‘Mr and Mrs Andy Mitchell,’ she said. ‘South Normandy, Old Portsmouth.’
Faraday thanked her and hung up.
‘Where’s Winter?’ he asked.
Babs shrugged.
‘Dunno, boss. Should be in any minute.’
Winter had never had much love for crematoriums. The last time he’d been here, to the Portchester Crem, was five years ago, a blustery autumn day with rain in the air and a thin drizzle of friends and relatives who’d gathered to say goodbye to Joannie, his wife. After the brief service Winter had done the rounds, shaken hands, tried to fix names to faces, accepted whispered consolations from people he’d barely seen in his life, praying all the time that the conveyor belt of cremations - the long queue of hearses stretching down to the main road - would crank into action and drive these well-meaning folk back to their cars.
He’d fixed for a modest wake at a local Beefeater - half a dozen bottles of wine and three big plates of sandwiches fighting for their lives under tightly stretched cling film - but everyone was driving or teetotal, and hours later he’d ended up by himself in a wasteland of squirly carpet, determined to finish the last bottle of Riesling. Driving back that evening, he’d passed the crem again, up on the slopes of the hill overlooking Portchester, and he’d shuddered. When my time comes, he’d said to himself, I’ll just crawl away somewhere private, where no one will ever find me, and call it a day.
That, of course, was never an option. He understood that now, after America. He understood how illness removes all privacy, all control, and leaves you in the hands of someone else. Like it or not, you’d probably end up in some chimney or other, a puff of ragged smoke on the wind, and in his grimmer moments he’d occasionally imagine his poor dead wife, looking down, shaking her head at the folly of a man who thought he could beat the system. You ended up where you ended up, he decided. And the only consolation was the fact that you probably knew fuck all about it.
Cheered by the thought, he told the cabbie to drop him outside the crematorium and then walked across the car park to the manager’s office. For once, he’d phoned ahead for an appointment. The manager, curious to know what interest CID could possibly have in ten cremations in the middle of May, had wanted to enquire further but Winter had cut him off.
‘Just being nosy,’ he’d said. ‘Comes with the job.’
Now the manager was sitting behind his desk. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, black tie. Winter had been expecting someone older. This blond youth looked barely in his twenties.
Winter showed him his warrant card. The manager examined it carefully.
‘What’s it take to get in the police these days?’
Winter laughed. ‘Bored, are you?’
‘Yeah. Seen one funeral, you’ve seen them all.’
‘Bit like us, then. Half the blokes I work with are dead from the neck up. Your kind of experience, you’d walk into the job. Listen, I’ve got some names for you. I just need to know if they’ve been through here.’
The manager asked for the list. Winter shook his head.
‘You’ll never read my writing,’ he said. ‘I’ll just read out the names.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He bent to a drawer and produced a big ledger. ‘When are we talking?’
‘A two-week period after the seventeenth of May.’
‘OK.’
Winter began to read through the names. Day by day, the manager checked them off. The first cremation had taken place on Friday 20th. Two more on the Saturday. Another on Monday 23rd. Three on the 25th. One on the 27th. And a ninth on the 28th. After that, nothing.
‘You want me to go on a week?’
‘OK.’
‘And that last name again?’
‘Reid. Herbert Reid.’
The manager began to turn the pages. Finally, he shook his head.
‘I went right through to the eighteenth of June,’ he said. ‘No can do, mate.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Certain.’
‘You think he might have gone somewhere else?’
‘It’s possible, certainly. Where did this bloke come from?’
Winter consulted his notes.
‘Pompey,’ he said at last. ‘Milton address.’
‘He might have gone to the crem in Southampton. Or Chichester. Or anywhere really. Depends on the family. Most come here but not everyone. Who did the honours?’
‘You what?’
‘The undertakers.’
‘Ah … ’ Winter glanced down again. ‘Barrell’s.’
‘Easy.’ The manager was smiling. ‘Talk to Sue. She’s a good girl. Say Trev sends his love.’
