Winter reached for the peanuts, tried to open the packet with his teeth, failed. Tarrant did it for him, emptying a handful onto the table. Winter peered at them for a moment.
‘You happy then?’ He looked up. ‘With your Rachel?’
‘Most of the time, yeah.’
‘And what about her? She happy with you? Only you know what it is about these things … ’ He waved a limp hand, scattering the nuts. ‘When you’re married. ’
‘Yeah, I do. You’ve been there, Mr W. You’d know about it, too.’
‘Paul.’
‘Paul.’
‘Yeah, too right. You wanna word of advice? About Rachel? Look after her, son. Be nice to her. A good woman is worth more than anything else in the world. Doesn’t matter what you have to do, what it costs, any of that bollocks. If she’s as nice as she looks, you’d do anything, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ Tarrant was smiling again. ‘I would.’
‘Good lad.’ Winter tried to retrieve a peanut from the carpet. Tarrant rescued the table as he struggled upright again. Winter found another peanut, his lap this time, and held it between his finger and his thumb. ‘Dinnertime,’ he mumbled, popping it in his mouth.
He looked round. The pub was beginning to empty. Tarrant had already volunteered to get him safely home.
‘What’s that?’ Winter wanted to know.
‘It’s a mobile, Mr W. I’m calling a cab.’
The interview at the Bridewell began again. Michelle Brinton, tight-lipped, announced that her client was now prepared to admit fraudulent use of the debit card in addition to stabbing DC Suttle in self-defence, but still insisted that he’d had nothing to do with whatever had happened to the owner of the card. If they wanted to extend their area of interest to the Missing Person, there were procedures to go through. Yates, who’d conferenced with Faraday during the break, now rearrested Ewart on suspicion of murder and read him the formal caution. Watching the video feed from the adjoining room, Faraday anticipated the interview hitting the buffers. Ewart would go No Comment. Bound to. He was wrong.
‘You say you had nothing to do with the owner of this debit card.’ Yates was looking across the table at Ewart. ‘How do we know that?’
‘Because it’s fucking true,’ he mumbled.
‘Prove it.’
‘Yeah? What if it means grassing someone else up?’
‘Someone who did the owner?’
‘Someone who sold me the card.’
‘And who might that be?’
Ewart looked from one face to the other. His choice couldn’t have been plainer, Faraday thought. Either he comes up with a name or he’s facing a potential murder charge.
‘A kid found a wallet,’ Ewart said at last.
‘Where?’
‘The newsagent in Somerstown. It was on the floor, he said. Down by the magazines.’
‘Whose wallet was it?’
‘Same bloke. This Givens. Apparently there was sixty quid in cash in it, plus some other stuff, including the card. The kid had the notes away but couldn’t do anything with the card.’
‘No PIN?’
‘No.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I got the card off him. Ten quid.’
‘And what’s his name, this kid?’
There was a long silence. Ewart summoned the grace to look troubled but Faraday hadn’t got the slightest doubt that he’d already made the decision.
‘You going to tell me or what?’ Yates was getting impatient again.
‘This is fucking suicide,’ Ewart said. ‘You know that?’
‘Yeah.’ Yates nodded. ‘Here’s hoping.’
‘Wanker.’
Yates, enraged, was getting to his feet. Ellis restrained him.
‘The name,’ she said wearily. ‘Just give us the bloody name.’
Jake Tarrant rode back to Gunwharf with Winter. The cab dropped them both at Blake House and Tarrant told the driver to wait while he took Winter upstairs. Winter was weaving towards the harbourside walkway that skirted the front of the residential area. Tarrant had to run to catch up with him.
‘The view … ’ Winter wanted to share it.
Tarrant hooked an arm under his, steered him gently round, headed back towards the looming apartment block.
‘You’ve got a key, Mr W.?’
Winter didn’t seem to understand the question. He wanted Jake to be sweet with Rachel. He wanted everything to be sweet.
