Blood And Honey

by Hurley, Graham

‘Really?’

  She wanted the details but Webster shook his head. He was after a grey Peugeot, diesel engine. HN registration.

  ‘That’d be Scottie.’

  ‘Ran a fare up to Boniface? The nursing home? Round eleven this morning?’

  ‘That’s him.’ The girl was consulting a log. ‘Fare rang in from the station at ten forty-eight. Couldn’t find a cab for love nor money. Scott took her back to the station afterwards.’

  ‘You’ve got a name.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The girl ran her finger across the log. ‘Unwin.’

  Darren threw a look at Tracy Barber. Scottie, it turned out, was having a late lunch. The girl suggested they try Munchies Café on the seafront. Scott had a thing going with the woman who ran it and ate there most days.

  It was a five-minute walk to Munchies. Barber counted the number of times Darren Webster met people he evidently knew. By the time they were in sight of the café, she’d concluded he was on nodding terms with half the island.

  ‘Are you enjoying this? Congress, I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, I am. It’s not what I expected but –’ he gave a passing motorcyclist a wave ‘– yeah.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘I thought there’d be more scope, you know, for doing stuff. On division you’re on your jack. The boss hands out a list of jobs and off you go. This is different. Four, five actions a day? And no real idea how any of it fits together?’

  ‘Maybe it doesn’t.’ Barber laughed.

  ‘Yeah.’ Webster had spotted Scottie in the window of the cafe. ‘That had occurred to me, too.’

  Scottie was a big man in his late twenties. An old rugby shirt stretched tight across his belly and he badly needed a shave. In a couple of years, thought Barber, he’ll look twice his age.

  Webster slipped into the chair across the table. Barber joined him. Scottie was chasing a curl of bacon rind with his knife. Webster did the introductions. Evidently he knew Scottie well.

  ‘Copper too, are you?’ Scottie eyed Barber. He had a lilting Welsh accent.

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘Fantastic overtime, the boyo here says.’ He stabbed a fork in Webster’s direction. ‘Wouldn’t mind a drop of that myself.’

  Webster wanted to know about the fare Scottie had picked up from the station.

  ‘Professional interest, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Webster wouldn’t say. Scottie folded a slice of bread and began to mop up the last of the egg yolk. A woman even bigger than himself was watching them all from the other side of the counter.

  ‘Fare was a nice enough lady,’ Scottie said at last. ‘Just come down from London. Her mum died, see, and she had to pick up some bits and pieces. Amazing how often that happens. Relatives over for the leavings.’

  ‘Was anyone with her?’

  ‘Yeah, younger lad.’

  ‘Get a name at all?’

  ‘No. He didn’t say much.’

  ‘What about when you were waiting outside the home? Didn’t Pelly come out? Have a chat?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, he did.’ Scottie had abandoned the bread. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Just tell us what they said.’

  ‘Can’t remember, tell you the truth. I had the radio on by then. Just gossip, it was.’

  ‘They knew each other?’

  ‘I’d say so. Friendly enough, yeah.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘I drove them both back to the station. They weren’t going home, mind, not to the mainland. They’d booked a room somewhere in Ryde, the pair of them. I got the impression the old girl wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow.’

  ‘Old girl?’

  ‘The deceased. She’s at some undertaker’s in Newport, getting the treatment. They wanted to pay their respects, like, while they’ve still got the chance. Nice to hear that, these days—’ he signalled the woman behind the counter for coffee ‘– eh?’

  By the time Winter made it back to Bedhampton, he was on the point of collapse. Cheered by the sight of a light in the bungalow, he parked the Subaru and sat behind the wheel for a moment, mustering the strength to make it to the front door. For a moment or two he toyed with giving Maddox a ring on her mobile but decided that there had to be limits to this new dependence of his. He wasn’t quite that helpless. Not yet.

  She was sitting in the kitchen, rolling a joint.

  ‘These are for you.’ She nodded at the pile of doobies beside the kettle. ‘Strictly medicinal. I thought they might help.’