‘Got a number, have you?’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded, the smile wider. ‘I have.’
Winter made the call on his mobile from the car park. When the number answered, he asked for Sue. After a while a cheerful voice enquired whether she could help. Winter introduced himself, mentioned Trevor’s name.
‘You want me to call by?’ he asked. ‘Show you the warrant card?’
‘That’s OK. I’ll blame Trev if you’re having me on.’
‘Right. There’s a bloke you did called Herbert Reid. Back in May. I need to know what happened to him.’
‘Happened to him?’
‘Where he got - you know - cremmed.’
He spelled the name. She wrote it down.
‘How urgent is this?’ she asked. ‘Only I’m snowed under just now and I’m supposed to have Saturday afternoon off.’
‘Whenever, love.’ Winter smothered a yawn. ‘As long as it’s today.’
After a brief conference with Martin Barrie, Faraday phoned Jerry Proctor. The Scenes of Crime DS was at home. He agreed to drive down to meet Faraday at Kingston Crescent.
‘You’ll need the tyre casts from the plantation,’ Faraday told him. ‘We’ve got a copy in the exhibits cupboard but no one seems to have the key just now.’
‘I’ll bring a copy down. You want the footprints as well?’
‘Please.’
Faraday was in the car park when Proctor arrived. He slipped into the passenger seat, reached for the belt.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Pembroke Park, first. Then Old Portsmouth.’
They took the dual carriageway into the city centre. At midday, weekend shopping traffic was heavy. Proctor wanted to know what was going on.
‘We’ve got a lady friend for Duley,’ Faraday said. ‘Blame Vodaphone.’
They drove to Pembroke Park, turning in at the main entrance. Faraday was looking for a particular block of flats, Lingfield Court.
‘The vehicle’s a beige Toyota.’ He read out the registration number.
‘How come?’
‘We pinged it on the CCTV trawl. It was logged coming back into Pompey at 03.19. The house-to-house guys have tried twice so far but there’s never been anyone at home. It’s registered to a Mrs Milne. Flat 45.’
‘Maybe she’s away.’
‘We think she’s been on holiday for a while. It’s the car we’re after.’
Proctor had found the parking space that belonged to the flats. Amongst the scatter of vehicles there was no sign of a beige Toyota. Garages in a line along one side of the tarmac were locked.
‘It’s in one of those. Bet your life.’
Faraday told Proctor to drive on. They were heading for South Normandy. ‘It’s off Warblington Street,’ he said.
Minutes later, Faraday was emerging from the car. Jenny’s bike was propped outside the house, just like last time. Her front door was open, as were most of the windows. It was very hot.
Faraday and Proctor made their way up the cul-de-sac. Faraday pressed the bell. The kitchen door was open at the end of the hall and he could hear the yelp of kids. They’re in the garden, he thought. With their mum.
He was right. Jenny at last appeared. Barefoot on the wooden floor, she was winding a sarong around her bikini. Recognising Faraday, she did her best to muster a smile.
/>
‘Hi.’
Faraday nodded, introduced Jerry Proctor.
‘He’s a DS,’ he explained, ‘from Scenes of Crime.’
She stared at Proctor for a moment, and Faraday glimpsed the fear in her eyes. Then she forced another smile.
‘Do you want to come in? Only this is a bit public, isn’t it?’ She gestured helplessly round at the rest of the close.
Faraday and Proctor followed her into the kitchen. She needed to keep an eye on the kids, she explained. They weren’t great around water. Faraday could see Freya and Milo out in the back garden, taking it in turns to hose each other down.
Faraday asked about Jenny’s mother. He understood she lived close by.
‘That’s true. She’s got a flat in Pembroke Park. Do you want to talk to her? Only she’s still in Malta.’
‘I see. Does she have a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of car?’
‘It’s … ’ Jenny frowned. ‘ … Beige.’
‘Make?’
‘Japanese thing.’
‘Do you ever drive it?’
