One Under

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Maybe he enjoys it.’

  ‘Maybe he does.’

  ‘And maybe -’ Faraday shrugged. ‘- It pays well.’

  ‘Indeed. And are we saying that Andy should be ashamed about that? The kind of people he has to deal with? The kind of challenges he has to face?’

  ‘From the government, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, and the umpteen other folk with fingers in his pie. Local authorities. Probation. Social Services. Development agencies. The benefits people. You lot.’ He laughed. ‘Just talking to you like this puts it all into perspective. If anyone deserves a bit of peace and quiet, a bit of support, it’s Andy Mitchell.’

  Faraday nodded. It was a telling word. Was he talking about the small army of naysayers out there? People with an axe to grind like Ellie Holmes? Or was it a subtler reference to someone rather closer to home?

  ‘Do you see a lot of them?’ he asked.

  ‘Of who?’

  ‘Andy and Jenny?’

  ‘Socially, yes, when we all find the time. In fact we were afloat with them just a couple of weeks ago, when the Queen came down for the Fleet Review. We had a seat in the front stalls. Apart from a drop or two of rain, it was a wonderful day.’

  ‘And they’re happy, do you think?’

  ‘Very happy. Under the circumstances.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means, alas, that this little chat of ours has to come to an end. Nothing personal but time is pushing on. I have a committee meeting at three, another at four, and I’m addressing a bunch of students at the university at half past five. That’s a full hour on my feet and I haven’t even thought about what I’m going to be telling them.’

  ‘Do you have a mobile, by any chance? In case I have to call you again?’

  ‘Of course. Here.’ He extracted a card from his wallet and slid it across the desk. ‘So, if you don’t mind … ’ He got to his feet and offered them a farewell handshake. ‘This time of day, the patients tend to wander around a bit. Be careful when you’re driving out.’

  Barber voiced it first. They’d left the hospital and were approaching the busy junction at the end of the road.

  ‘He’s loyal, isn’t he?’

  ‘Very. You’ve got to admire it. Whatever Mitchell’s been up to, the last man who’s going to blow the whistle is Barnaby.’

  ‘You think they’re in the shit?’

  ‘Definitely. You don’t part company with something you’ve created without good cause.’

  ‘What about all his other commitments?’

  ‘That’s bullshit. People like Barnaby thrive on a full diary.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, except that it must be serious. Maybe Mitchell doesn’t listen to him anymore. Maybe he’s gone his own sweet way. It’s happened before.’

  ‘And Jenny?’

  ‘I’d say he’s very fond of her. And I’d hazard a guess that he’s become a kind of father figure. Just as well, really … ’ he offered Barber a thin smile ‘ … under the circumstances.’

  Twenty

  Friday, 22 July 2005, 18.45

  Soccer City was a gleaming silver shed on an industrial estate off the motorway to the north of Fareham. Winter, who’d never been here in his life before, eyed it from the back of the taxi. The driver, a Spurs fan, had a couple of nippers who turned out in one of the Pompey youth leagues.

  ‘What’s the form then?’ Winter wanted to know. ‘You can just go in and watch?’

  ‘No problem. There’s a bar inside and loads of tellies if you’re after decent football. You want me to come and pick you up afterwards?’

  ‘No mate.’ Winter was sorting out the fare. ‘I’m OK for a lift back.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  Winter crossed the car park and pushed into the reception area, glad to be out of the heat. Through the big floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see the playing area. There were two pitches, side by side. Beyond them lay Fun City, a paradise of bouncy castles, ball pits and slides for the younger kids. The place felt like a warehouse on a retail estate, a big cavernous space echoing to the shouts of the players. Games had already begun on both pitches, and Winter watched through the glass for a minute or two, conscious of the thunder of feet on the carpeted floor.

  There was a small bar overlooking one of the pitches. Winter bought a pint of Stella and made himself comfortable at a table with a good view of the play. Jake Tarrant’s team was kitted out in green, Tarrant himself commanding the midfield. Winter had never bothered much with football but it was obvious even to him that Southsea Town had the measure of the blokes in scarlet and gold.

