J-J nodded, and gave the onions a final stir before wiping his hands on a dishcloth. Eadie, he signed, had emailed him twice in the last twenty-four hours. He thought she’d had enough of tropical islands.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘She’s been in touch with those people in the council. They’ve said yes to the project.’
‘What project’s that?’
‘The video for next year. I told you last week.’
‘You did?’
J-J shot his father a despairing look and turned to rummage in a cupboard beside the fridge. Eadie Sykes ran a video production company from a modest suite of offices in Hampshire Terrace. She specialised in documentary work – ruthlessly edited studies with a radical bite – and a recent production had sparked a great deal of controversy. J-J’s reward for helping her on this project had been a full-time job, an offer that had finally won him the independence he’d craved. Just now he was flat-sitting for his boss but when she returned he’d find himself a place of his own.
‘Remind me.’ Faraday swallowed a mouthful of San Miguel. ‘This new video.’
‘Next year’s the biggie.’ J-J’s bony hands shaped an ever-expanding space. ‘The city wants something special to pull people in.’
‘That’s not documentary. That’s marketing.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘And Eadie?’
‘She thinks she can do it her way.’
‘Surprise, surprise.’
‘Yeah, but she’s got loads of ideas.’ J-J nodded at the laptop on the low table in front of the sofa.
Faraday abandoned the stool at the breakfast bar. Next year, 2005, marked the two-hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar, a peg on which the city fathers were going to hang Pompey’s battered hat. Even a year away there were detailed plans for a Royal Fleet Review, an International Festival of the Sea, plus countless other crowd-pulling events which might finally make Portsmouth the must-visit heritage destination.
Eadie’s latest email showed on the laptop’s screen, and a quick scan brought a smile to Faraday’s face. In certain moods this woman with whom he’d shared the last couple of years was irresistible. She wrote like she talked, and each new paragraph was a fresh insight into the fertile anarchy of her imagination. She had total faith in herself, a self-confidence unchallenged by a moment’s self-doubt, and Faraday loved that.
Her video was to begin with a montage of comments from the Pompey diaspora, a message or two from those thousands of folk who’d bailed out of the city and sought a better life overseas. On the face of it this was a bizarre proposition – why waste precious screen time on turncoats who’d opted to leave? – but the more Faraday read, the more he found himself nodding in agreement. Portsmouth, after all, had always been in the export business, if not violence then people, and what trademarked the quotes that Eadie produced in evidence was a collective agreement that Pompey wasn’t simply special but unique.
A Tipner-born boatbuilder she must have met in the New Hebrides talked wistfully of his apprenticeship in the naval dockyard. A retired nurse, on vacation from Adelaide, remembered playing amongst the buddleia on the post-war Southsea bomb sites. A young globetrotting music promoter she’d sat next to on the flight from Singapore, ex-Portsmouth University, had ring-fenced his first million to build himself a mansion on Portsdown Hill. These were people, Faraday thought, that Eadie had either bumped into or invented, but real or unreal their message was the same, a distant echo of the roar that rose from the terraces at Fratton Park. We are all the prisoners of our birthright. Pompey Till I Die.
Faraday caught J-J’s eye.
‘And the council’s said yes to all this?’
J-J nodded, then peered briefly at the pan.
‘You think four chillies will be enough?’ he signed.
Winter’s phone was ringing when he finally made it back home. He and Jimmy Suttle had found time for a drink after Maddox’s departure from the Bridewell, sharing a city centre pub with a trainload of Newcastle supporters busy fortifying themselves for the ten-minute sprint to Fratton Park. The ones who were drinking fastest had resigned themselves to the rumoured ambush. The ones who weren’t couldn’t wait to get stuck in.
Now, Winter lifted the phone wondering why the caller hadn’t tried his mobile. Seconds later he found himself listening to Willard’s gruff tones. The Detective Superintendent had been talking to Terry Alcott at headquarters. Alcott was the Assistant Chief Constable in charge of CID and Special Operations and had taken an early morning call from a Maurice Wishart. He’d bumped into Wishart at some pre-Xmas drinks party, and now Wishart was using this brief social encounter to register his outrage over an incident that was alleged to have taken place last night in Old Portsmouth. Alcott hadn’t got a clue about the details but Wishart was claiming harassment and threatening to go to the press.
