A knock on the window brought the conversation to a halt. It was DC Newbery. He wanted a private word.
Faraday got out, annoyed at the interruption, aware of the shape of another car alongside the SOC van.
‘DC Webster, sir. Says it’s urgent.’
Faraday hesitated a moment, then told Newbery to get in the car with Pelly.
‘Keep an eye on him,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back.’
Faraday walked up to the car park. Darren Webster was deep in conversation with the DC from Scenes of Crime. At Faraday’s approach he broke off. Faraday studied him for a moment.
‘This had better be good,’ he said.
‘It is, sir. Or at least I think it is.’
‘How did you know we were out here?’
‘I’m using the same net.’ He nodded towards his car. ‘Have been all day. I put two and two together, had a word with the assistant at Scenes of Crime.’ He broke off to peer into the darkness of the harbour. ‘That’s Pelly’s boat you’ve been sorting out, right, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what I thought. Problem is, he’s only had it on the water since the end of last month.’
‘Really? So how come he’s just told me it’s been his since March?’
‘That’s when he must have ordered it. It’s brand new. He got it off a firm in Ventnor, Cheetah Marine. They started to fit it out against a five-hundred-pound deposit, then he dicked them around on the progress payments so the build got delayed and delayed. They delivered three and a half weeks ago.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘Positive, sir.’
Faraday was doing the sums. Unwin seemed to have gone missing in early October. The gap between then and the moment when Pelly finally laid hands on his new boat was at least four months. No one hung on to a body for that long.
‘How come you know all this?’
‘Because one of the laminator guys is a mate of mine. He’d mentioned it before because Pelly pulled every stroke to get it earlier and apparently it started to get nasty. I belled my mate again at the weekend. He confirmed the dates.’
‘So Pelly never had a boat before this one? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Not at all, sir. I checked that out, too. He had a beaten-up old Tidemaster – GRP thing, same mooring. Had it for years.’
‘And what happened to that?’
‘Good question.’ Faraday caught the gleam of a smile in the darkness. ‘Sir.’
Ten
Wednesday, 25 February 2004
Faraday finally got hold of Willard on the third attempt. He could hear laughter and the chink of glasses in the background. His irritation at the afternoon’s developments, already acute, began to harden into anger.
Willard was asking whether he was anywhere near a television. Nick Hayder had tipped off the BBC ahead of the arrest he’d ordered and the pictures were all over the early evening news. The TV presenter had been taken to Alton nick to meet his brief and early reports from the interview room suggested he wanted to get the thing over and done with. Forensic evidence from the scene would bind him hand and foot. A decent amount of cocaine seized from his bathroom offered a clue to his state of mind. The only remaining puzzle was motive. Do you really batter someone to death because they’ve decided to replace you on the series with someone younger? And, even more bizarre, do you have to do it twice? Helping yourself was one thing, greed on this scale quite another.
Faraday waited for Willard to finish. From the darkened car he could see the bulk of the Boniface Nursing Home across the road beyond a thick laurel hedge. There were lights on upstairs. A couple of minutes ago a young carer had hurried away down the road, her shift evidently over.
‘So how did the boat go?’ Willard had returned to planet Earth.
‘It didn’t.’
Faraday briefly took him through the events at Bembridge Harbour. The SOC swabs had already gone off for analysis but even the DS in charge admitted that Pelly might well be right. The tests simply registered the presence of certain proteins. It would be days before they knew whether they were human or not.
‘And you’re thinking … ?’ Willard must have stepped out of the celebrations. The laughter in the background had gone.
‘I’m thinking it’s fish. Pelly didn’t turn a hair all afternoon. No man has blood pressure that low. Not if he’d had a body on board.’
‘So what now?’
Faraday itemised the steps he wanted to take. Number one, a second post-mortem. Number two, more hands to the pump.
‘How many?’
‘Half a dozen at least. We’ve started a number of LOEs but we need to nail them down. Take Unwin for starters. We haven’t a clue where the guy might be and the only sensible thing to do is blitz it.’
‘You want to use the MIR at Ryde?’ LOEs meant Lines Of Enquiry.
‘Yes.’
‘Full HOLMES?’
‘I’ll let you know tomorrow, sir.’
HOLMES was the computer software that had freed complex investigations from a mountain of paperwork.
‘So what makes you so sure you’re on to something?’
‘Because Pelly had another boat before the one he’s got now. I talked to the harbour master about an hour ago. We’ve got to harden this up but he thinks the boat was on the mooring until around October time. Then it disappeared.’
‘And Pelly?’
‘We’re about to tackle him. He left the scene last thing this afternoon. As far as I know, he’s back here at the home.’
‘And the woman? His wife?’
‘Her, too. Separate interview.’
‘Good. And not before bloody time.’
Willard was back with the revellers. Faraday looked at the phone a moment, then ended the conversation in disgust. Tracy Barber stirred beside him. She’d come over for the interviews. Her day in the Major Crime Suite at Kingston Crescent had taken them no closer to Chris Unwin.
