‘Tell she’s a student, can’t you? Real turn-on, all these questions.’
Rick told him to ignore her. She was the only student he’d ever met who got all her essays in on time.
‘Good point about the editing, though,’ he went on, picking up Dawn’s thread. ‘Who does put these things together?’
Kennedy looked from one to the other, weighing them up.
‘You are up for this, aren’t you?’
‘Definitely.’ Rick nodded. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. I’ve got a mate who does video. He’s got all the gear, everything, he’s really good. I was just wondering …’ He shrugged. ‘If you ever wanted a hand …’
‘That’s cool.’ Kennedy was watching Dawn. ‘Actually I have got a problem. Bloke let me down big time. I’d been relying on him and he just won’t come through.’
‘And this bloke puts it all together? Whoever you’re talking about?’
‘Yeah, and he’s good. In fact, he’s cracking. Does it for a living, know what I mean? That’s what you need in this game. Good post-production.’ He nodded at the cameras again. ‘I can get the pictures OK but it’s what you do with them afterwards that really counts. This guy’s a genius. If only the bastard would come across.’
‘What’s his name? Matter of interest …’
At last it dawned on Kennedy that there was more going on here than he’d anticipated. He studied them both for a long moment, then reached for his dressing gown.
‘You’re the Old Bill, aren’t you?’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll murder that fucking Shel.’
Back in the car, an hour later, Rick couldn’t contain himself. Justice, for once, had been done. He’d gone in there feeling a right prat and now here they were, back in one piece with a story that would keep the CID office going for months. Not only that, but he’d had one of his great all-time assumptions confirmed.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Footballers really are fucking apes. See the body on that guy? What a waste.’
They’d arrested Kennedy on suspicion of aiding and abetting unlawful sexual intercourse. They’d organised a proper search of the premises and stayed long enough to find a stack of videos. One of them, labeled ‘Shel’, had contained uncut footage of the girl in action with Kennedy. It carried a date and time on the top right-hand corner of the picture, when according to Dawn’s calculations Shelley would have been barely fifteen – ample evidence to justify Kennedy’s arrest. The issue now was Shelley’s safety. Kennedy would be in custody for at least twenty-four hours, but after that it was anyone’s guess what would happen next.
‘I’ll get her out of Rawlinson Road,’ Dawn said. ‘I’ll park her in the Travelodge until we sort something out.’
Twenty-Three
Monday, 26 June, late afternoon
At Winter’s insistence, Tara Gough gave him a proper tour of the Weather Gage. Parrish, like Hennessey, seemed to have disappeared. He always took over in the late afternoon, giving Tara the chance to get home for the kids, but it was nearly twenty-four hours since she’d last seen him and she couldn’t hang on for ever.
‘It’ll take fifteen minutes,’ Winter told her. ‘I just need to take a look.’
With some reluctance, she agreed. Upstairs was the living accommodation, a dozen rooms on two storeys. Parrish had been here for nearly three years now, yet some of the rooms still hadn’t been touched – bare boards, cobwebbed windows – and Winter began to sense the kind of life this man was leading.
With Tara and her kids here, it would certainly have been cosier, but now she’d gone, he’d reverted to a cramped, chaotic existence in a bedroom, a lounge and a filthy L-shaped kitchen. Old newspapers and magazines were strewn everywhere, as were sundry items of food: biscuits still spread with Kraft cheese, open packets of crisps, the remains of a takeaway korma, green with mould. This was graphic enough, evidence of a life spooling out of control, but when Winter examined just a handful of the invoices piled high on the faded baize card table Parrish obviously used as a desk, it became clear that this same chaos had spilled into his business life. Bills for hundreds of pounds’ worth of frozen pizzas. Four-figure demands for electricity arrears. Tara was right. The pub was on its knees.
Downstairs again, Winter wanted to know what was out the back. Tara checked her watch. She was late. The kids would be worrying.
‘Phone them,’ Winter told her briskly, pushing at a door that was obviously locked.
