‘You want me to go over there again?’
‘Yes. You and young Tracy.’
‘Who?’
‘Tracy Barber. She booked in this morning, subbing for Mel Fairweather. You’ll love her.’ Faraday detected the hint of a grin. ‘She’s ex-SB.’
SB was police-speak for Special Branch. Willard checked his watch and got up. When the phone began to ring again he returned to the desk, then paused.
‘Barber’s booked you both on the car ferry. She’s probably back in your office by now. And keep tabs on Irving, eh? That man’s too ambitious for his own good.’
Faraday’s office was empty. He flicked through the morning’s mail, understanding at last why he wasn’t over at Newbridge kicking the Major Crimes’ investigative machine into action. Darren Webster had obviously struck lucky with his meet in Shanklin and now his divisional boss was counting the cost of what might lie in wait down the road. The problem with homicide inquiries was the quality of the evidence you had to gather. With the prospect of a lengthy court case, you’d be mad to skimp on resources. Hence Irving’s call to the specialists.
‘DI Faraday? I’m the new Mel.’
Faraday looked round to find himself looking at a tall, well-built woman in her late thirties. She had a big square face and a nicely cut two-piece suit that showcased a fine pair of legs. Special Branch often turned into a life sentence for malicious sociopaths with the worst possible take on human nature. Tracy Barber, by contrast, looked positively cheerful.
‘Let you out, have they?’
‘I’m on parole. For good behaviour I get to stay here a while. Otherwise, it’s back in my box.’ She shook Faraday’s outstretched hand. ‘There’s a rumour we’re off to the island. I’ve booked for eleven o’clock. That OK with you, boss?’
They had coffee aboard the car ferry that churned across the Solent to Fishbourne. Barber, it turned out, had known Mel Fairweather since they’d been DCs together in Southampton. Mel was currently away on compassionate leave following a traffic accident that had nearly killed his wife, and Tracy Barber had been glad of the opportunity to sample life on Major Crimes. SB, she readily admitted, had its attractions but lately she’d spent far too much time trying to penetrate the Animal Liberation Front, and months of pretending she was a lifelong vegan were driving her barmy.
‘I made the mistake of wearing a leather jacket to the first meet.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought the woman was going into cardiac arrest.’
‘What happened?’ Faraday was smiling.
‘Nothing. I told her I was a dyke, got in a muddle sometimes, and after that it was fine. Takes one to know one. Best buddies ever since.’ She paused, looking Faraday in the eye. ‘But that’s good tradecraft, isn’t it? Making the best of your funny little ways?’
‘You mean a meat diet?’
‘Hardly.’ She tipped her head back and laughed. ‘This Darren Webster. What do you think, then?’
‘Difficult to say. He’s bright, ambitious, impatient.’
‘Hanging offences?’
‘Not at all. But sometimes you get a feeling about people, don’t you? He wants a ticket out and something tells me he’s just found one. That’s enough to warp anyone’s judgement, believe me.’ Faraday nodded at the approaching channel into Wootton Creek. ‘There’s a Pompey boy called Unwin we ought to talk about.’
Colin Irving was waiting for them in the DI’s office at Newport. Darren Webster was hanging on a phone call at his desk down the corridor but first Irving wanted a confidential word.
‘I understand DC Webster came to see you on Saturday.’ He was looking directly at Faraday and he didn’t bother to hide his anger.
‘Yes. But only after he’d told you first.’
‘Really? Is that what he said?’
‘Yes. In fact I made a point of it. Happy to talk to you but make sure your boss is in the loop.’ Faraday raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re telling me that never happened?’
Irving didn’t answer but his body language suggested that some time soon Webster was in for a spot of blunt career advice. In the meantime the lad would update them all on developments.
Irving lifted the phone.
‘Webster?’ His voice was icy. ‘When you’re ready.’
The young DC was in the office within seconds. Faraday introduced Tracy Barber. Already, it felt like some kind of audition.
‘You met the man Morgan …’ Irving was brisk. He’d obviously been through all this already. ‘Tell DI Faraday what happened.’
