One Under

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘What?’

  ‘ … that cared for him, I suppose. Maybe that’s why he kept calling. Maybe he recognised it in my voice. To be honest, it was just all such a mess.’

  ‘The call was at midday.’

  ‘That’s right. The kids were in the garden.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘He’d gone to drinks with some friends. I didn’t fancy it.’

  ‘How did the call end?’

  ‘Like every other call. He seemed to accept it. He said he loved me. He said he’d do anything for me. He promised not to call again. Usual story.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to believe. I was exhausted.’

  ‘And the rest of the day?’

  ‘Andy came back. We put the kids in the buggy, went for a walk. Andy was a bit pissed so he went for a swim to sober up.’

  ‘And that night?’

  ‘We had a meal, as usual. Andy cooked. I put the kids to bed. We might have watched a bit of telly. I honestly can’t remember.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We went to bed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re after. We went to sleep. Like people do.’

  ‘No phone calls?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘And next day?’

  ‘Next day?’ She frowned, reached for her coffee. ‘Next day Mark was in the papers, wasn’t he?’

  Seventeen

  Thursday, 21 July 2005, 14.03

  ‘You think she’s lying, Joe?’

  ‘At the end, definitely.’

  ‘DC Barber?’

  ‘I agree, sir. We took her by surprise. It was all over her face. She told us far more than she had to, far more than was probably wise, but at the end you realised why.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She wanted to share it with us, the whole story, show that she trusted us. If we believed her, then we’d believe that at the end she’d simply washed her hands of the whole business. She’d made a kind of peace with herself. She’d drawn a line. Whatever he chose to do was his affair. Nothing to do with her.’

  Martin Barrie nodded. He was sitting at the head of the conference table flanked by Faraday and Barber. They’d been in his office for the best part of an hour.

  ‘I’m still not clear about the money,’ he said at last. ‘We’re assuming that Duley had his hands in the till in Margarita. And it’s also a fair bet that the loss of that money put him in the caravan for the beating. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Faraday nodded. ‘She didn’t offer any details but she seemed pretty sure he had enough for them to set up in Spain. That’s why he kept coming back to her.’

  ‘So he still had the money, and sooner or later Kearns was going to realise that.’

  ‘Kearns was off to Margarita. To look for Señor Querida.’

  ‘Mackenzie then.’

  ‘That’s a possibility, certainly, but even if he knew, there’s still no way he’d go through the performance in the tunnel. Legs apart? Chained to the track? That smacks of Duley to me. Not Mackenzie.’

  ‘But she’s telling us he wasn’t suicidal.’

  ‘She’s also telling us he’d changed.’

  ‘Changed enough to chain himself to a railway line? Are you serious?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’ Faraday sat back, tossing his pen onto the pad at his elbow. ‘We didn’t talk to her under caution. None of it’s admissible. We can go back and do the whole thing again, and we will, but first I think we need to know a bit more about her circumstances. Specifically, her marriage. By that time Vodaphone may have come up with her billing and cell site. It would be good to be in the driving seat by then.’

  Winter had heard of Landfall.

  ‘Bloke called Andy Mitchell,’ he said. ‘And the woman to talk to is Ellie Holmes.’

  Holmes, the last time he’d talked to her, had been holding down a Social Services job. She was good mates with Carol Legge, who’d been so helpful over Emma Cusden, and knew a great deal about the mental health field.

  ‘She’s got an axe to grind, like they all have,’ he warned Faraday, ‘but once you get past all the Guardian bollocks, she’s good value. Drinks a bit too. Loves all that real-ale shit. Here.’ He consulted his address book and reached for a pen.

  Faraday pocketed the number. He wanted to know about Tartan. Winter said that he and Dawn Ellis had been up to see Jake Tarrant’s wife. Like everyone else in the world, she hadn’t a clue what had happened to Alan Givens but was keen to find out.