Tara fetched the key. This was the outhouse, the place where Parrish kept the big fridge freezers he used to store food for the restaurant. There were cases of wine here too, and, along the inner wall, specially built cradles for the wooden barrels of real ale that had once given the Weather Gage a reputation for decently kept beer.
The door creaked open and Tara reached for the switch inside. Spookily lit with a single flickering neon tube, the outhouse was enormous, much bigger than Winter had imagined. Double doors at the far end were bolted and padlocked on the inside, and Winter could see a thin strip of sunshine at the bottom where the wood didn’t quite reach the flagstones.
‘Does he ever keep cars in here?’
‘Sometimes. When he’s got one.’
‘What’s this?’
There was a sturdy wooden table in the middle of the outhouse, big but still dwarfed by the space around it. Winter bent to examine its top. The table looked old, the surface stained and scored from years of use.
‘Rob’s pride and joy,’ Tara told him. ‘He bought it from a butcher in Southsea. When we first started the restaurant, we’d get whole sides of beef from a farm up near Petersfield and Rob would pay the bloke we’d got the table from to come and chop the carcass up.’
‘Has he used it recently?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘What’s it doing here then? Centre stage?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
Winter took a tiny step backwards, his head cocked. The overhead light had a definite problem. As well as the flicker, there was a loud hum, almost a buzzing. Control unit, he thought. Ten quid from B&Q.
He reached out to touch the table, then had second thoughts. Scenes of Crime, he thought. The guys with the white paper suits and the face masks. The guys who just love crawling over items like this.
‘That Sunday I asked you about? Just over a week ago?’
‘Yes?’
‘You say Parrish came back?’
‘No, I told you I locked up without him. I’ve no idea whether he came back or not.’
‘But he could have done, no?’
‘Of course.’ The neon light danced on her face. ‘He lives here.’
Outside in the sunshine, Winter walked Tara to her car. He wanted to know about Parrish and the old boy, Ronald McIntyre. Had they really been close?
‘“Close” isn’t the right word,’ Tara muttered, dying to get away. ‘Like I said, Rob isn’t close to anyone. But if you’re asking whether they chatted, then yes, all the time.’
‘What did they talk about?’
‘I don’t know. All sorts. There’s some problem about Ronnie’s daughter. She’s had a bad time. Some gynae mess-up. Sounds horrific.’
‘Does he ever talk to you about that?’
‘Never. He’s very old-fashioned. That’s one of the things I like about him. To women you talk about flowers and horseriding. The nasty stuff might upset me.’
‘But he discusses it with Parrish?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Look. I—’ The watch again, and the key poised to open the car door.
‘Anything else?’ Winter repeated.
‘No, not really. Boats, of course. But all the men I know bang on about boats.’
Cathy Lamb was so pleased by the news of Kennedy’s arrest she fetched the coffees herself. The machine along the corridor was playing up, so she couldn’t guarantee the sugar.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Dawn’s smile was equally bright
. ‘I shouldn’t take it in the first place.’
‘OK.’ Cathy passed the brimming plastic cup across. ‘Just go through it again for me.’
Dawn consulted her notes. What she knew for sure was that Kennedy was making porn movies in his upstairs bedroom and that Shelley had been one of his first volunteers.
‘She admits that?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old?’
‘Fifteen. Which means we can have him.’
‘You’ve got evidence? A statement?’
‘I’ve got better than that. We’ve seized a video featuring him and Shelley at it. It’s got date and time on it. April 1997.’
‘And she’s been working for him ever since?’
‘Big time. But recently it’s been getting tricky.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s started beating her up.’
‘Any particular reason? Or just for kicks?’
‘She says it’s because of Addison, the guy we nicked for the Donald Duck jobs. Kennedy heard about the porno movies he does for the Kosovan girl and wanted him to work on his own stuff. The guy’s really good with the editing. Really, really good. Kennedy needed some of that, which is why he steered Shelley towards him in the first place.’
‘She didn’t want to be an actress?’