‘I caught up with him on Saturday night, pub in Shanklin. We knew Pelly was a naughty boy but Morgan fleshed it out. Number one, the man’s supposed to be running asylum seekers into the country, mostly by boat, mostly out of Cherbourg.’
‘Cherbourg’s a major port,’ Faraday pointed out. ‘French Immigration, CRS, Gendarmerie, the lot. Every other man you see’s in uniform.’
‘Doesn’t matter, sir. Pelly pays French fishermen for the Channel crossing. The people over there turn a blind eye.’
‘It’s true.’ It was Barber. ‘When it comes to refugees, the French can’t wait to get rid of them. It’s the same across Europe. If you can move the problem on, that’s exactly what you do. There’s the border, boys. Go for it.’
‘OK.’ Faraday conceded the point. ‘So what happens this side? You’re telling me the fishermen come inshore?’
‘Not at all, sir.’ Webster shook his head. ‘Pelly’s got a fishing boat of his own, proper seagoing launch. He meets them off the back of the Wight, miles out. They transfer, then he brings them back. He’s got a mooring in Bembridge Harbour. I’ve checked it out. Piece of cake.’
‘And the cargo? The refugees?’
‘He’s got properties all over Shanklin, Sandown, Ventnor. He sticks them away, ten to a bed, and finds them work through an agency he runs. That way he can help himself to most of what they earn. The work’s mostly seasonal – nurseries, holiday camps, hotels, fruit picking. This time of year can be tricky. Which is where Unwin comes in.’
‘Unwin’s the bloke who’s allegedly gone missing.’ Faraday was looking at Tracy Barber. ‘Pompey lad. The one mentioned on the ferry.’
‘That’s him.’ Webster nodded. ‘Round October time the jobs on the island dry up so Unwin’s the man with the van. Drives them over to the mainland, ferries them wherever. Brum, Manchester, Leeds – you name it. Some of them have relatives up there. Whatever happens, you can bet Pelly takes a slice.’
Faraday was following this chain of events in his head. It sounded all too plausible.
‘Evidence?’ he queried.
‘Gary Morgan.’
‘Just him?’
‘So far, yes, but it all stacks up, believe me.’
‘Did Morgan give you addresses for these properties?’
‘Yes, and I knocked on the odd door yesterday, mainly neighbours in Ventnor. Just the sight of the warrant card and they were all over me. What these people get up to. The way they live. The noise, the music, the cooking, the smells. One old girl’s been trying to sell up for a year, not a prayer.’ He leaned forward in the chair, keen to make the point. ‘I’m not wasting your time here. Morgan’s kosher.’
‘But why? What’s in it for him?’
‘He hates Pelly. Can’t stand the man.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me.’
‘And you’ve not talked to anyone else?’
‘No.’ Webster glanced briefly towards Irving. ‘It’s a bit hectic just now; stacks of stuff I haven’t even looked at.’
‘But what about this man Pelly?’ It was Barber again. ‘Did you try for an interview?’
‘Of course. I went up there yesterday. He runs an old folks home in Shanklin but he was away all day, back late last night.’
‘What was the place like?’
‘OK. Bit shabby maybe but nothing horrendous.’
‘Any refugees working there?’
‘None that I c
ould see.’ Webster returned his attention to Faraday. ‘What I really wanted, sir, was a steer on Unwin. If his granny’s really up there at the home then there’ll be a record of next of kin. Might be a daughter, son, whatever. That would take me to Unwin, give me an address at least.’
‘And what happened?’
‘The records are all in a filing cabinet in Pelly’s office. No one seemed to have a key.’
‘Has he got a wife up there? Someone else in charge?’
‘Hard to tell, sir. The girl I talked to was local, can’t have been more than eighteen. That kind of detail needs proper investigation.’
Faraday glanced at Irving. The DI hadn’t taken his eyes off Webster. Odds on, Newport’s star DC was in for the bollocking of the year.
‘So what’s your theory?’ Faraday had returned to Webster. ‘About the lad Unwin?’
‘You mean motive, sir?’
‘I mean what may have happened.’
