. Then she was back again.

  ‘Come here, sir,’ she said urgently.

  Faraday followed her into a tiny bedroom occupied almost entirely by a double mattress on the floor. Hartson was slumped against the pillows with his head in his heads. When he looked up, the lower half of his face was a mask of blood.

  He showed no signs of recognising Faraday, but nodded just the same.

  ‘Hi,’ he said thickly.

  Faraday bent to help him to his feet. Cathy had found a cubbyhole with a sink beyond the bedroom and returned with a wet flannel. As she reached to mop Hartson’s face, Faraday heard the stamp of heavy footsteps from the saloon, then the slam of the door as Oomes left.

  ‘Shit.’ He looked at Cathy. ‘Stay here. Clean him up. I’ll be back.’

  Faraday was out of the bedroom in seconds. By the time he was up on the afterdeck, Charlie Oomes was back behind the wheel of the Mercedes, pulling it into a tight U-turn. As he accelerated past the houseboat, he turned to look at Faraday. His big, jowly fac
e was twisted in a snarl of triumph and he had one hand raised, the middle finger erect. It was exactly the pose he’d struck on the photo Maloney had taken in the cockpit of Marenka. It meant more than the scent of victory. It meant that he’d won.

  The Mondeo started first time. By now, Oomes was at the foot of the hill, stalled by a long queue of holiday traffic. Catching him up, Faraday reached down for his mobile. The sensible thing would be to phone for assistance. He needed a road block, extra hands, local knowledge. Instead, he dialled Oomes’s mobile.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Faraday. You’re under arrest.’

  Faraday watched as Oomes adjusted his rear-view mirror. He began to pull out to overtake the traffic queue, but an oncoming bus made him change his mind. Instead, he settled back behind the wheel. Faraday could suddenly hear music in the background.

  ‘Arrest, bollocks,’ Oomes said. ‘What is it with you, Faraday? Why don’t you just let it go? Like any other fucker would?’

  Faraday didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He could hear the anger in Oomes’s voice but there was something else there as well, something close to weariness. Faraday seemed to genuinely puzzle him.

  ‘I’ve just cautioned you,’ Faraday said. ‘Pull over.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s finished. Just do it.’

  ‘Fuck off. I’m going to see my old mum. You gotta problem with that?’

  At the top of the hill, Oomes hauled the Mercedes on to the main road south, using his lights and horn to try and shift the endless convoys of family cars en route to the beaches, but few would budge. Holiday traffic clogged the roads at every bend and Faraday simply rode in Oomes’s wake, matching him move for move. Every time Oomes checked in his mirror, Faraday was there, three car-lengths back, happy to take the risks he took, happy to wait for the next development. It was a tactic calculated to test Oomes to the limit, and at Sandown his patience finally snapped.

  Without warning, he plunged right, crossing the oncoming stream of traffic, and disappeared up a narrow lane. As soon as he could, Faraday followed. The road wound uphill, and he could see the scarlet Mercedes maybe half a mile ahead. At the top of the hill, set back from the road, was a white-painted mansion that Faraday first mistook for a hotel. Only when he turned in at the drive did he realise that Oomes had meant it about visiting his mother. ‘Vectis Nursing Home’, read the gold-lettered board beside the big brick pillars.

  Oomes was already standing beside the Mercedes when Faraday pulled to a halt on the circle of gravel in front of the house. In an upstairs window, an elderly figure in a yellow dressing gown was peering down at them both. Her face behind the glass was a mask of rouge.

  ‘My mum,’ Oomes grunted. ‘Good for eighty-nine, eh?’

  Faraday was looking at the Mercedes. The keys were still in the ignition.

  ‘Open the boot,’ he said.

  Oomes shook his head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I will.’

  Faraday stepped towards the car but Oomes blocked his path, pale with anger.

  ‘You,’ he said, ‘are a fucking lunatic.’

  A thick finger stabbed Faraday in the chest, then Oomes was on top of him, pushing him backwards, big powerful shoves. He felt the Mondeo’s bumper against the back of his calves. One more poke from Oomes and he’d be lying on the bonnet, totally helpless. When Oomes came forward again, he sidestepped to the left, catching the bigger man off-balance. Seconds later, Faraday had the Mercedes keys out of the ignition and was circling round the car on the blind side. Oomes met him by the boot.

  ‘Give me those keys.’

  ‘You’re under arrest.’

  ‘I said give me those fucking keys.’

  There were more faces at the windows now. Dimly, Faraday heard the front door open. Then came the patter of footsteps and a sudden silence.

  ‘Mr Oomes? Is everything all right?’

  Oomes didn’t answer. His eyes never left Faraday’s face and Faraday knew that violence, serious violence, was now inevitable. Charlie Oomes had reverted to type. Goaded beyond endurance, he’d become Ronnie Dunlop.

  The first swing was wild and high. Faraday ducked it with ease, stepping in close, driving hard for the big man’s throat. Oomes twisted sideways, absorbing the force of the blow on his shoulder. At the same time, he locked his arm around Faraday’s neck, using his weight to force him to his knees.