  By the time Winter returned to the bar for a refill, Southsea Town had won their second game. By now a dozen or so supporters had gathered, girlfriends and wives, and a voice on the tannoy announced that Southsea were just a game away from going top of the league. Winter still wasn’t clear whether this gave them the championship but the Stella was slipping down nicely and he kept his eyes on Tarrant as the referee blew for the start of the next game.

  For someone looking at a possible life sentence, thought Winter, Tarrant appeared to be remarkably focused. He played football like he conducted a conversation in the bar, quick-witted, deft, full of spark and energy, and Winter watched as he closed down attack after attack, anticipating moves, intercepting passes, then stroking the ball forward for one of his teammates to blast it into the net. By half time, they were 5-1 up, but Tarrant was still going from player to player, a word here, a pat there, keeping them concentrated, taking no chances.

  The second half kicked off, and the opposition scored an early goal. Then came two more and the pulse of the game changed. The greens were falling back now, their lead reduced to a single goal, and it was Tarrant who was rallying the defence, screaming for cover when an opposition winger broke loose, then stretching a leg and deflecting the shot with the Southsea keeper well beaten. With two minutes to go the score was 5-5. At this rate, thought Winter, they’ll be taking the bus home. But then a loose ball fell to Southsea’s only black player. He dummied the defender, laid it off to Tarrant, took the return pass, and squirted it into the bottom left-hand corner. The spectators erupted. The whistle blew for full time. Even Winter was on his feet.

  Forty minutes later he spotted Tarrant as he pushed out of the building and headed for his car. His mates were with him. Back in Pompey, they’d be meeting at a pub called the Apsley. Going top clearly called for a pint or two.

  ‘Jake, mate.’

  Tarrant stopped in his tracks, amazed.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Away support.’

  ‘You watched it? I thought you hated football.’

  ‘I do. Just thought I’d show a bit of solidarity.’ He nodded across the car park at Tarrant’s Fiat. ‘Any chance of a lift back?’

  Tarrant hesitated a moment. His mates were eyeing Winter with some interest.

  ‘They think I’m your dad.’ Winter patted him on the shoulder. ‘We should have a drink or two. My shout.’

  They drove back to Portsmouth. Tarrant, keen to rejoin his mates, asked how long this drink of theirs was going to last. Winter was non-committal. They had a lot to discuss and it was maybe in Jake’s interests to forget about the football for an hour or two. Unless, of course, an evening on the piss was more important.

  ‘More important than what, Mr W.?’

  ‘That would be telling, son. Just trust me, eh?’

  At Winter’s suggestion, they went to a Gales pub up the road from the hospital. A table in the corner at the back gave them privacy and Winter returned to the bar. Tarrant, taking it easy, asked for a half but Winter ignored him. Champions, he said, drank pints. End of story.

  Back at the table, Winter settled in, lifting his glass and toasting the final score.

  ‘Touch and go,’ he said. ‘Another evening like that and I might start taking football seri
ously.’

  ‘You enjoyed it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘I did. You’re good, aren’t you? You read the game, just like all those twats I work with say you’re supposed to. Where did you pick all that up? Take lessons, did you? Or were you born a genius?’

  Tarrant gave him a look, not quite sure how to take this. His hair was still wet from the shower and there was colour in his face. In the end he touched glasses with Winter, accepted the compliment. He loved the game, he said. Always had. His own dad had been semi-pro with Aldershot and some of the old man’s talent must have rubbed off. Fitness was a bit of a problem, and he’d be wise to knock the fags on the head, but football had always been a bit like riding a bike. Once you’d cracked it, figured out how the game ticked, then there were a million little labour-saving tricks you could learn.

  ‘That big geezer? Played for the reds in the first game tonight? He was a fucking handy bloke, good with both feet, but you know how you cope with that? You nick the ball off him a couple of times, then tell him to try harder. Mind games, see? Never fails.’

  ‘Rach says you’re a puppy. Never retaliate.’

