Drifting into the kitchen, Winter eyed the clock on the wall. Five past nine was hopelessly early for bed but he could think of no good reason not to put the blanket on. Then he began to wonder about tomorrow, about the pimp Richardson and about the pleasures of plotting Singer’s downfall.
Richardson, released on police bail and due back at the Bridewell tomorrow morning, would know a great deal about his clientele’s darker commercial secrets, and the prospect of a prison sentence often loosened tongues. With a bit of effort in the interview room the other girl – Cecile – might also come across. Both interviews, artfully handled, could yield enough evidence for a further round of headline arrests.
Singer, meanwhile, was in deep shit. Forensic chemical analysis might well tie Singer’s personal wraps of charlie with the stash seized in Camber Court, giving the lie to the solicitor’s claim that he’d acquired the stuff elsewhere. Better still, there might even be incriminating footage of Singer enjoying a toot or two amongst the small mountain of Richardson’s home movie DVDs now awaiting Suttle’s attention in the Crime Squad office. Either line of enquiry would offer rich pickings in court, a long-delayed revenge for years of aggravation. Of all the scalps Winter had ever taken, and there were many, Singer’s might prove to be the sweetest.
Winter grinned and turned his back on the clock, feeling immeasurably better.
It was Karen, the youngest of the Coreys, who drove Faraday home. The party in the church hall had broken up around nine in the evening and Faraday had been on the point of phoning for a taxi when Karen intercepted him.
‘You’re not driving, are you?’
‘Hardly.’
‘I’ll give you a lift, then. Mum insists.’
There was no room for argument. She had a small Renault. Inside, it smelled doggy.
‘Staffordshire bull terrier,’ she explained. ‘World’s ugliest pooch. It used to belong to my partner but he left it behind.’ She laughed. ‘Sweetest thing.’
‘Your partner?’
‘The dog.’
She drove east across the city, picking her way nimbly through the maze of terraced streets. She’d grown up here; knew it backwards. After they’d passed the house where her best friend used to live and the Co-op where her mum still worked Faraday asked her what she did for a living.
‘I’m a teacher.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘George Meredith.’ George Meredith was a big comprehensive on the fault line between Portsmouth and Southsea.
‘You enjoy it?’
‘Most of the time, yes. It was mum’s idea I went off to teacher training. She’d left school as soon as she could and didn’t want me behind the checkout all my life.’
She said she taught geography. The subject had always fascinated her and recently she’d got into the habit of regarding holidays as preparation for next term. Her daughter was now nineteen, well able to look after herself, and so Karen took every opportunity to remortgage herself to the hilt and follow her nose until the money ran out.
‘So where have you been?’
‘Europe mainly. Scandinavia was great but pricey. Eastern Europe brilliant. France so-so. Spain was lovely away from the coast. Next on the list is Italy and then the Balkans.’
‘And you do these trips alone?’
‘Mainly. When I went to Andalusia, Kelly came too. She fancied Siena as well but fell in love the week I had to book. Nazrul. Nice lad. Asian.’
‘Kelly’s your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
They were closing on the Bargemaster’s House now. Faraday pointed out the cul-de-sac that led down by the water, wondering what he could muster in the way of a nightcap.
‘Last house on the right.’ He could see the light at the end of the street. ‘I’ve got some decent Rioja if you fancy it.’
The Renault coasted to a halt. Karen looked across at the shadowed trellis in the garden, the white timber cladding on the first floor, the big glassed-in study on the harbourside corner that Faraday used as his private perch. It was a sturdy, mid-Victorian house on the very edge of the island, and Karen seemed to be having difficulty associating a place like this with the man sitting beside her.
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Twenty years, give or take.’
‘You’ve got a family?’
‘A son. He fled the nest a while back.’
‘So you live here alone?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded, taking in this little clue, then pointed at the darkness beyond the house.
‘And what’s over there?’
‘Langstone Harbour. Wake up on a morning with no clouds and there’s more sunshine than you can cope with.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Bet?’
Faraday smiled at her, happy to offer a glimpse or two of his solitary life. To his considerable surprise, back in the hall she’d got him dancing. She’d found a space amongst the older couples and bribed the band to up the beat. No one else was jiving but it hadn’t seemed to matter.
‘I ought to get home,’ she said at last. ‘It was great that you came. You made my nan’s day, probably Mum’s too. We don’t meet too many detectives.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Yeah?’ She looked at him, suddenly uncertain, then frowned. ‘There’s something Mum asked me to mention. I’m not sure …’
‘What is it?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Try me.’
‘It’s about Harry, mum’s dad, the one in the photo …’ She trailed off again.
‘And?’
‘This is going to sound mad.’ She bit her lip.
‘Why?’
‘Well … to be honest, I think he’s become a bit of an obsession. Not just Nan but Mum too. It might be a hero thing, I don’t know, but we haven’t been too clever with men in our family so maybe Harry’s all they’ve got left.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m too young. I’ve seen all the photos, listened to Nan talking about him, but it’s all a bit remote. Men have never been an issue with me. Not like Mum and Nan.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that …’ She frowned again, annoyed to be in this position, tongue-tied in front of a virtual stranger. She stole another glance at the house and then turned off the engine.
