Suttle glanced up, his finger anchored in the pencilled scribble on his notepad. According to Benskin, he said, Mallinder had been shuttling down to Portsmouth for a while in a bid to sort out a major project. Lately, he’d been staying over for nights on end. Hence the three-month lease on the house in Port Solent.
‘Project?’
‘The Tipner site. You know when you come in on the motorway? The greyhound stadium? The scrapyard? All that? The land’s zoned for development. It’s complicated as hell but it seems that our Mr Mallinder had become a player. There was nothing signed and sealed but it seems that he was keen to have the whole lot off the people who own it. Benskin says that Mallinder was looking for a result before Christmas.’
Faraday sank into the chair across the desk. Tipner was a muddle of terraced houses, light industrial sites and acres of scrapyard littered with the bones of dismembered military kit. The spur motorway straddled the scrapyard and on the harbour side, for years, incoming motorists had enjoyed a fine view of a rusting submarine alongside the tiny quay. The sight had often brought a smile to Faraday’s face. It buttonholed you. It made no apologies for the mess. It was chaotic, deeply martial and spoke of the perpetual struggle to make money out of half-forgotten wars. As an introduction to the rest of the city, it couldn’t have been more perfect.
‘What are they going to do with the site?’
‘Develop it. There’s a kind of plan already. Basically, we’re talking offices, a bit of retail, plus a load of apartments. That’s where the real money is. Secured parking, poncy kitchen, balcony you can sit out on, nice view of Portchester Castle, three hundred grand a shot, easy.’ Suttle glanced up. ‘That’s according to an estate agent mate of mine. Put in a couple of hundred units and you’re looking at serious money. No wonder Mallinder was up for it.’
‘What else have you got on him?’
‘Married, Wimbledon address, two kids, both school age.’
‘Anyone been in contact with the wife yet? Apart from the local uniforms?’
‘Me, boss. She’s coming down tomorrow with Benskin first thing. Jessie’s going to find somewhere up near Port Solent for her to use as a base. The scene won’t be released for a while yet.’
‘Jessie’s FLO?’
‘Yeah.’
Jessie Williams was a long-serving D/C, new to major crimes, with a smile that could warm an entire room. As Family Liaison Officer, she’d be doing her best to buffer Mallinder’s widow from the pressures of the coming days.
Faraday sat back in the chair, turning his gaze towards the window. Try as he might, he couldn’t rid his mind of the sight of Mallinder’s brain, lying in a shiny stainless-steel bowl, swimming in a thin broth of pinkish fluids. How many enemies might a man like this have acquired? Who had he upset?
‘Form?’
‘Nothing to get excited about. Got himself involved with a traffic stop a couple of months back. Some kind of dodgy manoeuvre on the A3 running north towards Petersfield. The woollies let him off with a caution.’
‘But nothing on PNC?’
‘Zilch.’
‘Shame.’
The Police National Computer listed all known offenders. A conviction for fraud or money laundering would have been nice, thought Faraday. In these situations you were always looking for short cuts, the first hints of debts unsettled, just a single tiny straw poking out through the toppling haystack of a man’s life.
‘Timeline?’
‘He came down from London yesterday morning. His wife said he left after breakfast. His diary had a couple of meetings in the afternoon, one with a council bloke, the other with a planning consultant. That last meeting went on a bit and they had a drink afterwards.’
‘Where?’
‘Gunwharf.’ Suttle named a pub, the Customs House. ‘The guy he was with says Mallinder was on good form. In fact this guy would have stayed for a meal with him but he had to get home.’
‘So Mallinder ate alone? At the Customs House?’
‘As far as we know, though the girl at the food bar couldn’t put a face to the card slip. His next-door neighbour in Port Solent says he was back at the house around half nine. It all seems to fit.’
‘And he was alone then?’
‘No idea. She just heard the car pull in.’
‘Did she say anything else? Anything …’ Faraday frowned ‘ … about regular visitors, for instance?’
‘Yeah. Seems Mallinder had a girlfriend.’
‘Description?’
‘Asian girl. Medium height. On the young side. Nicely dressed. Called by three or four times that the woman knew about, mostly around ten. Stayed an hour or so, then left.’ Suttle was grinning. Not rocket science, is it?’
‘A tom?’
‘Has to be. The guy’s married. He has kids, a career, a reputation, all that bollocks. Plus he’s probably minted. A proper relationship, a girlfriend, she’d probably have stayed the night. No …’ He shook his head. ‘A tenner says Mallinder was buying it. Makes every kind of sense.’
‘She came by car?’
‘On foot, according to their neighbour. Need we enquire further?’
Faraday nodded. Suttle was probably right. Currently Port Solent supported two escort agencies, both catering for the higher end of the market. For someone in Mallinder’s position company was a phone call away.
‘We’ve actioned it?’
‘Tomorrow, first thing. We didn’t get to the neighbour until close of play. She works at IBM. Gets home at five thirty. The description’s pretty detailed. Piece of piss, boss. Should be.’
‘Excellent. What have we got in the way of seizures?’
‘Just a laptop and a digital camera. Plus Mallinder’s briefcase. There’s an address book in the briefcase and some paperwork, but according to Benskin most of the real stuff will be on the laptop. Bloke came over from Netley to sort it out.’
Faraday nodded. In evidential terms, PCs and laptops needed careful handling. The process was time-consuming and the Hi-Tech Unit was overwhelmed with jobs. The last time he’d checked, there was a three-month wait for hard-disk analysis.
‘We may need to fast-track it,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else?’
Suttle shook his head, then bent to his notepad to make sure. Faraday was on his feet, tidying his own notes, when there came a knock at the door. It opened to reveal a woman in her early thirties. She was wearing jeans and a pair of battered Reeboks. A rumpled off-white linen jacket hung loosely over a bleached pink T-shirt and the tan suggested a recent vacation. She was looking at Faraday. Lightly freckled face. A hint of caution in the green eyes.
‘D/C Suttle?’
Faraday shook his head, nodded at the figure behind the desk. Suttle clearly hadn’t a clue who this woman was.
‘’D/I Hamilton.’ She smiled. ‘Gina. We talked on the phone.’
‘Yeah, of course we did.’ Suttle pushed his chair back and shook the outstretched hand. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. This is D/I Faraday.’
Faraday, too, recognised the name. Gina Hamilton was a Devon and Cornwall Detective Inspector attached to the Major Crime Incident Team at Exeter. A long-term drugs inquiry had brought her to Portsmouth, though Faraday was vague about the details. A phone call from HQ earlier in the week had asked him to sort out a D/C to give Hamilton whatever assistance she required, and Jimmy Suttle - still largely office-bound - had been the first name in the frame.
Suttle was indicating the spare chair across the desk. In a couple of minutes he’d be through for the day. She could use the phone, read the paper, whatever. Then, if she fancied it, he’d take her to the bar upstairs for a drink. Hamilton was watching him, amused.
‘A phone would be good,’ she said.
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One Under Page 45