‘They’re buzzing on the Newbridge job,’ she said wistfully. ‘Wall-to-wall champagne. Do you lot always push the boat out like that?’
Faraday didn’t answer her. He was staring at the house across the road, thinking of Pelly in the car. He knew all the time, he thought. And just let us make fools of ourselves.
According to the woman at the door, Mr Pelly wasn’t in. Wednesday nights he normally went over to Ventnor on business. Should be back within a couple of hours. Faraday asked for Mrs Pelly. Said it was important.
‘Lajla?’
‘That’s her.’
The woman disappeared. An elderly resident drifted down the hall towards them, a thin, stooped figure in a threadbare cardigan. Spotting something in the open doorway, she shaded her eyes, gave them a bewildered smile and a little wave, then came the shuffle of her slippered feet and the clack-clack of the Zimmer frame on the bare lino as she changed course and disappeared.
Moments later another figure appeared, hurrying towards them, barefoot, much younger, slight, black jeans and a dark T-shirt. She stepped into the spill of light from the carriage lamp above the door. She had a narrow face, sallow complexion, wonderful bone structure, but it was her eyes that compelled attention. They were a vivid green, flicking quickly from one face to another. Morgan was right, Faraday thought. This was someone you’d enjoy getting to know.
‘Mrs Pelly?’
‘That’s right.’
Faraday introduced himself, showed her his warrant card. Tracy Barber nodded a greeting.
‘You’re police?’ The word carried a heavy foreign inflection. She looked instantly alarmed.
Faraday did his best to soften the moment with a smile. Lajla asked what they wanted. It was her busy time. She had food on the stove. Her daughter was doing her homework.
‘I’m afraid it’s important. We won’t stay longer than we have to.’
She looked at them a moment, those big green eyes, then shrugged and invited them in. She lived at the back. They were to follow he
r. Faraday and Barber retraced their steps past Pelly’s office. The door was open, the light off. A corridor beyond it echoed to Faraday’s footsteps. Lajla had paused in front of a door at the end. Faraday could hear pop music, suddenly louder as Lajla opened the door, and then a whispered conversation in a language he didn’t recognise. The music stopped. Lajla glanced over her shoulder.
‘Moment, please.’ She forced a smile. ‘My daughter.’
She disappeared through the door, then the music began again, less loudly. A minute or so later Lajla was back in the corridor, telling them to come in.
The flat was bigger than Faraday had expected. A spacious living room lay at the heart of it. There were smells of cooking through an open door on the far side and a table beside the window had been laid for two. The window was curtained, a blue fabric with a subtle grey pattern, and this colour scheme was echoed in the sofa and single armchair. The walls looked newly painted, a shade of cream that reminded Faraday of Eadie’s bedroom, and the carpet underfoot was spotless. After the dowdiness of the rest of the home, the flat came as a surprise. Take a photo of this room, Faraday thought, and you’d be looking at a shot from a style magazine.
Lajla asked them to sit down. A blonde girl had appeared at the other open door. Faraday recognised her face from their first visit to the home.
‘This is your daughter?’
‘Fida? Yes. Please … come and say hello.’
The girl did what she was told. The touch of her hand was icy cold. Tracy Barber gave her a smile. She didn’t smile back.
‘We’re sorry about your tea.’ Barber nodded at the table. ‘We won’t be here long.’
The girl looked at her, didn’t say a word.
‘You’ve got homework?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lots of it?’
‘No.’
Lajla interrupted, told her daughter they’d be busy for a while. The girl nodded, obviously reluctant to leave, then finally turned on her heel and disappeared into the room across from the kitchen. Faraday glimpsed a big double bed before the door banged shut.
‘How can I help you?’ Lajla had taken a seat at the table, preserving a space between them. She sat bolt upright, perfect posture, her arms folded over her chest.
Faraday began by asking her where she came from.
‘Bosnia. I’m Bosnian.’
‘Have you been here long?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
‘Since 1993. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s just routine, Mrs Pelly. Getting the facts straight. Were you married to Mr Pelly when you came here? Or was that something that happened afterwards?’
‘Afterwards.’
‘When?’
‘1994. The next year.’
‘And your daughter? Fida?’ Faraday nodded towards the bedroom door. ‘Mr Pelly is her father?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know why you ask these questions.’
Tracy Barber was studying her notebook. It was obvious that Lajla was extremely nervous about this sudden intrusion into her life and, like Faraday, Barber was curious to know why. The temperature in the room seemed suddenly to have plunged. She felt like someone who’d brought the worst possible news.
‘We’ve received some information …’ she began. ‘And we have to make some inquiries. It may be that you can help us. We’d be glad if you could.’ Lajla nodded, said nothing. ‘You have a resident here called Mrs Unwin. Is that right?’
‘Mary.’ Lajla nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Has she been here long?’
‘A long time, yes. Lovely lady. Important.’