Tarrant found the keys in Winter’s jacket pocket. The biggest one opened the doors to the lobby.
‘Which floor?’
‘Up.’ Winter waved vaguely at the recessed lights in the ceiling.
Tarrant wrestled him into the lift, his finger hovering over the buttons by the door.
‘First? Second? Third? Top?’
‘Whatever.’ Winter was looking troubled. ‘Did I tell you about Jimmy?’
‘Yeah, Mr W. Real shame, eh?’
The last time they’d met, Winter had been banging on about the best view in the building so Tarrant gambled on the top floor. Coming out of the lift, he propped Winter against the wall, then went from door to door, trying the key in each. In the last door the key turned. Inside, fumbling for the light, he could smell the familiar aftershave.
Back beside Winter, he managed to manoeuvre him down the tiny hall and into the lounge. The sight of his own four walls appeared to take Winter by surprise. He looked round, said he wanted a drink.
‘Bacardi,’ he mumbled. ‘Try the fridge.’
Tarrant had found the master bedroom. He put on the lights, pulled the curtains, helped a protesting Winter towards the big double bed. Winter gazed down at it a moment, then slowly folded onto the floor.
Tarrant stood over him. Next week, he told Winter, he’d be back at work. It was important he had it right about Alan Givens. People should know. People should be told.
‘Told what, son?’
‘Told that he’s dead.’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘So he is dead? You’re sure about that? Only he was a mate of mine, sort of. We worked together. St Mary’s. The hospital. You remember all that, Mr W.?’
Winter peered up at him.
‘You’re a good lad, son.’
‘We’re talking about Givens.’
‘We are?’
‘That’s right.’ Tarrant was kneeling now, slipping a pillow beneath Winter’s head. ‘And you told me that Givens had been killed. By this Ewart bloke. Am I right?’
Winter nodded, his eyes beginning to close. Then he reached up and found Tarrant’s hand.
‘Yeah,’ he murmured peaceably. ‘Dead fucking right.’
Faraday drove Dawn Ellis back to Kingston Crescent. It was nearly midnight. Karl Ewart had been formally charged with attempted murder and credit card fraud and would be appearing in front of the magistrates first thing Monday morning.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think the man’s a complete arsehole. I think I need a shower.’
‘About this Dale Cummings?’
‘Don’t know, boss. Don’t even know if it makes any difference. He’s going down anyway, isn’t he?’
Faraday was still waiting for the lights to change. They not only had Dale Cummings’ name but his Somerstown address as well. At nine years old, young Dale was still living with his mum.
‘But you believe him?’ He glanced across at Ellis. ‘You think it happened the way Ewart described?’
Ellis didn’t answer. She’d been with Jimmy Suttle only hours ago. Like everyone else on Major Crimes, she had a soft spot for the lad. He had prospects, no question, but he was a lovely bloke as well. Ellis turned her head away, stared out at the parade of darkened shops that led to Kingston Crescent. A drunk was pissing against a window full of prams. He gave her a little wave as they drove by.
‘Well?’ Faraday still wanted an answer.
Ellis was about to say something sensible about waiting for further ev
idence, about getting alongside the lad and his mum, about testing Ewart’s story the way she knew they had to, but then she shook her head.
‘You know what I really think, boss?’ She closed her eyes. ‘I think I really don’t care.’
Nine
Saturday, 16 July 2005, 08.34
‘Suttle?’
It was Martin Barrie’s first question. The Detective Superintendent, much to his wife’s annoyance, had been at his desk since before eight. Saturdays, as she’d acidly pointed out, used to be family time.
‘He came through the op, sir. But I still get the impression it’s touch and go. He’s in Critical Care at the moment. Liable to be there some time.’
Faraday had been onto the hospital first thing. Suttle was still gravely ill but in one sense it seemed he’d been extremely lucky. Had the knife penetrated a millimetre or two deeper, Ewart would already be facing a murder charge.
‘Card? Flowers? Anyone organising anything?’
