‘Do I make myself clear?’
Winter ignored the challenge. He nodded towards the sofa and told McIntyre to sit down.
‘You have a choice,’ he explained softly. ‘Either you start telling me about Parrish or this relationship of ours becomes a bit more official.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I arrest you.’
McIntyre looked startled.
‘What for?’
‘Conspiracy to murder. You’ve virtually admitted it.’
‘I’ve done no such thing. I agreed I lent the wretched man some money. Is that a crime?’
‘It depends why you did it. Parrish is under arrest. We’ve talked to him twice already and I must say there’s every prospect of him telling us exactly what happened. You’re part of that story, Ronnie. You know it, and so do I.’ He paused. ‘Pleas in mitigation can count for a lot.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that I can have a word with the judge. In these circumstances, it helps to understand what you and Nikki have been through.’
‘Judge?’
‘I’m afraid so. Unless …’ Winter frowned, as if struck by a sudden idea. ‘Unless we can sort something out about Parrish.’ He gestured at the space between them. ‘Here and now.’
McIntyre, at first, wasn’t having it. OK, he’d lent Parrish the money, as he’d already admitted, but in time he’d get it back. There’d never been any question of services rendered. He’d be crazy to hire a hit man. If he really wanted to see Hennessey dead, he’d do it himself. With the greatest pleasure.
Winter let him come to a full stop. Then he patted him on the shoulder.
‘Crazy is a good word,’ he agreed. ‘No one’s blaming you here, Ronnie, least of all me.’ He nodded towards the piano and the gallery of framed photos. Nikki as a kid, sprawled on a blanket on the lawn. Nikki on the beach at Seaview, guarding a circle of perfect sandpies. Nikki on Graduation Day, champagne and smiles. ‘Are you really telling me you’d let him get away with it? Is that what fathers do?’
McIntyre was less certain now. Winter suggested a drink. There were two decent glasses of sherry left in the decanter. McIntyre emptied his without a word.
‘I can help you here,’ Winter told him.
‘How?’
‘By keeping this … between us.’
‘Private, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have your word on that?’
‘Yes.’ Winter sipped at the sherry. ‘I just need to know about proof.’
‘What kind of proof?’
‘Proof that the man’s dead. You don’t part with twenty grand without proof.’ He tipped the glass in a mock-toast. ‘Do you, Ronnie?’
McIntyre was gazing out of the window, his eyes filmed with alcohol. He sat there bolt upright for perhaps a minute, then carefully replaced his empty glass on the presentation silver tray and left the room. CAPTAIN RONALD ARTHUR MCINTYRE, went the inscription, FROM THE WARDROOM OF HMS NOTTINGHAM. WITH RESPECT AND GRATITUDE. He was back moments later. Winter watched him slip an audio cassette into the hi-fi and press the play button. Then he sank into the nearby armchair, his eyes returning to the lawn and the river beyond the window.
At first, Winter couldn’t make any sense of the tape, it was just a series of scraping noises. Then he heard a grunt, followed by a man’s voice. It was Parrish. He sounded out of breath. He was telling someone to hold still. This shouldn’t take long, he was saying, just relax. Then another voice with a distinctive South African accent. Do this, then this, now pull, now carry the needle through, not like that, the other way, yes, and again, yes, much better. The dialogue went on for a while, a master class in suturing, then came a moment of complete silence followed by the sound of a heavy thud, cold steel splintering through bone. A man screamed. Another thud, the screaming fainter this time. Then, finally, a return to silence.
McIntyre nodded. His eyes were bright with excitement.
‘Hennessey,’ he confirmed. ‘Definitely Hennessey.’
‘You know that for sure?’
‘I talked to him on the phone a number of times, when Nikki was seeing him. You don’t forget a voice like that.’
Winter was still gazing at the hi-fi.
‘Where did Parrish do it? Did he tell you?’
‘He’s got a garage, or workshop or something, round the back of the pub. He’s got fridges in there for the meat and what have you.’
‘And that’s where it happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he do with the body?’
‘He cut it up, there and then.’
‘And?’
