No Lovelier Death

by Hurley, Graham

  Faraday made a note. The pull on the M27, he thought.

  He looked up. ‘You were having coffee …’

  ‘Yes. That’s when Matt told me he wanted him and Rach to get it on again. He was really wound up about it. He said she was the best thing that had ever happened to him and next time he wouldn’t … you know … mess it up.’

  ‘He thought there’d be a next time?’

  ‘Definitely. But that’s Matt. He makes things happen.’

  Makes things happen. Faraday leaned back in his chair, gazed up at the ceiling.

  ‘Let’s go back to the party. Rachel got the place sorted before everyone arrived?’

  ‘We both did. Gareth helped. We locked the bedrooms upstairs, put little notices on the doors, hid stuff we didn’t want to leave lying around.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  ‘Family bits and pieces, games consoles. Rach’s dad’s a bit of a wine expert. He had crates and crates of really expensive stuff downstairs in the cellar. Gareth went and bought a padlock and put it on the door at the top of the cellar stairs.’

  ‘Who were you worried about?’

  ‘No one in particular. No one we really knew. But any party you sometimes get walk-ins off the street. It’s best to be careful, especially in a house like that.’

  ‘But you’d no idea so many people … ?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  The party, she said, had kicked off around nine. Friends had wandered in from Southsea Common. Most of them had been drinking since six or seven. It was a warm night.

  ‘You’re telling me they were drunk?’

  ‘Happy. Gareth had made a kind of punch thing with lots of fruit and stuff in it and we had a couple of crates of WKD. Some lads from the rugby team turned up. Three of them had cases of Stella. It was cool. No trouble. Good vibe.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Like I said, it was fine to begin with. One of the rugby guys had brought some laughing gas and a bunch of balloons. We were just fooling around. Then Matt turned up.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. Maybe around ten. Maybe a bit earlier.’

  ‘He was by himself?’

  ‘No. He had some other guys with him - friends, I guess. None of us had a clue who they were.’

  ‘What kind of guys?’

  ‘Chavs. Definitely. Maybe St Mark’s boys. I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Not your sort, then? Or Rachel’s?’

  ‘No … but there was no hassle, no trouble, not at that point. One of them had even brought some cans of Carling. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen. I remember he wished Gareth a happy birthday.’

  ‘It was his birthday?’

  ‘Not at all. The kid was pissed. Not stroppy. Just … you know … stupid. Pretty much like everyone else was. A situation like that, you just hope it stays cool.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘No. More kids turned up. Then more and more. I knew it was getting out of hand but there didn’t seem much I could do about it. I tried to lock and bolt the front door at one point, just to stop more people coming in, but as soon as I did that someone else came along from inside and unlocked it again. To be honest, it was quite scary. We’d completely lost control.’

  ‘What about the rugby lads?’

  ‘A couple of them tried to sort it out. They asked the older ones to leave and take the younger kids with them. That was pretty hopeless because they just got a mouthful back. Some of these people were vile. At one point it was pretty obvious there was going to be a fight but I managed to calm things down.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about Rachel?’

  ‘She was out of her head. She must have been drinking most of the day. When she saw what was happening she just seemed to lose it. Vodka, mainly. With lemonade.’

  The first sign of real trouble, she said, was a bunch of guys she didn’t know doing lines of coke on the upstairs landing.

  ‘It turned out there was a dealer with them. They called him Danny.

  I don’t know whether it was his real name or not but apparently he was practically giving the stuff away. They couldn’t get enough of it. I tried to tell Gareth but he was pretty pissed too. When he finally cottoned on he made me promise I wouldn’t call the police. He was really worried about Rach’s dad finding out. He was sure Rach would get the blame.’

  By now, she said, the house was full of strangers. That’s when it really kicked off.

  ‘I heard this terrible yelling. Then a stamping noise and the sound of breaking glass. Rach heard it too. Her dad’s study’s up on the first floor. I was sure we’d locked it but someone had kicked the door in. Her dad’s got a big leather-covered desk and some of these kids were dancing on it. They’d piled all the family photos they could find on the desk, nice shots in frames, and they were just trashing them. There was a girl on the desk too. She was the one who told the kids to … you know …’ She gestured at her lap.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Piss. Piss all over them.’

  ‘And they did?’

  ‘Yes. Right in front of us. Rachel just freaked. You can imagine. I don’t think she really grasped what was happening. She did her best to stop them but they just laughed at her. Told her to fuck off. That’s when Matt appeared.’

  Matt, she said, had taken charge. The kids seemed to know him. When it got difficult he just started hauling them off, one by one. A couple of them tried to have a go at him but he just threw them into the hall. Then he took Rach off.

  ‘Where to?’

  Once again Faraday sensed reluctance. He repeated the question. Finally, she shrugged. ‘The bathroom.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think he tried to get some sense into her. When I next saw her, there was water on her T-shirt and she seemed to have sobered up a bit.’

  Faraday glanced across at Suttle.

  ‘Were they in there a long time?’ Suttle asked.