  ‘Dawn thinks he’s probably done a runner,’ Winter added. ‘That’s a sweet theory if Tarrant’s missus was planning to join him but I can’t see any way that’s going to happen. Jake obviously drives her barmy but I think she’s still there for him.’

  ‘And Jake?’

  ‘Jake … ’ Winter shook his head. ‘Jake is a problem. Someone’s been in that flat of Givens’, someone with a key.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because the camera and the laptop have gone missing. I knew Givens was kitted out because he’s paying a warranty. PC World came back to me before lunch. They sold him a brand new Toshiba laptop in May, just after his mum’s money came in. Top spec. Twelve hundred quid’s worth. The purchase cross-checks with one of his bank statements. So where is the bloody thing? Number one, he’s alive and he’s still got it. Number two, he’s dead and someone’s had it off him.’

  ‘But why does that implicate Jake?’

  ‘Because it’s a reasonable assumption that the camera and the laptop were at Givens’ flat. When I went round there last week, there was no sign of them. Neither was there any evidence of a break-in. Whoever had been in the flat had a key.’

  ‘But that takes us nowhere. If Givens was killed, then someone had his wallet. That would give them an address. They’d also have his flat keys. So why Jake?’

  ‘Because he’s the classic prime suspect. He’s got a motive because Givens is all over his missus. He’s got the opportunity because Givens thinks he’s a mate of his. He’s also sitting on one hundred and eighty-five grand of the man’s money and he doesn’t want to give it back. Call me old fashioned but that lot sounds well dodgy.’

  ‘You want to search Tarrant’s house? Get Scenes of Crime in? Do it properly?’

  ‘No point. Rachel bosses the house and whatever’s happened to Givens, I don’t think she’s part of it. The mortuary might be a better option, and we need a proper look at Givens’ flat as well. I’m not saying anything happened there. I couldn’t see any evidence at all. But the landlord’s going to want it back so we ought to get in there sharpish.’

  ‘Scenes of Crime?’ Faraday asked again.

  ‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘I’ll take young Dawn down there. That girl’s got a nose like a Labrador. Never fails.’

  Ellie Holmes agreed to meet Faraday and Barber for an afternoon pint. She was on leave for a couple of weeks after the busiest winter and spring of her life and at the mention of mental health community initiatives, she welcomed the chance to get one or two things off her chest.

  The Dolphin was a favourite haunt of Faraday’s, a dark, timbered pub in the middle of Old Portsmouth. He and Barber had been talking for the best part of half an hour before Ellie bustled in. Faraday glanced up to find himself looking at an overweight forty-year-old with greying curly hair, huge rings on her fingers and a fierce sense of social justice. After the briefest of introductions, she gazed down at them. She’d worked in the public sector all her life and was, she announced, prepared to defend to the death the state’s right to fuck up. Faraday found her a chair and returned to the table.

  ‘Fuck up what?’

  ‘Everything. Anything. Child protection. Social housing. Secondary school education. Operations for gall-stones. Public libraries. Whatever. Just as long as nothing else falls into the laps of those greedy bastards who call themselves businessmen.’

  Faraday had a fe
eling this was the way she opened most conversations. Her indignation, he guessed, was seldom less than gale force. You bent before it or you were doomed.

  Barber returned from the bar with fresh drinks. Holmes hadn’t finished. ‘Another thing.’ She reached for the nearest pint. ‘Language. You know what we’re supposed to call unemployment now? Worklessness. And failure? That comes in as deferred success. What’s gone wrong with this fucking country? Anyone prepared to tell me?’ She took a swallow or two of beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Barber was looking amused.

  Faraday wanted to know about Andy Mitchell. Holmes leaned towards him, happy to share a lifetime of full-blooded prejudice.