‘Sir—?’ Winter tried to interrupt. Willard told him to listen.
‘Alcott doesn’t care a stuff about Wishart. He says the guy can talk to whoever he likes. But I’m telling you to ignore any calls from the News. If those bastards phone you, refer them to me. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. And well done for Singer.’
The line went dead. Winter held on to the phone for a moment, feeling the warmth flood through his body. He was still looking for the bottle of Scotch he kept on the go when he remembered Suttle. A call to his mobile found him in the crowd at Fratton Park.
‘About last night. Has anyone rung you from the News?’
‘The what?’
‘The News.’
‘Yeah.’ Suttle was shouting. ‘Woman called Kerry. She wanted to know what we were up to. Address. Names. Details. The lot. Wouldn’t say where she got the whisper but my money’s on someone from the Bridewell.’
Winter tried to focus on the familiar view from his sitting room. Instead of the sodden midwinter greens and browns of the long back garden, all he could see were bubbles.
‘So what did you say?’ he managed.
‘Fuck all. When she started to try it on I told her to get a life, phoning a bloke on his day off. Shit—’
‘What’s the matter?’
The crowd in the background had gone very quiet. Finally, Suttle was back on the line.
‘Unbelievable.’ He sounded choked. ‘Newcastle just bloody scored.’
Darren Webster was already at Kingston Crescent police station by the time Faraday had fought his way through the traffic and climbed the stairs to the Major Crimes suite on the second floor. A young DC tackling a backlog of paperwork had rescued Webster from the front desk and made him a coffee. Now, seated in the big office that served as the major incident room, he seemed perfectly at home.
Faraday gestured him down the long central corridor.
‘How was the match?’
‘I didn’t go in the end, sir. A mate of mine called up to check out a new launch site on Boniface Down. Crap unless you’ve got a death wish.’
‘So you’ve come over specially?’
‘Yes.’
‘And told DI Irving?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘OK.’ Faraday paused outside his office, unlocked the door, and then waved Webster into an empty chair. ‘So what have you got for me?’
The young detective’s eyes had gone immediately to the display of bird shots pinned to Faraday’s wall board.
‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Did you take those?’
‘My son, most of them.’ Faraday sank into the chair at the desk. ‘Tell me what’s brought you here.’
Webster took a final look at the photos, then leaned forward, almost conspiratorial, and told Faraday about a call he’d taken late yesterday afternoon. The CID intelligence cell for the island was housed in Shanklin but all IoW informants were managed by the divisional handling unit under the stewardship of a mainland-based DS. One of the thoroughbreds in his stable was a 23-year-old small-time thief and occasional d
rug dealer. Gary Morgan was local to the island, lived in a basement flat behind Sandown station, and had a story to tell.
‘What was he offering?’
‘Information on a bloke called Pelly. Rob Pelly. He runs a residential home for oldies in Shanklin. Been known to us for a while.’
‘Form?’
‘No convictions, nothing to speak of, anyway. But plenty of other stuff.’
‘Like?’
‘Like rumours about people smuggling, bringing asylos in, maybe gear too. He goes abroad a lot; owns far too many properties for someone legit – loads of DSS places in Shanklin and Ventnor. According to people in the know he has a bit of an attitude problem, likes a drink, throws his weight around, doesn’t care who he pisses off. You can imagine how that goes down, place like the island.’
‘So what did Morgan say?’
‘He said that this Pelly character had a huge run-in with another lad, back end of last year, something to do with one of the old dears at the home. Apparently the lad’s her grandson. He comes across a lot and often pays her a visit.’
‘Comes over from where?’
‘Here. Pompey.’
Faraday pulled a pad from a drawer. Every inquiry worth pursuing began with a blizzard of names. Best to get them sorted.