  ‘She’s right. That’s another thing. You watch the mouthy blokes, most of them haven’t got a clue. All they want is a fight. That’s always easier than playing football.’ He laughed, tickled by the thought, took another swallow of beer. ‘You want to come and watch us when the proper season starts, eleven-a-side. That’d be good. We could make you our mascot. Mr W.’s boys. Courtesy of the Old Bill. Fancy that?’

  Winter said he’d give it a thought. They were settling in nicely. He bought two more beers.

  ‘Here’s to August then.’ He raised his glass. ‘Is that when it kicks off?’

  ‘Yeah. Can’t wait. Play to our strengths, no one’ll be able to live with us. You know what they say? If you’ve chalked twenty-one points on the board by Christmas, you’re home and dry.’ He laughed again. ‘Twenty-one points is seven wins. Piece of piss.’

  ‘Here’s hoping then, eh? To Christmas.’

  Winter raised his glass again. Tarrant’s grin was fading.

  ‘Christmas?’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s just hope you’re still around to see it.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  Winter put his glass back on the table and gestured him closer. Time for a change of tack.

  ‘I’ve got people on my back, son, you wouldn’t believe. Powerful people. Senior coppers. They’ve looked at the evidence and they’ve made up their minds. The way they see it, you’re dead in the water. The only mystery is why they haven’t nicked you already.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Doing Givens.’

  ‘Oh yeah? How’s that? Got a body, have they? Proof?’

  ‘No, they haven’t, but that’s a detail. Mine’s a nasty little gang. You’ve seen the way they work. You know they never bloody give up. I tell you this for free, son. They think you’re taking the piss. And they don’t like it.’ He leaned forward, patted Tarrant on the knee. ‘You want some advice, son? Get a babysitter lined up. Someone the kids like. Someone you can trust.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because they’re likely to pull you in. Maybe Rachel, too. And once that happens you won’t be seeing daylight for at least a couple of days.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Tarrant was worried now. The euphoria, the memory of the evening’s goals, had gone. ‘So where are you in all this?’

  ‘Me? I’m part of the gang too. But I’m something else, son, as well. I’m your mate. And you know why? Because you helped me out, big time.’ He nodded, patted him on the arm. ‘Listen, no bullshit, I admire the life you’ve got together - Rachel, the kids, even that weird job of yours. I admire the way you’re matey with people, the way you give them the time of day, even nonces like Givens. Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Even him. That says a lot about you, son. In my book it says you’re a gentleman as well as a player, and how many people can you say that about these days, eh?’ He leaned back a moment, the proud father, took a swallow of beer. Then he was back again, his face close to Tarrant’s. ‘But there’s something else too. I never really bought the stuff about the money, about Givens giving your missus one. The rest of my little gang, like I say, think that’s enough. In fact they think it’s more than enough. Paul, they tell me, you’re off the fucking planet. We’ve got the bloke banged to rights. Number one, he’s sitting on a hundred and eighty-five grand of Givens’ money. Number two, Givens is shagging his wife. How many other reasons does a bloke need to give someone a good hiding? They’ve got a point, son, of course they have, but me, I know different. Why? Three reasons. One, because I know he forced that money on you. Two, I know he couldn’t get it up for Rachel if he tried. Yeah? Am I being fair?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tarrant couldn’t take his eyes off Winter. ‘You are. So what’s number three?’

  ‘This, son.’

  Winter glanced round, then felt inside his jacket. Tarrant spread the sheet of A4 paper Winter produced on the table.

  ‘That’s my kids,’ he said softly. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it fucking does.’ He glanced up. ‘Have you got the rest too?’

  It was nearly ten by the time they left the pub. Tarrant was pissed. At Winter’s insistence, they walked the half-mile to the hospital.

  ‘Left, Mr W.,’ he said when they reached the roundabout by the main entrance. ‘Big place, can’t miss it.’

  Winter steered him through the maze of buildings to the mortuary.

  ‘Seven seven one three,’ he muttered, puzzled by the fact that Winter had already opened the door.