‘I didn’t ask. It’s somewhere very safe. That’s all he told me.’
Winter drained his glass and stood up. McIntyre stared at his outstretched hand.
‘That’s it? We’ve finished?’
‘Of course. You’re off on holiday aren’t you?’ He smiled. ‘Have a great time. You’ve earned it.’
Winter was on the long sweep of motorway that cuts through Portsdown Hill when he finally managed to raise Tara Gough on her mobile. She’d been engaged for the last twenty minutes while he raced down the Meon Valley.
‘It’s Winter. Where are you?’
‘At home. The pub’s still sealed off.’
‘OK, listen. That light.’
‘What light?’
At ninety-five miles an hour, Winter hit the brakes. Why did people still bother with seventy in the outside lane?
‘The neon tube in the outhouse,’ he explained tersely. ‘The one with the fucking great hum.’
‘The flicker, you mean?’
‘Yeah, and the noise. How long’s it been like that?’
‘Weeks, months. I keep telling Rob but he never gets round to fixing it. It’s worse than not having a light at all.’ She paused. ‘Why do you want to know?’
The van had finally moved over. To the right, beyond the roofs of Paulsgrove, the city was laid out like a map, sunlight winking off a distant tower block.
‘You mentioned boats,’ he said.
‘Like … how?’
‘Parrish and McIntyre. You said they talked about boats.’
‘That’s right. They did.’
‘Has Parrish got a boat?’
‘Yes, love of his life, big motor cruiser thing.’
‘Name?’
‘Crazy Lady.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In the Camber. Last time I looked.’
The last person Faraday expected to see was Dawn Ellis. She appeared at the door of his office, asking for a brief chat, and it was several seconds before he realised she had company.
‘Cath,’ he said, fetching a couple of chairs. ‘Some kind of deputation?’
Cathy Lamb allowed herself the faintest smile. Dawn was obviously the one who was going to do the talking.
‘Well, girls?’ Faraday was awaiting word from the Bridewell. Winter wanted another crack at Parrish.
‘It’s about Addison,’ Dawn began.
Faraday gazed at her. She sounded strangely formal, almost strained. Was this what half a day with Cathy Lamb did to you?
‘What about him?’ he asked.
‘I think he’s innocent. I think we’ve nicked the wrong guy.’
She went through the evidence. Shelley’s career as an apprentice porn star. Lee Kennedy’s ambitions as a movie producer. The fact that the girl herself was sure that Addison had nothing to do with the Donald Duck incidents. The fact that Kennedy had a major grudge against him. Finally, she brought herself full circle.
‘Addison didn’t do it, boss. Believe me.’
Faraday was looking at Cathy Lamb. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Faraday for a second.
‘Just thought you ought to know,’ she said quietly, ‘before the CPS get their hands on the file.’
Faraday acknowledged the favour with a nod. He knew exactly what was going on here. Cathy was enjoying a moment or two o
f the sweetest revenge. And, God knows, she probably deserved it.
He turned back to Dawn.
‘So who are we looking for now?’ he enquired drily. ‘Who is Donald Duck?’
Dawn exchanged glances with Cathy.
‘I think it’s Beavis,’ she said.
‘Have you put it to him?’
‘No. But everything else adds up. He’s got no alibi. He smokes like a chimney. And he’s thick as a brick.’
‘But why would he want to do it?’
‘Because Kennedy told him to. He worships Kennedy. He worships the ground he walks on. If the man said jump, he’d jump.’
‘But exposing himself? You’re telling me he’d go that far?’
‘Yes. Definitely. Kennedy was the one who told him that Addison was shagging his daughter. Kennedy wanted to screw Addison himself. Putting him in the frame for the Donald Duck job was perfect. Except he needed some guy actually to put the mask on and do it.’
‘And you’re saying Beavis?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not Addison at all?’
‘No.’
There was a long moment of silence. From away down Highland Road, the distant blare of a two-tone. Faraday’s gaze never left Dawn’s face.
‘Shit,’ he said quietly.