  She looked up at him. The light was dim in the kitchen, one of Joannie’s forty-watt bulbs, and it was only when he swayed towards her, reaching for support, that she realised the state he was in. Seconds later she was making him comfortable on the sofa next door.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I thought you went to the doctor?’

  Winter shook his head. He’d been to London. Asked around.

  ‘Asked who? Asked what?’

  Slowly, Winter let the story spill out. He’d been following the wrong leads. He’d assumed a professional hit, a contract, a buffer between Wishart and the Nigerian charmer who’d somehow pissed him off, but all the time he’d been wrong. Wishart hadn’t put a contract out at all. No, he’d done the fucking job himself.

  ‘You can prove that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I haven’t got the evidence. I’ve got some old slapper up in Port Solent who was shagging the black guy. I’ve got her word that chummy was getting spooked by someone in a black four by four. And I’ve got Wishart binning his wife’s Shogun within days. Was it black? Yes. Did he hose every last particle of DNA off it? Stands to fucking reason. But a file like that wouldn’t even make it to the CPS. Let alone court.’

  Maddox wanted to know about the CPS. Winter told her. Crown Prosecution Service. First of umpteen fences a successful operation had to hurdle. Plover, he concluded wearily, hadn’t got a prayer.

  ‘Plover?’

  ‘Us. This. You. Wishart. Me.’

  He lay back and closed his eyes. He seemed to have gone beyond the headaches, beyond the strange hallucinatory bubbles that curtained his vision, beyond any expectation that he might – one day – restore some kind of order to his life. All that was left, he told himself, was this small moment in time: Joannie’s worn cushions beneath his bum and Maddox cross-legged beside him on the carpet, her face inches from his.

  ‘They phoned,’ she whispered at last.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The consultant.’ She frowned. ‘Frazer?’

  Winter nodded. His hand found hers. He didn’t want to know any more.

  With the Congress team depleted, the office in the Ryde MIR that served as a base for the inquiry’s DCs was virtually empty. Darren Webster found himself a desk in the corner, hunted out a copy of Yellow Pages, and went to work.

  His first call found the senior technician at the mortuary still in his office. Webster, who’d attended a number of post-mortems at St Mary’s, wanted to know about a Mrs Mary Unwin. Her body had been shipped across from a nursing home in Shanklin a couple of days ago. The Home Office pathologist had completed his investigation within twenty-four hours. Where was she now?

  ‘Gone.’ The technician named an undertaker’s in Newport. ‘They collected her this afternoon.’

  ‘Got the number there?’

  ‘No problem.’

  The undertaker’s, too, were still at work. Young Mary was being prepared to receive visitors. The appointments book indicated a viewing in the Chapel of Rest at noon tomorrow. Name of Unwin.

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘One, as far I can gather. The daughter, we think. She wants to discuss arrangements for the funeral.’

  Webster scribbled himself a note and turned to Yellow Pages. From ‘Guest Houses, Hotels and Inns’ he began to extract every accommodation address in Ryde, listing the names and numb
ers on a pad at his elbow. By the time he’d finished, he had twenty-eight. Call by call, he worked slowly down the list – always the same introduction, always the same question.

  The seventeenth call went to a guest house a stone’s throw from the police station.

  ‘Ryde Haven Hotel. How can I help?’

  ‘My name’s Detective Constable Webster. I’m trying to trace a guest. Do you have a Mrs Unwin registered?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll find out.’

  Webster doodled on the bottom corner of the pad, waiting for a reply. The doodle, a series of cartoony hang-gliders, was beginning to spiral up towards his scribbled notes.

  The receptionist was back. ‘Mrs E. Unwin?’

  ‘That’s her. Is there anyone else sharing the room?’

  ‘Not sharing, no. He’s got a room of his own.’

  ‘He? Do you have a name?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Another wait. This time Webster left the doodle alone. Finally she picked up the phone again.

  ‘Looks like Chris to me,’ she said. ‘Though the writing’s terrible.’

  ‘Chris who?’

  ‘Chris Unwin.’

  Webster thanked the receptionist and asked her to keep the call confidential. Then he put the phone down, sitting motionless, staring at the wall. Minutes later Tracy Barber put her head round the door.