‘Well, sir, from where I’m sitting it’s one of two things. Either he and Pelly had a monster ruck about Unwin’s granny and that was enough. Or Unwin and Pelly have been in some kind of partnership and fell out.’
‘Enough for what?’ Tracy Barber was picking a hair off her skirt.
‘Enough for Pelly to do him.’
‘You mean kill him?’
‘Yes.’
There was a moment or two of silence, broken by the hiss of air brakes from a bus outside. At length Irving stirred.
‘That’s a big step to make.’ He was looking at Webster.
‘I know, sir. But that’s what we’re paid for, isn’t it? Putting two and two together?’
‘You’re paid to gather evidence, son. All we’ve got here is allegation –’ he sniffed ‘– and gossip.’
‘I know, sir. And that’s why I need more time.’
Faraday was back on the cliff at Tennyson Down, peering over at the giddying drop.
‘What about the head?’ he said quietly.
‘I’ve no idea, sir. Pelly might have done it himself, sawn it off, whatever. Makes ID a real problem. Happens all the time.’
‘You think he’s capable of that?’
‘Definitely. The way Morgan tells it, this guy’s aggression on legs. Shortest fuse on the island. Famous for it. I know that doesn’t make him a murderer but the way I see it, it certainly puts him in the frame.’ He paused to check his trilling mobile, then looked up again. ‘And I haven’t mentioned the gear. Apparently he’s knocking out sizeable amounts of smack. Most of it comes in from Spain. Gets him in trouble with the local Scousers.’
‘We still have an issue with our friends from Liverpool.’ Irving ignored the smile on Faraday’s face. ‘We thought we’d cracked it but it turns out we were wrong. These animals are like bindweed. Put a dozen away and the next lot turn up. You just have to keep at them.’
‘And Pelly?’ Faraday turned his attention to Webster.
‘He doesn’t give them the time of day, sir. Morgan says they tried to stitch him up, grassed him to the Drugs Squad back in Liverpool, but nothing ever happened. Then they tried to sort him out themselves, waited for him outside a pub one night and went at him with Stanley knives. Pelly put one of them in hospital.’
‘How?’ Barber was intrigued.
‘Ran him over. The kid was so angry he nearly pressed charges.’
‘Says?’
‘Morgan.’
Another silence, this time broken by Faraday.
‘Right then.’ He glanced at Irving. ‘All this is on file? Addresses? Contact numbers? Pelly? Morgan?’
‘Of course, Joe.’
‘Good. We’ll go through the stuff you’ve got, then make some decisions. That OK with you?’
‘No problem.’
Faraday began to get to his feet. Webster, not believing his ears, could only look from one face to another. Eventually, his gaze settled on his boss.
‘And me, sir?’
‘You can stay behind, son.’ Irving had the coldest smile. ‘One or two things we ought to discuss.’
DC Paul Winter knew at once that he’d picked his moment. DI Cathy Lamb had just had a lengthy phone conversation with one of the Assistant Chief Constables and was much heartened by what he’d told her.
The ACC in question, she said, was Terry Alcott, in charge of CID and Special Operations. He’d confirmed to Lamb that he’d taken a call on Saturday morning from Maurice Wishart. Far from being a mate of his, said Alcott, Wishart was simply a businessman he’d bumped into at a social function. He was well connected in defence circles and like many successful men he seemed to have finessed passing acquaintance into something altogether weightier.
The allegations of harassment he’d levelled against DC Winter had certainly intrigued the ACC and he’d moved swiftly to make sure that nothing silly got into the hands of the press. Hence, Lamb assumed, the call that Winter had taken on Saturday afternoon from Willard. But what intrigued Alcott more than Wishart’s crude attempt at pressure were the nuts and bolts of the operation that Winter had put together on DI Lamb’s behalf.
Cathy had filled the ACC in on Plover – the alleged existence of the brothel, the modest investment she’d made in surveillance, the rumoured nature of the clientele, the likely presence of Class A narcotics on the premises – and had been delighted by Alcott’s reaction.