‘Important?’
‘From a good family. How do you say? Proper?’
Barber made a note of the word, amused, then looked up again.
‘Mrs Unwin has a grandson, Chris. Am I right?’
‘Chris, yes.’
‘He comes and sees Mrs Unwin. He comes in a van, a white van. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he like, Chris Unwin?’
The question seemed to throw Lajla. Faraday was watching her carefully. She frowned, relaxed a little, then she began to finger a fleck of something on the tablecloth.
‘He’s –’ she shrugged ‘– a young boy, my age maybe. He comes like you say for Mary, only he calls her Belle. What’s he like? He’s OK. He smiles a lot, brings her presents, us too sometimes. He’s nice. We all like him.’
‘He comes often?’
‘Not so often. He comes when –’ she brushed the fleck away ‘– he can.’
‘When did you last see him?’
She looked up. The question had come from Faraday. She said she couldn’t remember. A long time ago.
‘Before Christmas?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that strange?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Did he normally come at Christmas? Did he come last Christmas and the Christmas before?’
‘Of course, like I say, with presents.’
‘But this Christmas he didn’t?’
‘No.’
‘Did that make you wonder why not? Why he didn’t come?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Christmas is very busy. We get children up from the school, from Fida’s school. They sing to the old people. We have cakes and the children dance. We have a tree, too. We make it very nice.’ She risked a small smile. ‘Very special.’
‘I’m sure you do, Mrs Pelly. I’m just trying to ask you about Chris Unwin.’
‘You think something’s happened to him? Is that why you’re here?’
‘We don’t know. It’s possible.’ Faraday gestured at the space between them. ‘That’s why we have to try and find out.’
She nodded, looking down at the tablecloth. Her arms were folded again. Tracy Barber had spotted the bedroom door. A tiny crack had opened. She caught Faraday’s attention, her eyes flicking left to the door.
Faraday nodded, adjusting his weight in the chair. Like everything else in the room it felt new.
‘Do you know a local man, Gary Morgan?’
Mention of the name brought colour to Lajla’s face.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘What do you mean, not really? Have you ever met him? Is he known to you?’
‘Yes. We …’ She studied her fingernails, refusing to go on.
‘We what?’
‘We … nothing. I met him a couple of times. It was wrong. I …’ She tipped her head back, looked up at the ceiling, pursed her lips, then shook her head. Whatever line of questioning she’d been dreading, it wasn’t this. ‘He came to the home sometimes. He knew one of the girls. We talked. He was nice. He said he had some Turkish friends. Maybe I’d like to meet them.’
‘And did you?’
‘I tried. I went down to the pub. There were no Turkish friends.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. He said they didn’t come. Not that night.’
‘You tried again?’
‘Once. My husband was very angry. We were in the pub again. He took Gary outside …’ She turned her head away, evidently distressed.
Barber was watching her carefully.
‘Is your husband a violent man, Mrs Pelly?’ she asked at last.
‘Only sometimes. Then he was. Outside the pub.’
‘What about here? In the home?’
‘Never. He’s never touched me. He wouldn’t.’
‘What about other people.’
‘Other people? I don’t understand.’
‘Gary Morgan says you told him about a row, a fight, between your husband and Chris Unwin. Do you remember telling him that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it true?’
‘Yes. There was no fight. Just a row. Rob was very angry.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Yes. Chris said that some of the carers, some of our girls, were being cruel to Mary. It wasn’
t true. Mary, she makes these things up. She makes everything up. She’s like a child. She likes the attention. It’s a game.’
‘And Chris Unwin didn’t understand that?’
‘No. He said he was going to complain. Get the inspectors in. Rob told him to take Mary away, find somewhere else for her if it was that bad. They were shouting at each other. It upset lots of us. I made them stop.’
‘And that was it? Finished?’
‘Of course.’ She seemed surprised by the question.
‘Your husband didn’t talk about it afterwards?’
‘No. It was nothing. Nothing to talk about.’
‘Is Mary still here?’
‘Of course.’
‘And Chris? Her grandson?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s scared to come back.’
‘Why would he be scared?’
‘Some men are like that. My husband … he can make people afraid. It’s nothing, nothing serious, but we do our best for our old people, we really do, and Chris was wrong to say the things he did. He should trust us more.’
Faraday was watching the bedroom door. The crack, if anything, had got bigger and he could just make out the shape of Lajla’s daughter inside, stock-still, listening to every word.
At length he turned back to Lajla.
‘Gary Morgan says your husband beat him up. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is your husband a jealous man?’
‘Jealous?’
‘Does he hate you being with other men?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Always.’
‘Why?’
Her head tipped back again and her eyes closed, and watching her body begin to rock back and forth in the chair Faraday knew he wasn’t going to get a reply. Then he heard footsteps coming down the corridor, louder and louder, someone in a hurry. The door burst open. Pelly.
‘What the fuck is this?’ He kicked the door shut behind him with his heel.
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