  ‘Young Andy? He used to be a good bloke, a really good bloke, before he got greedy. You want me to tell you a story about that lad? This is way back. I was duty call-out on the drugs team. We got word that some kid on acid had tried to top himself, I forget how. Wrists I think, Stanley knife. The kid was a mess. He was lying there in the Tricorn, howling his eyes out, wanted us to take him up to the top floor and chuck him off. The paramedics had done their best but he was all over the place, kicking and screaming. And you know who calmed him down? Took the edge out of the situation? Andy. Brilliant he was, just brilliant, and it didn’t end there either, because later it turned out that the kid was into cocaine as well, big time, and it was Andy who looked after him, bunged him money, got him on a rehab programme, broke all the rules to keep him there when things got sticky, all that. And you know what? He never wanted anyone to know, not a dickey. Embarrassed to hell when I found out.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘The boy got into smack. Died in the end. Fucking shame.’

  ‘I meant Andy.’

  ‘Ah … Andy.’ She reached for her glass again. ‘Like I say, he got greedy. I’d put all the blame on him but strictly speaking that wouldn’t be fair. Poor guy’s got to make a living just like the rest of us. Problem is, it’s too easy these days. This government’s in love with the marketplace. You try and turn care provision into a market, and you end up with lots of Andies. These are blokes who got bloodied on the front line. They know how hard the job can be. Some tart from Whitehall turns up with her Powerpoint presentation and a big sack of money, he’s not going to say no, is he?’

  ‘But what does he do, Ellie?’

  ‘Andy? He runs an outfit called Landfall. It’s a lovely idea, it’s really elegant. For a lot of money he provides what we call supported housing for a certain group of clients. Now these people are real dross. They’re the scrapings. They’re what’s left over when you’ve filled all the prisons and what’s left of the nuthouses and you’ve run out of space. We’re talking schizos, alcoholics, multi-drug abusers, recidivists, whatever. These people are well and truly wasted. Andy puts a roof over their heads. He bungs some graduate a couple of quid to run an anger management course. He sorts out a music workshop. He offers an advocacy and support programme for when they end up in court again. And then he goes back to the office and writes reports for the lady from Whitehall and he’s cluey enough to use all the sexy buzzwords. Gobshite like integration, person-centred development, independent living. Andy’s brilliant at it because he’s clever, and because he knows he’s helping the suits out of a fucking great hole.’

  ‘And there’s money in it?’

  ‘Big time. Andy’s got at least a dozen properties. Some of it is move-on accommodation. Some of them have a live-in warden. The rest of it is looked after by mobile support. That’s nerd-speak for someone who belts round in a van wiping their backsides and cashing their giros and trying to make sure they don’t get too arsy with each other. From Andy’s point of view, it’s a piece of piss. Sixteen grand a year’ll buy you some spotty graduate with nothing better to do with his life. The van comes out of the auction. Andy? He’s coining it. How? Because each of these clients of Andy’s comes with a big fat whack of government money. Why? Because it’s the likes of Andy that gets the rest of us out of the shit. We pay our taxes and we turn our backs and the Andies of this world take care of all the real garbage. You know what people in the know call Landfall?’ She beamed. ‘Landfill. That tells you everything. ’

  ‘Can’t be easy though. Looking after these people.’

  ‘Sure. But that’s at the coalface. Andy Mitchell runs the joint. And the joint’s big. In fact it’s almost an empire. And you know what that makes Andy? That means he’s become -’ she savoured the description ‘- a social entrepreneur. Sweet, isn’t it? And there’s little me, still thinking all this stuff must have something to do with the goodness of the human heart. But no. Nowadays you have to square the circle. Social entrepreneurs do the biz but they do it for a profit. You think the voluntary sector is still soft and fluffy? My friend, you’d be wrong.’

  Faraday nodded. He was back in Jenny Mitchell’s house, trying to chart the journey that this woman must have made. She’d have met Andy in his days on the Pompey front line. She’d have admired his commitment, his patience, his courage. Then, as the years rolled by, she’d have watched his transformation into something else. Instead of jeans and a T-shirt, he’d be wearing a suit. Instead of sharing war stories in the pub about that week’s psychopath, he’d be locked away all evening on the PC, writing reports about social capital and collective provision. Holmes was right. Faraday had seen it himself in the police service. On paper it looked wonderful but most of it was the purest bollocks.