Given last year’s abrupt collapse of Operation Tumbril, a cripplingly expensive bid to snare both Bazza Mackenzie and the small army of accountants, lawyers and assorted professionals who’d helped construct his multimillion-pound drugs empire, Alcott felt – quote – ‘somewhat aggrieved’. These bastards were giving the forces of law and order the runaround and that wasn’t good for morale. What they needed, what the city needed, was a bit of restorative justice and in the shape of the Camber Court bust Cathy Lamb’s squad appeared to be supplying exactly that. Both she and Winter had Alcott’s full support. He was delighted by Friday night’s developments, and especially pleased by the first of the arrests. It was bloody time, he muttered on the phone, that a disgrace like Singer reacquainted himself with the word justice. Alcott wanted to be kept abreast of events as they developed and would be pleased to make good any token damage to the squad’s overtime budget. Operation Plover, as far as he was concerned, was a definite runner.
Now, DI Lamb was impatient for the latest developments.
‘So what’s happened with Richardson? You’ve interviewed him?’
‘This morning. He got a brief down from London to represent him, a woman called Hersch. The Old Portsmouth flat’s owned by a Lebanese guy, Hakim, and I get the impression Hersch is on the payroll.’
‘How did it go?’
‘It didn’t. Richardson went no comment, wouldn’t give us anything. Friday night he copped for the lot – the cocaine, the girlies, even showed us a recording of Wishart doing the business. This morning? Fuck all.’
‘You got a statement Friday night?’
‘Of course. We didn’t charge him, though, because I was convinced there was more to come. He knew he was looking at a possible seven and he had the whole weekend to get himself in the mood for a sensible conversation. It was all there, Cath, I know it was. In return for a deal, he might even have coughed a name or two on the cocaine.’
Winter sensed that Cathy’s new-found confidence in Plover was already beginning to ebb. She was a big, sturdy woman who believed in rewarding loyalty and hard work with unswerving support, and her preparedness to risk anything for her troops even extended to Winter. They went back more years than either of them cared to remember. They’d had endless head-to-heads over Winter’s wilder initiatives but she was realistic enough to accept that he usually delivered, even if she wasn’t quite sure how.
Now, she was trying hard not to show her disappointment. Winter, she told herself, was right. A weekend thinking about seven years banged up in Belmarsh or the Scrubs would concentrate any man’s mind.
‘So how did you play it this morning?’
‘I told him what to expect. Painted a picture. The food, the company, the animals he’d meet along the way. Richardson’s gay, Cath. He’s got poof written all over him and he’s used to fancy cuisine. How’s a guy like that going to cope with rissole stew on sliced white with half the wing up his arse?’
‘And his answer?’
‘No comment. His brief said we were trying to put the fear of God up him and she’s right; of course we were. And it worked too. He was bricking it. Half an hour alone with the guy and he’d have sold me his mother.’ Winter frowned, denied his just deserts. ‘The brief was a pain. We had a private conversation, just her and me, before we charged him. I tried to point out that she wasn’t serving Mr Hakim’s best interests by putting Richardson away but she wasn’t having it. In fact she accused me of undue pressure on Friday night – oppressive questions, self-incrimination, all that bollocks. These London people just aren’t on the same planet, you ever notice that? Offer them a deal and anyone’d think you just stepped on a turd. Absolutely clueless.’
‘So how did you leave it?’
‘I said I’d see her in court.’
‘And Richardson?’
‘We charged him with living off immoral earnings. He looked kippered. He knows exactly what’s coming his way and I just hope Mr Hakim makes it worth his while.’
Cathy Lamb was looking glum now. A formal charge brought the interview process to an end. Whoever asked Richardson the next set of questions, it wouldn’t be a detective.
‘That’s a shame,’ she said at last. ‘Mr Alcott’s got the highest hopes.’
‘Good.’ Optimism and Paul Winter had always been the best of friends. ‘There’s still Cécile, one of the girlies. She’s in this afternoon.’
‘And the other one?’
‘Maddox. We talked to her on Saturday. Hopeless. She left us for dead. I’d blame it on my age, Cath, but Jimmy was there as well and he did even worse.’
Blood And Honey Page 9