‘A card went round last night, sir. We’ll get it up to the hospital today.’
‘Hmm … ’ Barrie frowned. ‘What about Ewart?’
Faraday talked Barrie through the interview at the Bridewell. He was outlining the steps he’d need to take to interview Dale Cummings when Barrie interrupted. The news about Suttle had clearly shaken him.
‘There’s a problem, isn’t there Joe?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘With Suttle. The way I see it, he’s chasing this man Ewart. Ewart takes a hostage. He has a knife. The situation can kick off in any direction. There are procedures here. Suttle should have been aware of that.’
‘I’m sure DC Suttle did what he thought best at the time, sir,’ Faraday said woodenly. ‘He saw a direct threat to the woman’s life and moved to intervene.’
‘But it could have been her, Joe. Once it all kicked off, she could have been the one who was stabbed.’
‘But it wasn’t, sir. It was Jimmy. And he’s lucky to be alive.’
‘Of course.’ Barrie waved a hand over the paperwork on his desk. ‘You know that, I know that. Whether the Chief will see it the same way remains to be seen. Suttle’s come very close to getting himself killed and our friends at headquarters will want to know why. You know how these things go. The lad could end up with a commendation or a kick up the arse. For my money, given the circumstances, he’ll probably give the boy his rightful due. What do you think?’
‘About the Chief?’
‘About Suttle. About what he did. About the decision he took.’
‘I applaud it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, sir. He took the responsibility. I’m not sure we could have asked more of him.’
‘Would you call that good judgement?’
‘I’d call it courage -’ He paused. ‘- Sir.’
Faraday was fighting to contain his anger. Barrie was right, of course. In the inevitable debrief there’d be issues about risk assessment, about recklessness, about the needless hazarding of life and limb. Play it by the book, and Suttle should have backed off, called for assistance, summoned the cavalry. A minute’s chase would have turned into a full-blown siege. TV would have arrived. For a brief moment of time Ashburton Road would have entertained the entire nation.
‘So what do you want me to do, sir,’ Faraday asked quietly, ‘after I give Jimmy our best?’
‘Nothing, Joe. The case file should give us all the facts, and once that’s complete we have to leave it to the Chief’s review. This is just a heads-up, that’s all. You’re right. Suttle was a brave lad. He took a split-second decision and paid the price. But we want him coming out of this with a commendation, not a disciplinary hearing. Suttle will obviously be making a statement, God willing. Just let me know when it’s available. Eh?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Faraday nodded, still seething. He knew he shouldn’t be the least surprised at the games they were obliged to play these days but he was still a working copper and he resented the time he wasted feeding the monster that the last decade of policing seemed to have created. Nicking the bad guys wasn’t enough anymore. The buzzword that earned you the real brownie points was accountability. Every decision had to be justified and re-justified. Everything had to be transparent. The general public, even toerags like Ewart, had - by some strange political sleight of hand - become customers. Maybe Jimmy Suttle should have stayed on the other side of the wall, thought Faraday grimly. Maybe he’d been rash to even knock on Ewart’s door.
Barrie had already moved on. Tartan, in his view, could be safely left to bubble on the stove. Karl Ewart would doubtless be remanded by the magistrates, giving Faraday’s team plenty of time to explore his connections with the disappearance of Alan Givens. Operation Coppice, on the other hand, was going to need a hefty stir or two. Over the weekend Barrie had reduced the staffing but Monday would see a new start.
‘Mr Willard’s coming over this morning. Did you know that?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It seems there’s media interest in Mr Duley. We need to be on top of the game.’ He reached for his Rizlas. ‘So what do we tell him?’
Faraday summarised progress to date. In the shape of Duley, they had a name and a focus. They also had evidence that put him in the plantation beside the railway line. The tread pattern on the tyre imprints had been identified but the makers sold hundreds of thousands of these things a year and the casts were of little use until they had a vehicle. Mrs Cleaver, at the top of the track from the plantation, had heard a car leaving in the middle of the night, heading south. Faraday’s presumption had the vehicle returning to Portsmouth, but enquiries thrown up by the CCTV footage had produced no hits so far. Intelligence was still trying to source the padlock, chain and bits of rope but all three items were far too common to offer the prospect of a speedy result.