  ‘Quite a long time.’

  ‘And was the door locked?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Because I expect you tried it.’

  Sam stared at Suttle for a long moment.

  Then she nodded. ‘I did.’

  ‘And was it locked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  She wouldn’t answer. Suttle was looking at Faraday.

  ‘What happened after that?’ Faraday asked. ‘Did you talk to her at all?’

  ‘Yes. Just to ask if she was OK. She said she was. She said that Matt had been … you know … brilliant.’

  ‘And her boyfriend? Gareth? Where was he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It was just chaos by now. Kids everywhere. One of them had a paint aerosol. Black. He was tagging with it. It was everywhere, all over the place - the walls, the panelling, the doors, everywhere. Rachel’s dad had some oil paintings. It was unbelievable what they were doing.’

  ‘And still no one said anything? Tried to stop them?’

  ‘No. It’s hard to explain. Most people were off their faces. Friends of ours. The chavs. Matt’s mates. People didn’t care any more. You could see it in their faces. People you thought you knew, people you thought you could trust, they looked like strangers, they were strangers. It was weird. It’s really, really hard to explain.’

  ‘What about you? How did you feel?’

  ‘I was frightened.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of everything. It was just … totally alien, totally strange. You feel … I dunno … helpless. There’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘You could have phoned us.’

  ‘I thought about that. But then you’d have busted us all. And Gareth was right. Rach would have got the blame. She got on OK with her dad but I knew he could be really strict.’

  ‘So you did nothing?’

  ‘I tried to calm things down, tried to keep a lid on things.’

 
; ‘And no sign of Rachel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gareth?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  By this time, she said, it was way past midnight. That’s when the guy next door had appeared. She’d met him a couple of times before when she’d been round at Rachel’s place. According to Rachel, he’d been a bit of a bad boy but made loads of money. He had a nice wife who was friends with Rachel’s mum.

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘He tried to sort a couple of the chavs out. He could see exactly what was going on. If you want the truth, I thought he was incredibly brave, doing what he did. He just picked on the biggest ones and set about them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was hopeless really. There were just too many of them. They got him on the floor, started kicking him. One of them had a bottle. I think it smashed. There was blood all down his face. All the girls were screaming. Just totally manic. That’s when I next saw Matt.’

  Matt, she said, dragged some of the kids off. Then he got the neighbour out of the house. After that, she wasn’t sure what happened.

  Faraday was trying to establish a timeline. Marie’s treble nine had been logged at 12.39. The force control room had put out a priority alert to units in Portsmouth. Marie had sent her wounded husband back home and then waited in the street for the police. The first of the attending units had logged their arrival time at 12.51. Minutes later, alerted by Marie, they were gazing down at the bodies beside Mackenzie’s pool.

  Faraday was looking at Sam.

  ‘Let’s go back to the last time you saw Rachel,’ he began. ‘I know it’s difficult. I know everything was kicking off. We’re not holding you down to an exact time. But roughly when do you think that might have been?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Try, Sam, just try.’

  ‘It’s hard. Stuff like that, you just …’ She ducked her head, knotted her hands in her lap.

  Suttle reached across, put a hand a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘An hour?’ he suggested.

  She shook her head, blew her nose.

  ‘Longer?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Much longer?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’ Her head came up. Her eyes were shiny with tears. ‘This is really important, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is.’ Faraday again.

  ‘Then I’m really, really sorry.’ Her hand opened and closed around the ball of Kleenex. ‘I’m pretty useless really, aren’t I?’

  Winter had an address and phone number for Matt Berriman within minutes of Mackenzie’s departure from Gunwharf. Bazza had named a couple of likely streets in Somerstown and Winter’s call to 118118 had done the rest.

  Margate Road was a shallow curve of terraced houses close to the heart of the area. One end of the street had become home for aspirant families with a bit of money to spend on window boxes and a shiny brass knocker for the new front door. The rest of the properties had been swamped by students, Asians and troubled loners fleeing the usual army of demons.

  Matt Berriman’s mum had invested in a nice display of fuschias. Winter stepped out of his Lexus to find her perched on a pair of wooden steps, watering her hanging basket.

  ‘Mrs Berriman?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘The name’s Paul Winter. Friend of a friend.’

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘Friend of your boy’s.’

  ‘Matt?’ She glanced down at him. ‘A guy your age?’

  She was a tall woman, striking, with a mop of greying curls. She wore a faded kaftan and her feet were bare on the wooden steps. A single silver ring adorned a middle toe.

  When Winter asked whether Matt was at home, she shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know where?’

  ‘No idea. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.’ She had a flat London accent. ‘In trouble is he?’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  She looked down at him, amused, not answering. Then she handed Winter the watering can and stepped onto the square of tiled path that led to the open front door.

  ‘Come in. I’ve got something on the stove.’

  Winter followed her into the gloom of the narrow hall. He could smell joss sticks, heavy and sweet. Ahead, stairs led to the top of the house. From above came the sound of a radio, some kind of sports commentary. Cricket, Winter thought. Maybe the husband.