‘A quick coffee,’ she said, ‘would be fine.’
Faraday brewed up in the kitchen while she toured the downstairs lounge. The click of a lock and the rumble of the big French doors told Faraday she’d stepped out into the garden. After a moment he could feel the cold breath of the harbour through the open kitchen door. Low tide was an hour after midnight and the mudflats would be busy with waders poking about amongst the bladderwrack for a late supper. By the time he carried in the cafetière and coffee cups, she’d just returned, closing the doors and pulling the curtain behind her. Sharing his lounge with a cabin boy was something of a novelty.
‘Checking the view?’
‘It’s lovely …’ She nodded. ‘So peaceful. Round my way it can be mad at weekends.’ She sat down on the sofa, studied her hands for a moment. ‘Mum’s a spiritualist,’ she said at last. ‘You ought to know that. She goes regularly to the temple in Victoria Road. Gets in touch with the dead. Has conversations. Really believes in it all.’
‘Milk? Sugar?’ Faraday glanced up, cafetière in hand.
‘No, thanks.’ She reached forward for the proffered cup. ‘Do you mind me talking about all this?’
‘Not at all.’
‘OK.’ She sat back, the coffee cup balanced on her knee. In the slant of light from the spots on the wall she looked more boyish than ever. Her hair was blonde, cut short and shaggy, and she had a snub button of a nose that gave her face an air of mischief. Kids would listen to someone like this, Faraday thought.
She was talking about her mum again. Gwen went to the temple every Sunday, never failed. The services could last a couple of hours. Karen
had gone along a couple of years ago as moral support when her mum was feeling a bit low but once was enough.
‘You’re not a believer?’
‘No. To be honest, it embarrasses me.’ She sipped at her coffee, then looked up again. ‘The last couple of weeks since Christmas Mum has been taking Nan. Mum says they got in touch with Harry again.’
‘Again?’
‘Mum’s talked to him before. I know it sounds daft but it became quite a regular thing. This last time, though, Harry apparently mentioned you.’
‘Me?’ Faraday began to check his bearings. He hadn’t seen her take a drink all evening. The last thing he could blame was alcohol.
‘You want to know what Harry said?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘He said that Mum would meet a younger man with a beard, a detective, someone who’d known Gracie. He asked her to make this man feel at home, make a proper fuss of him.’
‘Why? Why would he want that?’
‘Mum didn’t know but Nan was there too, and when they got back to Nan’s place she showed Mum Grace’s invitation list, the people she wanted to come to the party. Your name was on it though no one had a clue who you were.’ She suddenly grinned. ‘Spooky or what?’
Faraday was thinking of the envelope that had arrived for him at Highland Road. ‘Mr Farraday Detective’.
‘What else did Harry say?’
‘He told Mum to get Nan to show you his letters.’
‘What letters?’
‘The letters he wrote to Nan during the war. I’ve never seen them. She never lets them out of her sight.’ She gazed down at her empty cup. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? It’s crazy.’
Faraday, for once, was lost for an answer. Gwen’s invitation had come as a surprise. A bigger surprise awaited him at the hall – the warmth of the welcome, the glad company of strangers. Now this.
‘I’m flattered,’ he said at last. ‘But what would you want me to do with these letters?’
‘Just read them, Mum says.’
‘Why didn’t she ask me herself?’
‘I don’t know …’ Her voice began to falter again. ‘I can’t think why but maybe she felt this kind of stuff might come better from me.’
‘Because you don’t believe it?’
‘Because I’m more your age.’
Faraday was toying with the cafetière. He liked this woman. He liked her directness and her cheerful candour. He hadn’t jived for years, not since a memorable Christmas long past when he’d tried to teach his flailing son, but it had felt fine with her back in the church hall. She knew the moves. She made him look good. At the same time, occupational hazard, he was wary about this sudden turn in the conversation. In his job there were lines you shouldn’t cross and something told him he was close to one of them.
At length he got to his feet. Karen had said no to more coffee.
‘Tell your mum I’ll be in touch,’ he said. ‘Tell her I promise.’
‘You’ve got the number?’
‘It’s on her letter.’ He smiled at her. ‘And thanks for this afternoon. I enjoyed it.’
‘Including this?’
‘Including this.’
Karen looked at his outstretched hand, then took a tiny step forward and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Pleasure,’ she said. ‘Gracie was right about the gentleman.’
Four
Monday, 23 February 2004
Faraday awoke to the trilling of his mobile. It was Nick Hayder, his fellow DI on Major Crimes whom he’d followed to the Isle of Wight. Faraday was peering at his watch. 07.06. Something was pricking at his conscience.
‘Is this to do with Aaron Tolly?’
‘Not at all.’ Hayder sounded tense. ‘Tolly’s dead and buried. Just like you recommended.’
Faraday nodded, relieved, and then swung his legs out of bed and padded across to the window. Dawn had come late, a thin grey mist that shrouded the distant stripe of Hayling Island. On the foreshore below the house a muddy-looking Labrador was nosing around amongst the debris on the tideline. Naked at the window, Faraday shivered as the dog plunged into the water, chasing a stately line of mallard.