  ‘Boss wants to see you,’ she said. ‘Sharpish.’

  Webster got up and hooked his jacket off the back of the chair.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, grinning.

  Twenty-two

  Tuesday, 2 March 2004

  Faraday wanted to be sure. And more than that, before they moved to pull Unwin in, he wanted to plot exactly how they could extract the maximum value from this sudden windfall.

  He’d convened an impromptu conference in the squad room used by the DCs. Dave Michaels was jubilant, Brian Imber less so, DS Pete Baker bemused. How come they’d spent two weeks attaching the wrong name to the body at the foot of the cliff? How come they’d fallen for a pattern of circumstantial evidence that had proved – in the end – so worthless?

  A street map of Ryde lay on the table between them. The Ryde Haven Hotel was on one of the roads that climbed the hill from the seafront. A second call to the receptionist had established that both Mrs Unwin and her son were in their respective rooms. Faraday had dispatched Tracy Barber and Darren Webster, plus two other DCs, and they were covering both exits from the hotel. If mother and son left the hotel, they were to be detained.

  Imber, ever the pragmatist, was unconvinced.

  ‘We’re going to arrest them?’

  ‘Unwin, certainly. Unless he agrees to come down voluntarily.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Suspicion of murder.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?’

  Dave Michaels broke in.

  ‘The boss is right,’ he said. ‘We’ve been looking up the wrong alley. This is the first real break we’ve had. What if the guy declines our little invitation? Says he wants a night in with Eastenders? He’s been tight with Pelly. We’ve got the cabbie’s word on that. He’s gone AWOL since Pelly binned the boat. Since Pelly got rid of the Volvo. Since Pelly got out the emulsion and painted every bloody thing that moved. And why didn’t he ring in when his mum told him we were looking for him? She must have mentioned it. You really think all that’s a coincidence?’

  Imber had had enough of coincidence. It was coincidence, he pointed out, that had suggested a link between Pelly and the body at the bottom of the cliff. And it was coincidence, for that matter, that had put Unwin’s name in the frame. Wasn’t it about time that Congress started dealing in fact?

  Faraday wasn’t having it. In every investigation there came a point when you had to bite the bullet. Unwin, he was convinced, was key to whatever had happened back in October. No one had a clue where he’d been. No one knew why he’d so suddenly disappeared. Now, thanks to the sudden death of his precious nan, he was just round the corner. The man was there for the taking. Was Imber seriously suggesting they pass up this invitation?

  ‘Disappearing isn’t a crime,’ Imber pointed out.

  ‘Of course it isn’t. But playing this by the book would be criminal. And I mean that.’

  Michaels threw his head back and laughed. He loved the word ‘criminal’.

  ‘Sean Castle.’ Imber was looking thoughtful. ‘That night he chartered his boat to Pelly … what did he have to say about whoever took the Tidemaster to sea?’

  ‘He said it was a young guy, tall.’ It was Faraday. ‘He didn’t get a proper look but a description like that would definitely fit Unwin.’

  ‘Or a thousand other blokes.’

  ‘Sure. But who else have we turned up that might have had any connection to Pelly? The man’s a loner, Brian. He doesn’t have friends. He’s not that type. Unwin was as close as anyone got to him. If you were Pelly and you suddenly had a big problem, something you couldn’t sort on your own, who else would you rope in?’

  Imber nodded. It made sense, he agreed.

  ‘So we’re sticking with Pelly?’ he asked. ‘We’re really saying he killed someone? And that someone turned up at the bottom of the cliff? Four months later?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK.’ He leaned back. ‘So who was that someone?’

  Faraday himself went to the hotel, taking Dave Michaels with him. Tracy Barber and Darren Webster were parked up across the road. Faraday paused beside the unmarked Fiesta, bent to the window. He knew he owed them both.

  ‘Nice one.’ He smiled.

  The Ryde Haven was a substantial Edwardian building disfigured by fire escapes and an ugly neon sign that promised en suite and TV in every room. A UPVC conservatory at the front served as an extension to the lounge bar and Faraday lingered a moment on the steps, wondering how full the hotel might be. Dave Michaels stepped past him and opened the door.