  ‘I’m going to fucking kill you,’ he hissed. ‘You’re gonna regret you ever started any of this crap.’

  Faraday was choking. Dimly, he could see the rear bumper of the Mercedes coming towards his face. Any moment now, Oomes was going to batter him to death on the back of his car. So much for heroic exits.

  Inching his mouth open he forced his head down and then bit hard when he sensed flesh. Oomes bellowed with pain as Faraday felt the blood trickling into his mouth and he bit again, harder this time, until the pressure on his neck suddenly slackened. Wiping his mouth, he struggled to his feet and turned in time to parry a lunge from Oomes and then a wild kick that caught him high on his left thigh.

  Oomes was breathing hard now, his face scarlet with anger, and he hurled himself forward, all restraint, all calculation, gone. Faraday waited until the bulk of the man was only inches away before trying to side-step him again but Oomes’s sheer bulk forced him to the ground.

  For what seemed an eternity, they rolled around on the gravel, first Oomes on top, then Faraday. Twice Faraday thought he’d pinned him in an armlock but both times Oomes broke free. He was breathing harder and harder, his face scarlet, his hands desperate to choke the life out of his tormentor, but by the time Faraday heard the wail of the sirens, his strength was beginning to flag.

  Moments later, he found himself looking up at a young uniformed policeman. Behind him, a circle of watching faces shuffled warily closer.

  ‘CID,’ he explained wearily, fumbling for his ID. ‘And in case you’re wondering, I’ve just arrested this guy.’

  ‘What for, sir?’ The policeman was examining the ID.

  ‘Conspiracy to murder.’

  The nearest cloakroom was a couple of steps inside the front door. Faraday soaped his face and then gargled with cold water, ridding his mouth of the coppery taste of Oomes’s blood. Oomes himself had been bundled into the back of the patrol car and driven to Shanklin police station. Later Faraday would be pressing personal charges of assault, but first he wanted a look at Hartson’s laptop.

  Opening the boot of the Mercedes, he lifted it out. With his back to the sunshine, he steadied it on the bonnet of his car and powered it up. The last file Hartson had used was tagged ‘Fastnet’, and the first page was dominated by a title in heavy italic script. ‘Marenka’, it read. ‘The Truth’. Faraday smiled, resisting the temptation to scroll any further. The file extended to thirty-eight pages. Hartson must have been working on it for days.

  Faraday closed down the programme and slipped the laptop into his car. Closing the passenger door, he glanced up. The elderly woman in the yellow dressing gown was back at the window, gazing down at him. The moment their eyes met, she shook her head and turned away.

  Before he checked in at Shanklin police station, Faraday drove back to Bembridge. Unless Hartson admitted that the laptop was his, its value as evidence would be zero. Whatever it contained.

  When he got to the causeway, he parked in the Mercedes’ wheelruts and eased himself out of the car. Already his neck was stiffening, and Oomes must have kicked him harder than he remembered because his hip was beginning to throb. Stepping aboard the houseboat, he paused by the cabin door, wondering whether Cathy had found time for a thorough search.

  The saloon, to his surprise, was empty. The tumbler still stood beside the bottle of Scotch but there was no sign of either Cathy or Hartson. Faraday reached for his mobile, meaning to ring her, when a woman’s voice came from the bedroom next door. It was a voice he knew. She was calling for Ian.

  Faraday rubbed his
neck, wondering whether the damage had been worse than he’d thought. He’d never believed in ghosts. Until now.

  ‘Ian?’ The voice came again. ‘Is that you?’

  Very slowly, Faraday limped forward through the saloon. The door opened with a small sigh when he pushed it with his foot. For a moment he just stood there, rooted, then he stepped forward again. Ruth Potterne was lying full length on the mattress. Naked against the whiteness of the sheets, she might have been brought here from the empty space on Maloney’s wall. Exactly the same pose. Exactly the same message.

  She stared at Faraday, then brought her knees towards her chin. It was a reflex movement, instinctive, defensive, fending him off.

  ‘Why you?’ she queried softly.

  Twenty-Six

  By seven in the evening, back in Portsmouth, Faraday had read Hartson’s file twice. His account of the events surrounding the loss of Marenka covered everything from his first meeting with Charlie Oomes to the afternoon nearly a week ago when he’d fled from his Chiswick flat. In terms of evidence – names, dates, even motivation – Faraday had rarely been so spoiled. But one question still haunted him.

  ‘Why her?’

  The tiny interview room felt even more oppressive than usual. Faraday sat on one side of the table, Ian Hartson on the other. Hartson had waived his right to a defending solicitor.

  ‘Because she is who she is,’ he said simply. ‘Meet a woman like that and she changes your life.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s impossible to say. Her face? Her eyes? Her conversation? Her body? The fact that you get it on? The fact that you can’t stop? The fact that you go to bed with a certain expectation, and then you find yourself blown away by what actually happens? I don’t know. You tell me.’