Hayder was brief. He’d just been assigned a double homicide in a cottage in the New Forest. A couple of hours ago the milkman had found the door open and the lights on in the downstairs sitting room. One body, a woman, on the carpet. Another, evidently her husband, at the foot of the stairs. Multiple injuries to both. Blood everywhere.
‘Willard’s blitzing it,’ Hayder was saying. ‘Himself as SIO, me as Deputy, plus all the troops he can lay his hands on. The bloke’s some kind of hotshot TV producer. Loads of publicity.’
According to Hayder, the dead man had been the brains behind a new reality show that was notching up huge ratings. In his spare time, to keep himself sane, he did a bit of birdwatching. Hayder, who knew about Faraday’s birding expeditions to the New Forest, wanted a steer on who he might talk to.
‘Do they have wardens in the forest? Rangers? Organisations for twitchers? People who might know him? We’ve got to build a profile of this guy. Willard wants the full SP by lunchtime.’
‘Try his production team.’
‘They’re on the list. I’m trying to think outside the box. Local contacts, not telly.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Newbridge.’
Newbridge was a straggle of houses on the eastern fringes of the forest, with easy access to nearby Southampton but hardly great for birdwatching. Faraday couldn’t think of anything productive to suggest. He was still watching the Labrador.
‘No names?’ Hayder was running out of time.
‘Afraid not. You could try a couple of birding websites, though. There’s a good one called HOSLIST. Hang on a moment—’
Hayder told him to forget it. Willard was already screaming for a brief meet prior to hitting the road west. The cars were waiting downstairs. In a couple of minutes they’d be off.
‘One other thing.’ Hayder was on the move, more voices in the background. ‘Willard wants you on parade sharpish. Nine o’clock in his office. Thanks for all the help, Joe. Back to bye-byes, eh?’
The phone went dead and Faraday found himself wondering why he, rather than Hayder, wasn’t heading for the M27 with a multiple murder to sort out. Nick was right. He knew the forest well and if the victim happened to be a part-time birder, then there were two good reasons for putting him on the team. He felt a brief pang of regret, denied the glorious jolt of adrenalin that trademarked a high-profile inquiry like this, but knew it was pointless to second-guess Willard’s decisions. Hayder was a good detective, one of the best, and after a lengthy convalescence he was desperate to get back in the action. A week or two in leafy Hampshire, at the very least, would be a nice change from homicidal Scouse drug dealers who ran you over not once, but twice.
Faraday checked his watch again, reached for his dressing gown and headed downstairs. A man who’s given up shaving, he thought, has plenty of time for a decent breakfast.
Hayder was right about Willard. The Detective Superintendent was at battle stations, his office door open, his printer spewing page after page into a wire basket that was already brimful. This was as close as Willard came to a state of some excitement and Faraday, like every other detective on the team, could recognise the symptoms: the jacket off, the sleeves rolled up, the coffee at his elbow untouched.
Willard nodded at the row of seats at the nearby conference table. He had the phone pressed to his ear and was giving some luckless bean counter an extremely hard time about Major Crimes’ forensic budget.
‘I don’t care a fuck about that kind of overspend,’ he was saying. ‘If you’re sitting where I sit there are times when operational need overrides everything. That happened to be one of them. OK?’
Willard was a big man but surprisingly light on his feet. He pushed the chair away from the desk and got up, peering at an incoming email. At length, he sealed the phone conversation wi
th a grunt, scribbled himself a note, and joined Faraday at the conference table.
‘Pillocks,’ he muttered. ‘This job used to be fun once.’
Faraday knew better than to turn this into a conversation. In these moods Willard was talking to himself.
‘Newbridge,’ he said instead. ‘Nick phoned.’
‘Good.’ Willard brightened at once. ‘Tasty job. Fifteen bodies should do for starters. Thank God we’re not stretched at the moment.’
He began to muse about the press conference already scheduled for eleven o’clock. The media boss at HQ had hinted at interest from the London broadcast networks and although he’d have very little to say, Willard wasn’t a man to underestimate the career benefits of a couple of minutes exposure on the lunchtime news. Listening to him plot his opening remarks – a savage double killing, no obvious lines of enquiry, the need for teamwork and unceasing effort – Faraday began to suspect that the canteen rumours about Willard were true. He really had drawn a bead on the Head of CID’s job. The current incumbent was retiring, and Willard obviously fancied his chances.
His phone was ringing again but Willard ignored it. Time was moving on and he needed to talk to Faraday about the Isle of Wight.
‘Colin Irving was on to me yesterday,’ he said briskly. ‘Seems that young DC of yours might have turned something up.’
‘Webster?’
‘Yes. The lad got a shout from intelligence, followed it up; says he’s on to a really strong lead. Irving thinks he might be a bit hasty but needs a second opinion. Irving’s cuffing it again of course, obsessed by his bloody PIs – doesn’t want Webster off the leash – but this time he might have a point. I said we’d take a look at it, strictly exploratory, no commitment, especially now with this lot kicking off …’ He waved a hand towards his laptop, already black with unread emails.
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