‘No, she did, and she still does, but it took Kennedy to point her at Addison. All his students have to do a little video of their own, a kind of intro thing. It’s all part of the selection process. Vamping it up the way Shelley did was Kennedy’s idea too. He thought Addison wouldn’t be able to resist it, and it turns out he was right.’
‘So she’s at it with Addison?’
‘She still says not.’
‘You believe her?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Does Kennedy?’
‘No. He thinks she’s screwing him. That’s bad enough, but the fact that she won’t lean on him to do the editing drives him up the wall.’
Cathy sipped at her coffee and then pulled a face, swapping the cup with Dawn’s.
‘So who’s Donald Duck?’ she asked at last. ‘Does Shelley know?’
‘She says not.’
‘What about you?’
Dawn didn’t answer for a moment or two. A name, at this stage, would be dangerous. She didn’t have the evidence, and another mistake would simply cancel out the pleasure she had in store for Cathy. Finally, she reached for her notebook and slipped it into her jeans pocket.
‘Give me one more day?’
‘Gladly.’
At Southsea nick, Faraday convened a squad meet on the Hennessey job for five o’clock. He’d heard about the Kennedy arrest, but Cathy was dealing with it up at Fratton and he’d yet to make the connection with Addison. Ferguson rustled up the bodies for the Hennessey squad and launched the brief with an update on current progress. He was about to reach the usual gloomy conclusion after another wasted day when Winter finally appeared. Heads turned. Faraday was the first to speak.
‘How’s Joannie?’
‘A bit better, boss.’
‘Still at the QA?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Are you with us now or’ – Faraday frowned –’ not?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter perched himself on the edge of a desk at the back. ‘Definitely.’
Ferguson took up the running again, with what little remained to be said. There’d been no sighting of Hennessey at the ferry port. Photos from the Marriott surveillance had been circulated on an inter-force digest. No evidence had turned up of an ex-wife, or a close relative, or even a friend. On that big, busy drawing that was life, the man had simply rubbed himself out.
‘Not quite, skip.’ It was Winter.
‘You’ve got something for us? Thank fuck for that. Draw up a seat. Make yourself comfortable.’
There was a ripple of laughter around the CID room. Some of the support staff were here too, clerks who’d spent long, fruitless hours trawling through records of one kind or another, looking for Hennessey’s tracks. An inquiry this complex at divisional level was unusual, to say the least. Only the fact that a body hadn’t turned up had so far prevented an upgrade to the Major Crimes Suite.
Winter, with a slightly apologetic look in Faraday’s direction, explained that he’d had an hour or two off from the hospital, time he’d been more than happy to devote to Hennessey.
‘Lucky us.’ It was Ferguson again.
No one else laughed this time. Winter had a certain reputation among these men: bent, for sure, but exactly the kind of guy to find gold when everyone else was running their arses off trying to make the system work.
‘OK?’ Winter was looking at Faraday, who nodded.
‘Go on.’
Winter said he’d picked up word about the Weather Gage. He’d no idea whether it had already figured in some action or other, but he’d thought it was worth a visit.
‘I went down there first thing this morning,’ Ferguson growled. ‘And it was shut.’
‘Sure,’ Winter countered. ‘I went down there mid-morning, and it wasn’t.’
‘And what did you find, Mr Winter?’
‘This guy.’
Winter produced the car park video still from the Marriott and tapped the figure helping Hennessey towards the Mercedes. Later, in the bar up at Fratton, there was talk of the rabbit and the hat. From somewhere, God knows how, Winter had conjured a definite lead. Not just a definite lead, but potentially a case-cracking lead.
‘And who the fuck is he?’ Ferguson looked positively baleful. Even Faraday was enjoying it.
‘His name’s Rob Parrish. He owns the pub.’
‘You’ve talked to him about it?’
‘I can’t. He’s disappeared.’
‘So how do you know it’s him?’
‘The woman who runs the pub restaurant ID’d him.’
‘She’s certain?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Fuck me.’ Ferguson was looking at Faraday. ‘TIE him, boss? All hands?’