‘All the time. In fact it’s parked outside, just along the road.’
Proctor shot Faraday a look. ‘Do you have the keys?’
‘Of course. What’s this about, Inspector?’
Faraday wouldn’t say. Jenny fetched the keys.
‘You can’t miss it,’ she said. ‘Two kiddie seats in the back.’
Faraday and Proctor left the house. The Toyota was parked across the road. Proctor knelt at the kerbside, checking the tyre tread against the photo of the cast. Faraday, meanwhile, had unlocked the driver’s door and was sitting behind the wheel. An audio cassette box caught his eye. It was down in the footwell on the passenger side, empty. He picked it up, turned it over. In red ink, on the card insert, someone had scrawled a single letter. Q.
Proctor appeared beside the driver’s window. He was squatting on the pavement, his face level with Faraday. Faraday wound the window down.
‘Looks identical.’ Proctor nodded down towards the tyre. ‘Can’t be sure, of course, but I’d say ninety-five per cent.’
Faraday nodded, reaching for the radio/cassette in the dashboard. A cassette was already loaded. He pressed play, waited a moment or two, adjusted the volume. Then came strings, a clarinet, and finally a bass voice. The rise and fall of the music was unmistakable and Faraday sat back, knowing that Coppice was about to turn an important corner.
‘What’s that?’ Proctor was still beside the open window.
‘St Matthew Passion.’ Faraday closed his eyes. ‘“The Descent from the Cross”.’
Back at the house Faraday had a last request. Jenny had got herself changed. Her legs were tanned below the white shorts, and the pink T-shirt drew an admiring nod from Proctor.
‘Do you have a pair of trainers at all?’
‘Several.’ Jenny nodded at a wicker basket beside the front door. ‘Take your pick.’
‘Nike. Size seven.’ It was Proctor.
Faraday began to rummage in the basket. Then he felt the lightest touch on his arm. It was Jenny. She was kneeling beside him.
‘Are these the ones you want?’ She sounded suddenly exhausted.
Faraday gave the trainers to Proctor, who began to explain that it would be necessary to take them away, but she cut him short. She was still looking at Faraday.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’
‘You’re right.’
‘Only I don’t want to do it here.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Where then?’
‘I’m afraid it’ll have to be at the Bridewell.’
‘The where?’
‘The Bridewell. It’s at the central police station. We have an interview suite there. There’s a process, Mrs Mitchell. It’s the way we like to do things.’
‘You’re arresting me?’ She was staring at him.
‘Only if we have to.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘You need to make arrangements.’
‘Now?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Faraday offered her a thin smile. ‘And you may be with us for a while.’
It was early afternoon before DC Dawn Ellis finally caught up with Winter. He was in the kitchen at Major Crimes, trying to prise the top off a new tin of Happy Shopper instant coffee.
‘Where have you been?’ Ellis demanded.
‘Out and about.’
‘Where though? I tried phoning last night. You were on divert. All night.’
‘That’s right.’ Winter was looking at the bent spoon. ‘I had a date with a friend. Why the drama?’
‘You asked me to sort out the Clinical Waste arrangements at St Mary’s. You remember?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I just needed to know how far you wanted me to go. It’s complicated, believe me. I could get old chasing all those yellow bloody bags.’
‘Coffee?’ Winter gestured at the open tin.
They talked in Winter’s office. Babs had popped out for a delayed lunch break. Ellis made herself comfortable behind the empty desk.
The waste from the mortuary, she explained, was collected on demand. When the bin was full, Jake or Simon would call the Clinical Waste department and a van would turn up to cart the contents away.
‘Where does it go?’
‘There’s a waste compound on site. It’s on the western edge of the hospital.’
‘Is it fenced? Locked?’
‘Both. Then a lorry arrives. The contract’s with a firm called Whiterose. They’ve got incinerators all over. Stuff from Pompey goes to Bournemouth. This is state of the art, Paul. Once it gets to the incinerator, there’s an automated tipping system so no one’s going to interfere. And you know what? All the energy created goes straight into the national grid.’