The third session with Parrish bogged down almost immediately. For one thing, he’d decided to accept the offer of a lawyer. For another, he was as ready with answers as ever.
Winter wanted to know about the boat, Crazy Lady. How long had he had it?
‘I bought it when I came back from Dubai. I made a whack of money out there and I fancied something, you know, really flash. It was a Boat Show offer, San Remo thirty-five, good discount for cash.’
‘When was that?’
Parrish frowned. ‘Ninety-three,’ he said at last.
‘You used it a lot?’
‘To begin with, yeah. Women loved it. We used to bomb over to France or the Channel Islands. Boat like that, you could be there as quick as the ferries. It was like driving a sports car. You just put your foot down and boom.’
‘So where is it now?’
I sold it.’
‘When?’
‘A couple of weeks back. French bloke, businessman of some kind, comes over here a lot. Turned out he’d been eyeing it for months.’
‘How did he pay for it?’
‘Cash.’ Parrish was enjoying himself, anticipating Winter’s next question. ‘Hundred and fifteen grand, can you believe that?’
Winter sat back for a moment, only too aware that the figure Parrish had just mentioned was exactly the sum Hennessey himself had withdrawn from his bank account before he disappeared. Coincidence, bollocks. Parrish was starting to take the piss. The cassette he’d given to McIntyre was supposedly recorded in the outhouse behind the pub. Yet where was the evidence of the dodgy neon tube? The hum you couldn’t miss if you were in there for more than a second or two?
‘This French guy,’ Winter said slowly. ‘You wouldn’t have an address by any chance?’
The lawyer began to protest at the question, but Parrish told him he wasn’t bothered. Then he turned back to Winter.
‘Afraid not,’ he said sweetly. ‘Real nomads, these business types.’
An hour later, Winter phoned the hospital. The sister in charge of the ICU confirmed that his wife had been transferred to another ward and was awaiting a full psychiatric assessment.
‘How is she?’
‘Awake. Cogent. Remarkably well, considering.’
Winter nodded, glancing at his watch. Rick was already down in the Camber, checking out the story on Parrish’s boat. Depending on the outcome, Winter might just make the evening Jersey flight out of Southampton. Either way, he needed to get home for a shower and a change of clothes.
The ICU sister was telling him the name of Joannie’s ward. He didn’t bother writing it down.
‘Give her my best,’ he said. ‘Pecker up, eh?’
En route home, Winter phoned Rick. So far he’d talked to half a dozen locals, most of whom remembered Parrish’s boat. The landlord of the Weather Gage had never quite mastered the art of berthing and the hull of Crazy Lady was scarred from countless small collisions. The fact that the cruiser had now gone for good was, said Rick, the cause for some rejoicing.
‘Anyone see it go?’
‘Not so far, but there’s a guy runs the tugs. He lives on top of Parrish’s old mooring. If anyone can help us, he can. Bloke’s back in an hour or so.’ He paused. I also phoned a magazine called Motor Boat. Ran the price past some guy who seemed to know about the second-hand market.’
‘What price?’
‘The hundred and fifteen grand Parrish got for his boat.’
‘And?’
‘Way over the top. At least twenty thousand over the top. Whoever paid him that was off his head.’
Winter sealed the conversation with a grunt. Twenty grand was the price Hennessey had paid for making good his escape. He wasn’t interested in appearing in front of the GMC. He didn’t want to be dragged through the courts. And he certainly didn’t need his face plastered all over the papers yet again. And so Parrish, with Ronald McIntyre none the wiser, had ghosted him away. Clever.
Back home in Bedhampton, Winter found a small pile of post on the mat. Most of it was cards for Joannie. Only a typed envelope with a London postmark was of any real interest.
Inside, he found a sheaf of unpaid duplicate invoices from the nursing agency Hennessey had used for the supply of theatre staff for the operations he conducted. Most of the nurses were obviously paid through the agency, but in one case they’d included photocopied invoices that had come direct from the nurse herself. Her name was Helen O’Dwyer, and there was a telephone number with her Guildford address.
