No Lovelier Death

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Mackenzie?’ The name had rung a bell. ‘Next door to the Aults, you mean? The house with the pool?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you say he’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK then. I suppose you’d better come in.’

  Winter stepped into the cool of the house. Beyond the gleaming expanse of parquet flooring in the hall lay the living room. England were batting on the big wall-mounted plasma screen and Winter watched as the batsman stroked the ball towards the distant boundary. More applause.

  ‘You must be Mr Hughes.’ Winter glanced across at him.

  ‘That’s me.’ He was pouring himself another glass of wine. ‘Gareth’s dad.’

  He picked up the iPod, staring at the faces again, then turned round. He had his son’s complexion, his son’s freckles, though his pale skin was blotched with alcohol.

  ‘This has been a nightmare. I’m sorry to be blunt but we’ve pretty much had it with the press people. You know something? They never leave you alone. TV are the worst. Think they own the bloody world.’

  They’d had crews down from London, he said. They’d camped out in the road, put up the satellite dishes, then phoned through on their mobiles, pleading for an interview. At first he’d told them to bugger off, wanted nothing to do with them, but then his wife had pointed out the nuisance to the neighbours. Give them what they want, she’d said. And then they’ll leave us all in peace.

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘Yes. But then more arrived, press people as well. No bloody manners, any of them, and no bloody imagination either. Just the same old question. How did we feel? How do you bloody think we feel?’ He swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘I kid you not, total nightmare.’

  Winter sympathised. He’d had dealings with the media himself, often. Tact wasn’t their middle name.

  ‘Tact?’ The word triggered a fresh outburst. ‘These people wouldn’t know the meaning of the bloody word. All they want is grief. It’s not even news. Just some poor bloody woman sobbing her heart out.’

  ‘That would be me … ?’

  Neither Winter nor Hughes had heard her come down the stairs. She stood barefoot on the carpet. She was wearing a silk dressing gown and her hair was wet from the shower. She looked vague, Winter thought, a stranger in her own house.

  ‘Mrs Hughes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Winter apologised again for the intrusion and said he was sorry about Gareth. He’d come to return the iPod and offer condolences from the Mackenzies. Mr Mackenzie, he said, had been the one grown-up to try and do something about the madness next door. He’d got injured in the process, quite badly injured, but at least he’d had a go.

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Her voice was low, emptied of all passion. ‘I thought the police … .’

  ‘They intervened later. By then it was too late.’

  ‘I see.’

  She asked Winter to sit down. She wanted to know more. Her husband had turned away, once more refilling his glass and then staring up at the cricket. Grief, thought Winter, walls you off. He’d seen it countless times.

  ‘Tell me about the party.’ She settled in the armchair across from the sofa. ‘Tell me what you know.’

  Winter obliged. A conversation with Bazza had given him a picture of the state of the Aults’ place and the rest wasn’t hard to make up. An invasion of kids from the other side of the tracks. Too much booze. Too many drugs. Things get out of hand. The script, he said, writes itself.

  ‘Except that two young people died.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Not died, Helen. They got themselves killed. There’s a difference.’ It was Hughes. He was still watching the Test match. The way he put it sparked anger in his wife’s face.

  ‘You make it sound like it was their fault,’ she said.

  ‘Well it was, in a way.’

  She looked up at him in disbelief. Booze, thought Winter. And anger. And loss. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just run out of things to say.

  Hughes turned round at last, and reached down for the bottle. He was looking at Winter, his face beaded with sweat.

  ‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘Tell me the world hasn’t gone crazy.

  Tell me it’s not a jungle out there. Tell me …’ he frowned, staring down at his glass, fighting to control himself ‘… that bloody boy of mine will be home tonight.’

  He began to sob, his whole body shaking. When his wife got up and stepped across, he tried to shield himself, fending her off. She put her arm around him and led him away. Winter heard their footsteps on the stairs, the soft murmur of her voice, then the sound of a door closing. His glass had dripped red wine across the carpet. Winter was still watching the cricket when she returned.

  She sat down, saying nothing, staring at the window. The silence between them thickened. Finally, Winter said he ought to leave her in peace.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’

  At length she got up and fetched a wine glass from the drinks cabinet in the corner. Winter, assuming she needed a drink, reached for the bottle.

  ‘This is for you.’ She gave him the glass. ‘You knew Gareth?’

  ‘Never had the pleasure, Mrs Hughes.’

  ‘But Rachel? You knew her?’ She seemed glad of someone to talk to.

  ‘A bit.’ Winter emptied the bottle. ‘This relationship of theirs. Quite recent, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Had he known her before?’

  ‘Not really. They were in the same year, at the same school, so they weren’t total strangers, but to be honest I think the whole thing took Gareth a bit by surprise. Not that he didn’t … you know … fancy her. Anyone would. She was attractive. She was bright. She was a wonderful girl. But I don’t think he ever quite worked out why she’d picked him.’

  ‘Picked?’

  ‘Yes.’ She reached for the remote and switched off the TV. ‘I get the impression she made all the running.’