TIE was shorthand for trace, interview and eliminate. Ferguson had a lot of ground to make up.
Faraday was still looking at Winter.
‘So what are you saying?’
Winter took his time. You didn’t get to play scenes like this very often and he wanted to squeeze it for every last drop of advantage. Faraday’s curt dismissal still burned in his memory. ‘Tends to lack strategic perspective’. Strategic perspective, fuck. Who else in the room had anything to match this?
‘We know this guy was at the Marriott that Sunday night. Video puts him and Hennessey in the car park at two in the morning. They get in the Mercedes. They drive away.’
‘Where do they go?’
‘My bet’s on Old Portsmouth. They drive back down, back to Parrish’s place, the Weather Gage. They go inside. Fuck knows what happens next, but Parrish has a big storehouse place at the back, properly secured. There’s an old butcher’s table inside.’
Ferguson couldn’t contain himself.
‘Don’t tell me.’ He was looking wonderingly at Winter. ‘He chopped Hennessey up.’
‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘Something like that.’
‘Why?’
‘Some kind of contract. Hennessey’s got a list of enemies as long as my arm. I’ve said so from the start. Ex-patients of his who are seriously pissed off.’
‘Pissed off enough to kill him?’
‘Pissed off enough to have him killed, yes.’
Faraday was making notes. He looked up.
‘When?’ he asked. ‘When did this happen?’
‘I’d say early Monday morning, after the Marriott. Parrish drives him back to the pub and then kills him.’
‘So where’s the body?’
‘Pass.’
‘And where’s this man Parrish?’
‘Fuck knows.’
There was a long silence. After three days of blank leads, an eternity of doorsteps and phone calls, no one except Ferguso
n was in the mood to second-guess Winter. It was the old story. He’d been out on his own. He’d backed a hunch or two. And here he was, back in the delivery business.
Faraday stirred. Decision time.
‘Number one, we need some shots of Parrish.’
‘He was in the News recently.’ It was Winter again. ‘Big fuss about condemned meat. I think it went to court. They’re bound to have photos.’
‘OK?’ Faraday was looking at Ferguson. ‘Number two, we need to check every bloody inch of traffic video for Monday morning, two onwards. Cameras on the roads in, and not just the obvious route, plus cameras around Old Portsmouth.’
‘There aren’t any.’ Ferguson, for once, looked almost happy. ‘Old Portsmouth’s not on the council’s priority list.’
‘Begging your pardon, skip, but there’s always the Wightlink terminal.’ Winter sweetened the news with a smile. ‘It’s bang next door to the pub and they’ve got twenty-four-hour video coverage. It’s where you leave your motor if you want to keep it in one piece.’
‘Wightlink.’ An order, Faraday to Ferguson again.
Faraday ran quickly through the other actions, covering the obvious bases. PNC checks on Parrish. The guy might have a criminal record. DVLC checks on any vehicle he might own.
‘The woman at the pub says not.’
‘Check all the same.’
‘OK.’
‘Then the pub. We need to box it off. Get a SOCO in, full treatment, especially the place you mentioned with the table. Go through the place with a toothcomb. I want floorboards up, the lot.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s a quarter past five. Willard will want an upgrade to Major Crimes, but it would be nice to spare him the bother before he gets the chance. Let’s get it bottomed out, nice and tidy.’ He looked round, then nodded at Winter. ‘Agreed?’
Faraday was back home by eight. Forensic had gone into the Weather Gage and the building was now in the hands of the Scenes of Crime team. Until they’d completed their fingertip search of the premises, there was very little he could do. A bleak, handwritten notice on the main door announced that the pub was shut until further notice.
In the kitchen, Faraday poured himself a large Scotch, added a finger of water, and retired to the big lounge. With the doors open to the garden, he could smell the falling tide. Winter’s sleight-of-hand, as ever, perplexed him. Not how he managed to pull off coups like this, but why. What was it about his colleagues that made it so difficult for him to be part of a team? Why, in God’s name, was he so determined to step outside the rulebook and run little private investigations of his own?
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