She took a while to answer. Winter explained that he was CID. Hennessey had gone missing and various lines of inquiry were being pursued. She had absolutely no obligation to help him out, but he’d be really grateful for a steer or two.
There was a long silence. She wanted to know how she could be sure he was police. Winter gave her the control room number at Fratton and asked her to check him out before phoning back.
‘No, that’s OK.’ She’d made up her mind. ‘What do you want to know?’
Winter established that she’d done lots of operations with Hennessey. Indeed, she was the nurse he normally called on first.
‘You’re aware of the trouble he’s in?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘Not for a while, no.’
Winter mentioned Nikki McIntyre. Was she familiar with the name?
‘Yeah. She was one of the regulars. Pretty girl.’
‘Was there anything in particular you remember? Anything’ – Winter paused – ‘special he did for her?’
‘Not really, he was slower, that’s all.’
‘What do you mean, slower?’
‘With most patients, he raced through the operation. He was famous for it.’ She offered a sour laugh. ‘Some days he even used to bring in an alarm clock. He’d set it for, say, thirty minutes’ time, then off we’d go. We’d have to be out and sutured by the time the bell went.’
‘He could do things like that?’
‘Of course he could. He was the client. He’d hired the theatre, hired the anaesthetist, hired us. He could do damn well what he liked.’
Anger had given her voice a sharper edge. She didn’t like Hennessey, Winter thought. No wonder she’s got so much to get off her chest.
‘And Nikki McIntyre?’
‘He never brought the alarm clock in. He’d take his time.’
‘Yeah?’ Winter could almost see her face now. ‘And anything else?’
There was a long silence. Then Winter heard a sigh.
‘He’d take photos,’ she muttered. ‘Lots and lots of them.’
An hour later, Winter lay full length in the bath, making his plans for Henness
ey. He’d find him in Jersey, he knew he would. He’d be tucked up aboard Parrish’s motor cruiser, moored in the marina. Between them, the two men must have been plotting this for weeks. Probably longer.
Strictly speaking, Winter should now level with Faraday – telling him about McIntyre, the audio tape and the scam that Parrish had undoubtedly worked – but it was far too early for this kind of disclosure. Better, by far, to tie up the loose ends first. And if that meant a settling of personal scores, then so be it.
But what next?
For more than a week now, Winter had been doing his best to cast himself as some kind of crusader, righting wrongs on behalf of the poor bloody women Hennessey had maimed. Dierdre Walsh was one of them, Nikki McIntyre another. Conversations with both had taken the inquiry to the brink of success, but in his heart Winter knew that his pursuit of Hennessey had fuck all to do with philanthropy. He just wasn’t like that. He’d never fought other people’s battles and he wasn’t about to start. No, this was for him. Hennessey was his. When he’d told Cathy Lamb that he needed to hurt someone it was as close as he could get to the truth, and in the shape of a fat old pervy gynaecologist, he now had the chance. Squaring it with Hennessey wouldn’t be a duty but a pleasure, and afterwards he knew he’d feel a whole lot better about things.
So what next?
He gave Joannie’s plastic duck a little poke with his big toe, watching it bob around among the bubbles, then closed his eyes, considering afresh the possibilities. Hennessey, he thought. Mine, and mine alone.
Twenty-Six
Wednesday, 28 June, 0930
Rain had begun to fall by the time Faraday and Ferguson met up with the Gunwharf site engineer. He was young and fresh-faced with a mop of curly black hair, and he occupied one end of a stuffy, neon-lit office in a Lego city of portacabins at the top of the site. The uniformed Inspector in charge of the POLSA team had been here since nine and he wanted to know why Faraday and Ferguson were late. He had a million things to do this morning. A site survey ahead of a full-scale search was just another cross he had to bear.
‘Traffic,’ Ferguson grunted. ‘Sir.’
The engineer gave them each a hard hat. Faraday’s was too small so he wore it tipped down over his eyes, letting the rain drip onto the front of his anorak. The weather was horrible, not just rain but a cold, hard wind that blew across the harbour from the Gosport side and played havoc with the huge sheets of polythene stretched across lattices of scaffolding. For late June, it felt arctic.
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