  Rachel, she said, had been in another relationship for years. Friends of Gareth’s regarded her as practically married. Then suddenly there she was, turning up with Gareth for Sunday lunch, a neat little pile of roast lamb pushed to the side of her plate.

  ‘A vegetarian?’

  ‘Definitely. And a girl who knew exactly what else she wanted in life. I think Gareth was a bit bewildered to begin with. He didn’t know quite what to make of her. His father just told him to enjoy himself.’

  ‘While it lasted?’

  ‘Exactly. His exact words.’

  There was a stir of movement overhead, then silence. Winter wondered how long he’d got.

  ‘They were keen on each other then? Rachel and your boy?’

  ‘Very. I know Gareth. He was quite a shy lad. In a way she overwhelmed him. I suppose I should have worried but I didn’t. I was probably wrong but I think he needed a bit of that in his life.’

  ‘A bit of what, Mrs Hughes?’

  ‘A bit of oomph. A bit of adventure. A bit of passion. Don’t get me wrong. He was a lovely boy. He was kind. He was sensible. He had nice friends. He worked really hard. But looking back I don’t think he ever took risks.’

  ‘And Rachel was a risk?’

  ‘Yes. Because Rachel is the kind of girl you’d fall in love with. And Gareth had never risked that in his life.’

  The kind of girl you’d fall in love with.

  ‘You mentioned someone else. A previous boyfriend.’

  ‘Of Rachel’s, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘His name was Matt.’

  ‘Did Gareth ever talk about him at all?’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘In what context?’

  ‘Just things that Rachel had said. How different Gareth was to her last boyfriend. How simple life could be.’

  ‘Did they ever meet? Gareth and Matt?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. The last week or so, to be honest, we barely saw anythin
g of Gareth.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He’d moved in with Rachel.’

  ‘At the Aults’ house?’

  ‘Yes. They made no secret of it. In fact Terry and I were glad he was able to keep an eye on her. I imagine it would have suited the Aults too, Gareth and Rachel keeping the house in one piece.’ She offered Winter a bleak smile. ‘Bit of a joke really, isn’t it? Under the circumstances …’

  Winter, for the second time, said he was sorry. Incidents like this were kicking off all over the country. It was like a germ, spreading from city to city. Today Pompey. Tomorrow the world.

  ‘And you think that makes us feel better?’

  ‘I’m sure it doesn’t.’

  ‘You think anything will make us feel better?’

  Winter studied her for a moment or two. His own wife’s death had left him emptier than he’d ever imagined possible.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not for a long time.’

  ‘But in the end?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘In the end, yes. Something happens. Something comes along.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Is that you being kind? Or do you know?’

  ‘I know nothing, Mrs Hughes. Except you have to wait a while.’ She picked up the iPod, weighed it in her hand.

  ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Winter?’

  ‘I work for Mackenzie.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I was a copper.’

  ‘A detective?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A good one?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ The smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘It’s the way you ask the questions, isn’t it? And what you make of the replies?’

  Chapter seven

  SUNDAY, 12 AUGUST 2007. 19.02

  The second round of interviews with Mandolin’s list of suspects began shortly after seven o’clock. Faraday had organised interview teams at custody suites in Fareham, Havant, Waterlooville and Portsmouth, and briefed the TIAs to press for as much detail as possible. In particular, he told the Tactical Interview Advisers, he wanted a full account of bloodstains found on the suspects’ clothing, plus the names of the individuals with whom they’d spent most of the evening. In this way, matching one statement against another, he was looking for the kind of discrepancies that might offer leverage once he had a fuller picture of what had happened.

  Of the seventeen suspects, six had been shipped down to the Bridewell. Ahead of the interviews, each of them conferred with the duty solicitor. Faraday, dead on his feet, had put Matt Berriman at the head of the list, determined to take his first good look at how the lad shaped up under pressure. It was still too early to talk about prime suspects but in terms of motivation Berriman faced some obvious questions.

  D/C Bev Yates would again be partnering D/C Dawn Ellis in the interview suite. Faraday had talked them through the earlier exchange with Samantha Muirhead, and together with the Tactical Interview Adviser they’d agreed a shape for the next couple of hours. Yates and Ellis were veterans at this kind of work: good listeners, highly experienced, expert at preparing the kind of traps that might lead a cocky adolescent into a reckless boast or two. Ellis in particular, with her baby face and affection for off-the-wall T-shirts, was all too easy to underestimate.

  Faraday settled himself in the monitoring room. Only this morning it had been Bazza Mackenzie’s face on the video screen. Now he found himself looking at a tall well-built youth with a savage grade one and a pair of startling blue eyes. He was still wearing the grey shell suit Thames Valley had found in their custody suite and the top, several sizes too small, emphasised the breadth of his chest and shoulders. He had a scorpion tattoo on the side of his neck and a tiny silver Yang buttoned one earlobe.