‘Which leaves us with Mr Duley.’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘Motivation?’
‘Winter thinks we should be looking hard at Venezuela. ’
‘So I gather. You agree?’
‘Yes. To be frank, sir, we haven’t got much else. The man was a loner. Politically, he seems to have put himself around a bit, in fact a lot, but I get the sense that he never hung around for very long.’
‘No friends? No one close?’
‘Not really. Winter’s been going through his address book. The man attracted a lot of attention but we haven’t been able to find anyone really special, not so far anyway.’
‘Mobile?’
‘We haven’t found one so far but we’ve got a number for Duley from a couple of sources. Winter’s put it through the TIU. We haven’t had a response yet.’
The Telephone Intelligence Unit was the force’s single point of contact with the phone companies. Billing and cell site enquiries could take weeks to process.
‘What about the postcard you showed me? Querida?’
‘That’s still a bit of a mystery. Querida is Spanish. It means lover or loved one. It’s female, not male. But why is he sending it to his own address?’
‘Because someone would pick it up.’
‘But they didn’t. And no one in the rest of the place seems to have seen anyone.’
‘Did you fingerprint it?’
‘Yes, sir. One set. His own.’
Barrie nodded. ‘So you think he might have sent it to himself? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes. Either that or it’s part of some game. We just don’t know.’
‘You think that’s odd?’
‘I think it’s unusual but in a way, sir, it might fit. Odd’s a good word.’
‘You think Duley was odd?’
‘Yes.’
‘In what sense?’
‘I think he was reckless. I think he was a bit of an exhibitionist. And I think he had a lot to get off his chest. This is a man who moved at the speed of light, complete dervish, blink twice and you’ve lost him. Like I say, odd. Definitely a one-off.’
>
Barrie studied Faraday for a moment.
‘Why reckless? How does that work?’
‘Well, sir, physically reckless to begin with. It’s there in his record. The big demos. The arrests for affray. Nothing seemed to frighten him, certainly not the likes of us. Then there’s something else too. The way I see it, Duley was a kind of all-or-nothing guy. When he went for something - a cause, say - he went for it one thousand per cent, nothing withheld, nothing in reserve. You know what I mean?’
‘Carpet bombing.’
‘Exactly. We were talking to the guy who organises Respect. He said that Duley had tremendous energy but he also had a mouth on him. He’d wear you out. If you’re running some kind of political campaign, that can obviously be useful, but there’s a downside, too. Like I said, Duley didn’t seem to win himself many friends.’
‘Sure.’ Barrie nodded. ‘So how does all of that link to Venezuela?’
‘I’m not sure. He led a local history workshop down the road in Buckland. I went down there yesterday, talked to the woman who runs it. It turns out that Duley had become a bit of a star. He speaks a couple of languages and she thinks he might have got himself tied up with a local lad who needed someone who spoke Spanish. She wasn’t sure about the details but she gave me another name, a girl in the class who might know more. It’s down as an action. We’ll be onto it.’
‘This lad … ’ Barrie was interested now. ‘ … You’ve got a name?’
‘Kearns. Mickey Kearns. He’s known to us already. Football violence and suss supply.’
‘So who’s chasing it?’
‘It’s with the Outside Enquiry Team. They went to his address this morning but no luck. His mum said he was off somewhere.’
‘Like where?’
‘She said she didn’t know. He comes and goes. Par for the course, apparently.’
‘You think he really lives there?’
‘I doubt it. We’re asking around.’
‘Hmm … ’ Barrie glanced at his watch. ‘You know what I think?’
‘What, sir?’
‘I think we should put Winter onto it.’ He smiled. ‘Cut him loose.’
One Under Page 17