  ‘You know Andy’s wife at all?’ It was Barber putting the question.

  ‘Jenny? Sweet child. Heart of gold and naive as fuck. Andy’s lucky to have her. Let’s hope he knows it.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because he’s a very busy man these days. And some of the company he keeps … ’ She shook her head. ‘This is a village when it comes to the movers and shakers. The people who have made it, they tend to stick together. Have you noticed that? Success attracts success. They eat in the same restaurants. Go to the same parties. Take the same fucking holidays for all I know. Now some of these people are legit, or more or less legit. They’d be solicitors, accountants, university people, whatever. Then you get your rich bastards, property developers mainly. Then you get your really rich bastards. And most of them are criminals.’

  It was a lovely theory, beautifully put. Faraday was laughing.

  ‘So where does Andy Mitchell belong in all this?’ Barber wanted to know more.

  ‘Andy’s big time now. He’s made it. He’s up there. He counts these people as friends. Jenny? You tell me. She likes Old Portsmouth, I know she does. There’s nice friends for her kids to play with, decent primary when they get to go to school, all that. But I’m not sure she buys the rest of it.’

  Faraday nodded, savouring a mouthful of HSB. Duley, he thought, would have been a breath of fresh air. And, for a month or two, perhaps more than that. Maybe, deep down, she misses him.

  Ellie Holmes had finished her pint. Barber checked her watch, shot Faraday a look, said she had to go. Faraday nodded, then reached for Ellie’s glass.

  ‘Another?’ he offered.

  She shook her head, waited for Barber to leave. Then she gestured Faraday closer.

  ‘I want to be fair to Andy,’ she said. ‘But there’s someone else you really ought to talk to.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Peter Barnaby. He’s a consultant over at St James’. Lovely man.’

  St James’ was Portsmouth’s psychiatric hospital, a rambling Victorian throwback set in acres of grounds on the eastern edge of the city. Faraday passed it every day on his way to work.

  Barnaby, Holmes explained, had been a keen supporter of Landfall. Indeed, in the early days, when the organisation had been a twinkle in Andy Mitchell’s eye, it was Barnaby who’d turned all that conceptual bollocks into a solid proposal that could pass muster with the funding people.

  ‘Peter’s been working with this client group for years. He’s seen the same old faces up at St James’, t
he druggies and the dropouts and the guys who can’t pass a woman in the street without doing something totally inappropriate. Care provision was hopeless. Therapy was a joke. He knew there had to be a better way and, bless him, he thought Andy was the man to make it happen.’

  When Landfall applied for charitable status, she said, it was Barnaby’s name on the board of trustees that swung the application. And when Andy Mitchell passed the bucket round for funding, it was Barnaby, once again, who knew which doors to knock on.

  ‘The guy’s a leader in his field. If you’re talking severe behavioural problems, Barnaby’s the man they all listen to. He had a lot riding on Landfall. In a way, it was his baby.’

  ‘Had?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Holmes was chewing gum now, and Faraday could smell the spearmint on her breath. ‘He resigned from the board a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No one really knows. There’s lots of gossip but that’s standard MO in the voluntary sector. Situation like this, people can’t wait to put the boot in. We’re talking serious character assassination. Blood all over the fucking carpet.’

  ‘Whose blood?’

  ‘Young Andy’s. This is gossip, right? There’s talk of embezzlement, care workers helping themselves to client funds. That’s pretty small scale but perfectly possible. Some of the people he deals with are completely out to lunch. They wouldn’t have a clue what’s in their wallet. Then there’s the heavier stuff - false invoicing, dodgy maintenance contracts on the properties, work ticketed but not done. Add it all up and you might be looking at five figures. Easily.’

  ‘Has anyone done anything about all this?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, no, but Peter resigning made a bit of a splash. Even the fucking suits might take notice now.’ She laid a hand on Faraday’s arm and gave it a little pat. ‘That’s a nice car young Andy drives. And kids are expensive these days, aren’t they?’