‘Pelly runs the old folks’ home. Morgan’s the grass. This other guy … ?’
‘Chris Unwin. Apparently he drives a van for a living, delivers all kinds of stuff: Pompey, the island, London, the Midlands – you name it.’
‘And this row in the home? Where did Morgan get that from?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘Was he there?’
‘The DS says not. Morgan must have a source in the home.’
‘So what happened?’
‘They were in Pelly’s office, the two of them. The door was half closed. After lunch Pelly’s often legless. This was late afternoon.’
Faraday was still waiting for the real thrust of the story, the reason that Webster had bought himself a hovercraft ticket.
‘So what happened?’ he asked again.
‘The two of them were screaming and shouting at each other. Then Pelly threatened to do him, sort him out, said he was a waste of space, deserved everything that was coming to him. At that point, someone intervened.’
‘Who?’
‘Morgan wouldn’t give a name.’
‘Do we believe him?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. I haven’t met him yet.’
‘But you’re going to?’
‘Of course.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Half eight. Pub in Shanklin High Street.’ He paused, enjoying himself now, waiting for Faraday to put the obvious question. Faraday obliged.
‘So where’s Unwin now?’
‘Pass. No one’s seen him since October. Before that, like I say, he was in and out of the home a couple of times a month. Christmas was always extra special. His nan’s apparently off the planet but he’d bring her presents, plus flowers and booze for the staff. Never failed.’
‘And this Christmas?’
‘He never showed. Not a peep, not a phone call, card, nothing.’
Faraday sat back in his chair, struck again by what the inexplicably headless body should have told him from the start.
‘The pathologist’s report,’ he began. ‘She definitely found no injury marks?’
‘Nothing for sure. The bloke was blue all over, swollen – you know what they’re like. There was damage, obviously, but nothing that would hundred-per-cent put him in a crime scene.’
‘The head might have done that.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Faraday began to doodle a series of circles on the pad. Webster was looking at the bird shots again.
‘And Unwin’s age?’ Faraday enquired at last.
‘Late twenties, sir.’
‘Height?’
‘Around six feet.’ There was a moment’s silence, broken by Webster. ‘You’ll be wondering why I’m bothering you with all this. Only it occurs to me that my DI might be calling you lot in. Major Crimes. It’s a resource thing, I know it is.’
‘And?’
‘I was just thinking …’ He shrugged, embarrassed now. ‘… There might be times you’ll need local knowledge, someone who reads the island really well, lived there all his life, knows the players, listens to the crack, all of that …’ He let the sentence trail off into silence.
Faraday stirred, giving nothing away.
‘And that someone … ?’
‘Is me –’ Webster smiled at Faraday ‘– sir.’
Three
Sunday, 22 February 2004
Faraday happened on the invitation entirely by chance. Half past eight on a leaden Sunday morning, it was beginning to rain again. Consulting the BBC weather map on his laptop, he gazed at the long curl of an incoming front. By lunchtime, without a great deal of enthusiasm, he planned to be walking south on the coastal path that skirted the Purbeck Hills. Given the depth of the ugly, grey swirl of cloud, he’d be lucky to have dried out by dusk.
Abandoning the laptop, he was wondering whether he might tempt J-J to the movies when he noticed the unopened envelope poking out of the nest of mail in the shoebox beside his desk. Pompey postmark. Awkward, backward-sloping handwriting. His name misspelled, one too many ‘r’s. The letter had been addressed to the Highland Road police station and one of the reasons it had taken a while to make its way through the system was the lack of rank on the envelope. ‘Mr Farraday’, it read, ‘Detective’.
Inside the envelope, he found a single sheet of blue-lined paper. His eye went at once to the foot of the page: Gwen Corey, a name he didn’t recognise. Returning downstairs, he plugged in the kettle for another pot of tea. Then he read the letter.