  ‘This way, guvnor.’

  The girl behind the tiny reception desk was plainly expecting them. The Unwins were up on the third floor, Rooms 32 and 33. She’d sent a pint of Carling up to Room 33 maybe an hour ago but hadn’t heard a peep since.

  Faraday thanked her for her help and headed for the stairs. Room 33 lay at the end of a low-ceilinged corridor at the top of the house. Faraday could hear the blare of a television from the top of the stairs. Passing room 32, he told Michaels to wait. If Mrs Unwin emerged, hang on to her.

  Outside Room 33 Faraday paused. From the TV came the wail of a police siren, then a series of shots. Faraday knocked on the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again, tried the handle, but it was locked. Finally, at the third knock, the volume dipped on the TV and he heard the pad of footsteps. Moments later the door opened. Unwin was taller than Faraday had expected from the photo. Jeans, T-shirt, mop of blond hair, silver earring. Beyond him, propped on the bed against a nest of pillows, was his mother.

  ‘Detective Inspector Faraday.’ Faraday offered his warrant card. ‘Your name, sir?’

  Unwin stared at him a moment. His mother was up on one elbow. She looked startled. She wanted to know what was going on. Faraday glanced back towards Michaels, gestured him into the room.

  Unwin was backing towards the television, barefoot on the pink carpet.

  ‘Turn it off, please.’ Faraday nodded at the TV.

  ‘Mum?’

  Mrs Unwin had the remote. Silence flooded the room. By now she’d recognised Faraday. She looked at him for a long moment. Since they’d met at the Lewisham Health Centre, she’d coloured her hair.

  ‘What is this?’ she said again.

  ‘It’s nothing, Mum.’ Unwin appeared to have recovered his wits. ‘I can explain.’

  ‘Explain what?’

  He had no answer. Faraday asked him again for his name. When he confirmed that he was Chris Unwin, Faraday asked whether he was prepared to return with him to the police station. Unwin shook his head.

  ‘No fucking way.’

/>   His mother was sitting on the edge of the bed now, staring up at her son.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘Why doesn’t someone tell me?’

  Unwin was eyeing the door. Faraday heard Michaels shifting position behind him. A bolt for the stairs, thought Faraday, might solve a lot of problems. Finally, Unwin decided against it.

  ‘I don’t have to come,’ he said. ‘You can’t make me.’

  Faraday knew already that his instincts hadn’t let him down. In these situations it wasn’t difficult to recognise guilt. Unwin had a great deal he didn’t want to talk about, least of all in front of his mother.

  Faraday stepped towards him. Unwin stiffened, a frightened man expecting the worst.

  ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Murder? What do you mean, murder?’ Unwin’s mother was on her feet. ‘This is outrageous. You can’t just barge in like this. Murder? What are you talking about?’

  Michaels stepped past Faraday. Unwin offered no resistance to the handcuffs. Mrs Unwin watched her departing son, unable to believe her eyes. One moment she’d been drifting off on the bed. Now this.

  ‘You might like to come down as well, Mrs Unwin.’

  ‘Are you arresting me too?’

  ‘No, but your son might need –’ Faraday offered her a wintry smile ‘– a little support.’

  Back at the police station Faraday had already settled on an interview strategy. He wanted Dave Michaels and Tracy Barber in with Unwin. It would be at least an hour before they could sort out a brief for him, longer if Unwin insisted on shipping over a Pompey solicitor, but that would still leave time for a worthwhile session before PACE rules returned Unwin to his cell.

  His mother, meanwhile, was still sitting on one of the benches downstairs beside the front desk. Prudence argued for a WPC to keep an eye on her but in Faraday’s judgement that wouldn’t be necessary. Mrs Unwin, like any mother would be, was appalled at this bombshell. The last thing she’d do was a runner.

  ‘Let’s get her in.’ Faraday was still with Tracy Barber. ‘See what she’s got to say before we start with the lad.’

  Half an hour on her own had quietened Mrs Unwin. The shock and outrage appeared to have gone. Instead, she was wary, watchful. When Faraday appeared at the front desk and suggested they have a chat, she got to her feet and nodded.