  The kitchen-diner lay at the back of the house. The units looked new and the far corner was dominated by a huge fridge-freezer. A jam jar beside the sink was full of artist’s brushes and something white was bubbling in a big saucepan on the ceramic hob. She gave it a poke with a wooden spoon and turned the heat down.

  ‘Nappies,’ she said briefly.

  Nappies? Winter was inspecting the display of photos on the shelves opposite the window. They were mounted in plastic frames, wedged haphazardly between recipe books, assorted crockery and jars of spices. The same young face, the same broad grin.

  ‘This is Matt?’ Winter nodded at one of the photos.

  ‘You should know.’

  ‘I said friend of a friend. Me?’ Winter offered her an easy smile.

  ‘Never had the pleasure, Mrs Berriman.’

  She didn’t believe him. He could see it in her eyes. From upstairs, he heard the thump-thump of footsteps.

  ‘You’re a cop, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you get a nose for it in the end. No one’s as nice as they look. Do you ever find that, in your line of business?’

  Winter blinked. No one sussed him this quickly.

  ‘I’m not a cop, Mrs Berriman.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘I used to be. But not now.’

  ‘Retired?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Private then? Some kind of special cop?’

  Winter grinned this time. Some kind of special cop. He liked that.

  Mrs Berriman had folded her arms. ‘So who’s this friend? Or aren’t I supposed to know?’

  ‘His name’s Mackenzie.’

  ‘Baz?’ The smile was genuine. ‘I haven’t seen him for years.’

  ‘But you knew him?’

  ‘I did. Of course I did. He could be a very bad boy if you crossed him but he could be a brick if you really needed something.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I really needed something.’

  Winter looked at her, wanting more, but she shook her head. Winter nodded at the photos. A couple of times over the last year he’d taken his doctor’s advice and risked a length or two at the Victoria Baths. He recognised the tall windows at the deep end, the view down from the tiered seating.

  ‘Bit of a swimmer is he, your boy?’

  ‘Used to be. He was good too. In fact he was better than good. What’s this about? Do you mind me asking?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s about Rachel Ault.’

  ‘Rachel?’ She seemed to sense bad news. ‘What about her?’

  ‘You haven’t heard?’

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  Winter was about to explain when the footsteps, heavier now, clumped down the hall behind him. The boy must have been sixteen stone, maybe more. He was wearing a grey shell suit with a pair of blue slippers. Winter found it difficult to guess his age but he’d barely started shaving and there was a tuft of cotton wool beneath his button of a nose. The huge head seemed to wobble on his shoulders and he had his arms wrapped around his chest as if he was trying to parcel himself together.

  He grunted something that Winter didn’t catch. Through a pair of thick lenses he stared at the pair of them.

  ‘This is Richard. My youngest.’

  Winter nodded a greeting. He caught a smell of something sour. More soggy nappies, he thought. Poor bloody woman.

  ‘What are you after, Ricky? Only the man’s busy.’ She asked the
question very slowly, spelling it out.

  Another series of grunts.

  ‘I don’t know, love.’ His mother seemed to understand. ‘Back upstairs now. I’ll fetch it later.’

  ‘Now.’ Much clearer this time.

  ‘Later. Do as you’re told.’

  The boy was gazing at Winter. He stepped closer, reached out, touched his face. Winter held his ground.

  ‘All right, son?’ He extended a hand.

  The boy studied it for a long moment. The expression on his face might have been a smile but Winter wasn’t sure. Then he felt his mother brush pass, intercepting her son as he lunged at Winter’s hand.

  ‘Best if I put him back to bed,’ she explained. ‘He bites a bit when he gets excited.’

  Winter watched her coax the boy towards the stairs. He was shouting now, but nothing made much sense. They began to climb the stairs. Then Winter heard the sound of a door opening and footsteps overhead. Seconds later came the radio again, much louder this time. Winter had been right. The cricket.

  She was back within minutes. She didn’t volunteer any kind of explanation about her son. Instead, she wanted to know about Rachel Ault.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s dead, Mrs Berriman.’

  ‘Rachel?’ She couldn’t believe it. ‘Rachel Ault?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you might have known. It’s been all over the telly, the radio.’

  She shook her head, shocked, still trying to absorb the news. ‘How?’ she said at last.

  Winter explained about the party in Craneswater. There’d been some violence, some fighting. Things had got out of hand.

  ‘And Rachel? She got caught up in all that?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘And Matt?’

  ‘He was there too.’

  ‘Fighting?’

  ‘Helping.’

  ‘Helping in a good way?’

  ‘We think so.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me.’ Winter risked a smile. ‘And Bazza.’

  She nodded, beginning to believe it now. The kettle was on the hob. She filled it, turned on the gas ring, swore when the ignition wouldn’t work. Winter watched her trying to find a match.

  ‘Did he come back last night? Matt?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, preoccupied. ‘But that’s not unusual.’

  ‘And he hasn’t been in touch? Hasn’t phoned at all?’