The tone was apologetic. Gwen Corey was sorry to be writing to him out of the blue like this. She hoped he didn’t mind the intrusion but her mum’s best friend had recently passed away and Gwen had been put in charge of a party to mark her going. The party was today. The deceased’s name was Grace Randall and she’d evidently left a list of invitations she wanted sent. One of these invitations had Mr Farraday’s name on it. Not only that but a little note beside it had instructed Gwen to make sure he came. ‘You’ll like him,’ Grace Randall had written. ‘How often do you meet a gentleman these days?’
Grace Randall? Faraday circled the kitchen, trying to sort through the ever-lengthening list of names thrown up by the drumbeat of recent inquiries. It had to be a job he’d done, had to be. A woman in her seventies, or older. Someone on whom Faraday had evidently left a bit of an impression. He tried to visualise the files in the bottom drawer of his desk at work: inquiries that had made it to court, jobs that the CPS had thrown out, still-open cases that awaited further attention. Then, for no reason at all, he had it. Grace Randall. 131 Chuzzlewit House.
Faraday had met her on day one of an inquiry that had very nearly killed him. A young teenage girl had thrown herself off the top of Grace Randall’s block of council flats and Grace herself had unwittingly provided one of the keys that had finally unlocked the case. Faraday could see her now, a thin, game, wheezy figure bent over a Zimmer frame, embroidered nightdress, pink slippers, little silver bells on the toes. She seemed to exist on a diet of ham sandwiches and Asda sherry. A big gas cylinder she hauled round the flat on a trolley forced oxygen into her heaving lungs, and her proudest possession – in a living room crowded with souvenirs – was the view from the window.
Up on the twenty-third floor, the view was sensational: the muddle of houses around the ancient bulk of the cathedral in Old Portsmouth, the dull green spaces of the Common, the sturdy sentry box of Southsea Castle, the tiny bathtub ships out on the tideway. Grace, it turned out, had spent her twenties and thirties as a singer on the big transatlantic liners out of neighbouring Southampton and had a treasured display of black and white photos on her drinks cabinet to prove it. That first time they’d met, Grace Randall been playing Puccini. ‘Com
e here, young man,’ she’d gasped, beckoning him towards the view, bent on explaining how the grand old Cunarders had slipped away to America, hogging the deep water over by Ryde Pier.
Faraday had returned to the flat a number of times, slowly piecing together the jigsaw to which Grace Randall held some of the parts, but until now it had never occurred to him that he’d been anything but a passing irritation in her life. Gentleman? He was intrigued, as well as flattered.
A little later, mid-morning, an email arrived from J-J. He’d got two complimentary tickets for a photographic exhibition in Chichester. His mate had called off and he could use a lift. How did Faraday fancy a couple of hours with some amazingly cool black and whites? Faraday, by now deep in the Sunday papers, declined. ‘Previous engagement,’ he tapped back. ‘Sorry.’
The Church of the Holy Spirit’s hall lay in the heart of Southsea, an area of terraced streets, second-hand furniture shops, Chinese takeaways and smoky street-corner pubs. Faraday at last found a parking space and did his best to avoid the worst of the rain. By the time he pushed into the hall through the big double doors, it was already late afternoon and he was soaking wet.
The music engulfed him at once, a soupy wave of nostalgia. At the far end of the hall, up on the stage, a nine-piece band was belting out Glenn Miller numbers in front of a huge poster of the Queen Mary. Balloons hung in nets from the ceiling and pinboards on each side of the band featured more shots of the great Cunarder. Long rows of tables piled with food and drink lined each side of the hall and the space in between was a slow blur of couples dancing.
Faraday watched them from the doorway, aware of his anorak dripping onto the scuffed parquet floor. Gwen’s invitation hadn’t mentioned anything about fancy dress. How come he’d stepped into a 1940s time warp?
A woman in a striking green dress made her way towards him through the sway of dancing couples. A mass of frizzy grey curls framed a wide smile.
‘Mr Faraday?’ She had a broad Pompey accent.
‘How did you know?’
‘I’ve lived here all my life. Spot a copper a mile off.’ She extended a hand. ‘Gwen Corey. It’s nice of you to come.’
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