  Inside, Winter kicked the door shut with his heel. He could hear the whirr of the fridges in the chilly darkness.

  ‘The lights, son.’

  The lights came on. Tarrant was fighting to keep his balance. He weaved towards the open office door, then had second thoughts, heading instead for the fridge room.

  ‘Bottom drawer,’ he muttered.

  Winter went into the office. Under a phone book, in the bottom drawer, he found half a bottle of vodka. He took the cap off and gave it a precautionary sniff. This was no place to trust clear liquids.

  Tarrant was back. ‘You want a mug? Glass? Whatever? ’

  Winter shook his head, offering the bottle. Tarrant took it, swallowed a mouthful, blinked.

  ‘What’s that then?’ Winter was looking at something in Tarrant’s other hand. It looked like an envelope.

  ‘It’s for you, Mr W.’

  Winter took the envelope. The CD inside was cold to the touch.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Fridge four.’ Tarrant grinned at him. ‘My lucky number.’ He nodded at the PC. ‘Go on. Help yourself.’

  Winter shook his head, surrendered the seat at the desk.

  ‘You do it, son.’

  Tarrant sank heavily into the chair, lodging the vodka bottle between his thighs. He turned the PC on and slipped the disc into the CD drive. Winter accepted a slurp or two from the bottle, standing over the screen, watching.

  At last the screen cleared. Jake reached for the mouse.

  ‘Enjoy,’ he muttered.

  The first image showed the same two kids, naked again, lying on their backs on a patch of grass. Both had their legs scissored open, tiny fingers pointing at their genitals. It was hard to be sure from this angle, but Winter fancied they were both in fits of giggles. Uncle Alan, he thought. And his funny little games.

  Tarrant was slumped in the chair, his eyes half closed. He clicked on through the photos, cursing this pose, dwelling briefly on that, telling Winter that Rach had trusted this man, left him to it, gone off down the fucking shops to get something nice for their lunch.

  ‘Something tasty, eh? As if that nonce needed it. Look at that.’

  He’d paused on a shot of Tarrant’s daughter. Givens must have found a length of string from somewhere. He’d tied it round her tiny waist
and then raided the washing line for a couple of handkerchiefs. The handkerchiefs were pegged to the string, one either side of her belly button, leaving a slim panel of naked flesh at the front. Once again, she was grinning fit to bust. All this attention. All these fun and games.

  ‘How sick is that?’ Tarrant was shaking his head.

  The shots went on. After a dozen or so Winter lost count. There was no ambiguity in these poses. Had any of this stuff found its way to Jessops, Givens would have been arrested.

  ‘Where did you get all this?’

  ‘Cunt’s flat.’

  ‘When?’

  Tarrant shook his head, refusing to answer, then clicked another image onto the screen. His son, this time, gazing at his stiff little willy.

  ‘Am I imagining things,’ he said softly, ‘or did my nipper need a bit of help?’

  ‘Disgusting.’ Winter was still waiting for an answer.

  ‘Yeah, and this one, look.’

  The boy again, bent over this time, arse to camera.

  ‘You getting the picture, Mr W.? Only you guys would call this evidence, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, too fucking right.’

  Winter manoeuvred his bulk between Tarrant and the screen, then sat on the edge of the desk.

  ‘You must have had some clue that Givens was doing all this,’ he began.

  ‘Clue?’ Tarrant was slurring now. ‘Of course I did. You just had to look at the nonce. Camera? Bloke like Givens? My kids at his mercy? You’re the detective, Mr W.; you tell me.’

  ‘But you’d need proof, wouldn’t you? You’d need to be sure?’

  ‘Of what?’ Tarrant was trying to peer round Winter’s bulk.

  ‘Of what he was doing. Listen to me, son. This is important. Think. Tell me. You suspected Givens. You knew in your water what he was up to. But you had to be sure.’ He leaned down, his face very close to Tarrant’s. ‘So you went round his flat, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you got him to show you the decent shots, right? The OK stuff?’