  Even on the video feed it was impossible to ignore Berriman’s sheer physical presence. This was a lad who’d compel attention wherever he went, Faraday thought. His smile for Dawn Ellis seemed to fill the screen.

  Yates had talked earlier to the interviewing D/C at Newbury and had a sheaf of notes on the table in front of him.

  ‘You didn’t tell us much about Rachel this morning,’ he began.

  ‘That’s because no one asked me.’

  ‘Wrong, Mr Berriman. We asked everyone whether they knew her or not. It was a standard question.’

  ‘And I said yes. It was her party. She’d invited me. Is that a problem for you guys?’

  ‘Not at all. But you didn’t say you’d been going out with her for five years, did you?’

  ‘No, you’re right, but like I said …’ he shrugged ‘… it never came up.’I

  ‘But you did go out with her?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘All that time?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Until recently?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And it didn’t occur to you that’s something we might have been interested in?’

  ‘I’m not sure I thought about it. No one told me she was dead until later.’

  Berriman held Yates’s gaze. There was a hint of accusation in his voice. My girl, Faraday thought. My Rachel.

  Ellis took over. She wanted to know everything about the relationship: how it started, how much it had mattered, why it had crashed and burned. The latter phrase made Berriman flinch, and Faraday began to sense that Sam Muirhead had been right. Behind the mask of seeming indifference, he’d missed her. Badly. And he’d wanted her back.

  Yates had seen it too.

  ‘So who ended it, Mr Berriman?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How? We had a fucking great row, that’s how.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Go on what? You want to know what we said?’

  ‘I want to know how it was between you - why Rachel suddenly decided to call it a day, what actually happened.’

  ‘Who said it was sudden?’

  ‘You’re telling me it wasn’t?’

  ‘I’m telling you it’s none of your business.’ He was leaning back in the chair, smiling again, untroubled, back in control, determined to stay out of reach.

  Yates held his eyes, then glanced sideways at Dawn Ellis. Her voice was soft. She was trying to help.

  ‘She’s dead, Matt. Someone killed her. You don’t need me to tell you that’s serious. She deserves the best we can do for her. Don’t you think that’s reasonable?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘So why don’t you tell us as much as you can?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you and Rachel.’

  He thought about the proposition for a moment or two, his long fingers drumming on the table. Then he seemed to make some kind of decision.

  ‘OK.’ He leaned forward. ‘If you’re asking me whether she mattered, the answer’s yes. She mattered a lot. Now, like you say, she’s dead. So how does that work?’

  ‘We don’t know, Matt. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘But you think I can help?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because I was at the party?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re telling me someone killed her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How what?’

  ‘How did they kill her?’

  There was a long silence. Matt Berriman had the steadiest eyes. They belonged to someone much older, Faraday thought.

  ‘Let’s talk about the party,’ Ellis said at last. ‘Tell us exactly what happened. Pretend we know nothing.’

  Berriman pursed his lips. Then his head came up and he began to describe the way it had been. He’d come across the party, he said, through an invite posted on Rachel’s Facebook page. He’d passed the word on to a mate or two and thought it might be a laugh to go along.

  Yates interrupted. ‘But Gareth Hughes was going to be there. The new guy in her life. And you’d have known that.’

  ‘I w
ould?’

  ‘Yeah. It was part of the invite. My new squeeze. You’re telling me you didn’t spot that?’

  ‘OK …’ He shrugged. ‘So I knew.’

  ‘Yet you still went.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because …’ He tipped his head back, stared up at the ceiling.

  ‘Because I was nosy, I suppose. I wanted to know what this bloke looked like. I wanted to know what she saw in him. Like I said … nosy.’

  ‘And hopeful?’

  ‘Always hopeful.’ The smile again. ‘Always.’

  Yates nodded, scribbled himself a note. Ellis wanted to know if he’d arrived alone.

  ‘No. I had some mates with me.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘You can’t remember or you’re not going to tell us?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I’ve got mates everywhere. It could have been a thousand blokes.’

  ‘And were they invited?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Did that bother you?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  There was a silence. Ellis looked down at her notes. Yates stirred. ‘Don’t piss about, Matt. Just give us an answer.’

  ‘No, they weren’t invited.’

  ‘So why take them along?’

  ‘I didn’t take them along. They just came. There’s a difference.’

  ‘You mean you couldn’t stop them?’

  ‘It wasn’t a question of stopping them. We’d been drinking. We’d had a few. Like I say, it was a laugh. Those blokes don’t get to go to Craneswater every night of their lives.’

  ‘You make it sound like an expedition.’

  ‘It was. Sort of.’

  ‘Not for you though, surely?’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because you’d have known the house. Because you’d been there before. Quite a lot, I expect.’

  ‘When I was with Rach, you mean?’ He shook his head. ‘Not really.

  She came round my place most of the time.’

  ‘But you knew the house? Knew your way round it?’

  ‘I’d been there, yeah.’

  ‘So that made you a bit special, didn’t it? As far as your mates were concerned? Big pad like that? Ex-girlfriend’s place? Giving them the full tour?’