Winter rocked back in his chair. The thought of Givens finally being of some use clearly amused him.
‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘So let’s say Jake did it that way. Where are the risks?’
‘The weather, for starters. The pick-ups are daily but if it was really hot and those parcels were lying around until - say - late afternoon, you might know about it.’
‘He could double-bag the contents. Are they airtight, these things?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Easy then. What else?’
‘Foxes. Vermin.’
‘You told me the compound was fenced.’
‘It is. I’m just trying to pick holes. Foxes are bloody clever.’
‘You’re telling me it happens?’
‘No. I’m telling you it might. And if it might, then Jake would be crazy to take the risk.’
‘Yeah. Right. But if you chop someone up like that, you’re crazy anyway, aren’t you?’ Winter was frowning. ‘So you talked to these people? Whiterose?’
‘Of course.’
‘And did you mention the time window? Mid-May? When Givens disappeared?’
‘Yeah. It was just business as usual as far as they were concerned. Daily pick-ups, stuff straight into the incinerator, nothing dramatic.’
‘There you are then.’ Winter pushed his chair back and put his feet on the desk. ‘Givens binned. No DNA. No witnesses. No one any the wiser. You know what we’re looking at here? The perfect murder.’
‘But we don’t even know the guy’s dead, Paul.’
‘Exactly.’ Winter was beaming now. ‘My point exactly.’
Twenty-two
Saturday, 23 July 2005, 17.35
It was late afternoon before Faraday was ready to interview Jenny Mitchell. He and Proctor had stayed at the house while she phoned for a friend to come round and look after the kids. Changed into jeans and a loose top, she explained that she’d volunteered her help on a police enquiry. There were yoghurts in the fridge, spaghetti hoops in the larder and oven chips in the deep freeze. If Andy turned up before she was back, he wasn’t to worry. Everything, she assured her friend, was under c
ontrol.
At the Bridewell Faraday left Jenny with the Custody Sergeant. She wasn’t under arrest and at this stage didn’t need fingerprinting. Jenny’s appearance at the police station coincided with the arrival of a couple of Buckland slappers, detained in Commercial Road on shoplifting charges. They were both drunk, and both on first-name terms with one of the uniformed PCs charged with booking them in. Before Faraday left for Kingston Crescent, he glimpsed Jenny’s face as she watched the girls mugging for their favourite cop. This was a slice of Pompey life for which she was plainly unprepared, and Faraday began to wonder just how much of her husband’s work she’d really shared.
At Kingston Crescent Faraday sought out Martin Barrie. He briefed the Detective Superintendent on the day’s developments and explained why he intended to tackle the forthcoming interview himself. He and Tracy Barber had the best working knowledge of this particular line of enquiry. Jenny Mitchell had volunteered herself for interview and Faraday anticipated few problems in establishing her role in the events of the Sunday night. Billing evidence linked her to Duley earlier in the day. The tyre casts and footprints put them in the plantation by the railway line. CCTV had caught her return to Portsmouth in her mother’s car. En route, she’d found the time to phone home, presumably her husband. The question she had to answer couldn’t be more straightforward: what, exactly, had happened?
Barrie was intrigued. A gangland revenge killing seemed to have turned into some kind of bizarre suicide pact. Was that a fair assumption?
Faraday cautioned against easy conclusions. Nothing in Coppice, he said, had been straightforward. Even this late in the day, he had a sense that they might be in for a surprise.
Tracy Barber was waiting in Faraday’s office.
‘How’s she taking all this?’ she asked.
‘Surprisingly well. She’s probably thought of nothing else since the bloody man died and I just get the sense that she needs to get the whole thing over.’
‘Bloody man?’ Barber was amused.
They drove down to the Bridewell. On Faraday’s advice, Jenny had asked for legal representation. For some reason she was reluctant to phone her family solicitor so the Custody Sergeant had put a call in to Michelle Brinton.
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