‘Yeah? Cheers. What did Mackenzie have to say about Danny Cooper? Does he have an address?
‘Dunno yet, son. He’s belling me back any minute now.’
The line went dead. Winter stepped back into the lounge and replaced the cordless on its cradle. Jax Bonner hadn’t been as dumb as he’d thought. Only the skint or the desperate used public boxes these days, but if you were in Jax Bonner’s situation and wanted to avoid falling hostage to the geeks in the Netley Comms unit, it would be a whole lot safer than using a mobile.
Winter went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. There was another implication here and he realised he’d been slow to spot it. You’d only check CCTV if you thought Bonner had company. And you’d only do that if you had grounds for thinking she was shacked up with someone else. Maybe they’ve got intelligence from the party, he thought. Or maybe they’ve taken a proper look at the flat in Merrivale Road and found evidence of someone else in the place.
He made himself a pot of tea and padded back outside to the sunshine. Jimmy Suttle answered his call on the second ring.
‘Bazza says he’s sorry about Danny Cooper.’ Winter reached for the sugar bowl. ‘He wrote the address down the other day but he’s buggered if he knows where.’
Faraday was in conference with DCI Parsons when his mobile began to trill. He’d recently downloaded a ringtone eerily close to the call of a curlew and even Parsons was impressed.
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Do you want to take that?’
Faraday checked caller ID, recognising the number at once. 07854 6333524. Gabrielle’s mobile.
‘Do you mind, boss?’ Faraday got up and stepped out of the office.
The voice was young, Pompey accent, no messing. ‘You a friend of Gabby’s?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘You know where we can find her?’
‘I’ve no idea. You want me to pass on a message?’
The caller went away. Faraday could hear voices raised in the background. Then the conversation resumed.
‘We wants to see her tonight, yeah? Bransbury Park, all right? Usual place.’
‘What time?’
‘Half seven. And tell her we’re really sorry, yeah?’
The line went dead. Faraday gazed at the phone a moment then stepped back into the office. A kid’s voice, definitely. He must have accessed Faraday’s number from Gabrielle’s phone. He’d obviously no idea who he’d been talking to.
Parsons was busy on a call of her own. She and Faraday had pretty much finalised a strategy for dealing with the Aults, and she was already locked into another conversation. Shielding the mouthpiece, she said she’d catch up with him later. Then she nodded at the mobile, still in Faraday’s hand, and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
Faraday shook his head. ‘Personal call, boss. Nothing for us.’
Back in his own office he shut the door and sank into his chair. He knew he had a decision to make and he knew as well that the consequences of getting it wrong could be catastrophic. He brooded for a while, gazing out of the window, watching a pair of seagulls mobbing a crow. He was back in the bedroom last night, his arms around Gabrielle. He could feel the chill of her bloodied face pressed against his shirt. Nothing he’d done had stopped her shivering. Nothing he’d been able to say had brought her real comfort. She’d been badly frightened. And now this.
Finally he reached for the phone. Sometimes, he thought, you simply close your eyes and jump.
‘Jimmy? I need a moment of your time. My office. As soon as you like.’
For the second time in less than a week Winter found Esme’s face on his video entryphone. He opened his door and waited for her in the hall. She emerged alone from the lift.
‘Where are the kids?’
‘Parked at Mum’s.’
‘You should have brought them down.’
‘I wanted this to be private.’
Winter led her into the apartment. She’d inherited her mum’s leggy Scandinavian good looks plus a helping of Bazza’s low cunning. Bazza had put her through university and law school, but though she was qualified as a solicitor she’d never practised. These days, she always told Winter, three kids, seven acres and four horses were more than enough. All that, plus a husband.
‘Tea? Something stronger?’
She shook her head. She didn’t want this to take long. She eyed the open door to the balcony then settled herself on the sofa. Winter took the hint and closed the balcony door.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s nothing … I hope.’
She frowned, picking at a nail, then said she’d had a call from her dad late last night. She thought he’d been drinking a bit, which was unusual these days.
‘What did he want?’
‘A favour. He said he’d been talking to a mate of his. About getting stuff on Facebook.’
‘Facebook? Baz?’
‘Exactly. That’s what I thought. But then he told me he was really fed up with all the grief next door and he wanted to do something about it. To be frank, he wasn’t very coherent. I think deep down it’s about the Aults. He’s dreading tomorrow. He just doesn’t know what to say to them.’
‘They’re back?’
‘Yes. Mum says they land first thing. They’re bound to come down to the house at some point. The police haven’t finished with the place yet but they’ll still want to see what’s going on. Plus, of course, they’ll want to talk to Dad.’
‘So what did he ask you to do?’
‘Post a message.’
‘On Facebook?’
‘Yes. This mate of his seems to be a bit of a geek. Apparently there are ways of posting untraceable messages. That’s what he wanted me to help him do.’
He’d told Esme to get herself onto the Facebook website. That had been easy. She’d registered as Calico because that was her favourite bar on Martinique. Next she had to find a wi-fi network that was unprotected. At this point Ezzie had been out of her depth but it turned out to involve driving around with a bit of kit on loan from Bazza’s mate. Bazza himself would handle that end. Ezzie would do the driving and supply the laptop.
‘Baz hasn’t got a laptop?’
‘He spilled tea all over it. Last week.’
‘So you did this thing together? Is that the way it worked?’
‘Yes. I came down this morning, dumped the kids with Mum, picked up Dad, then off we went. He had this gizmo on his lap. It signals when you’re in range of an unprotected wi-fi network. They’re everywhere. People don’t bother with passwords. You wouldn’t believe it.’
In the end, she said, they’d parked outside a house in Essex Road, chiefly because her father fancied the look of a woman who’d just left the place. She was obviously an airhead because she’d left her wi-fi totally unprotected and it had taken less than a minute to squirt off the posting.
‘Where did it go?’
‘I told you. Facebook.’
‘But whereabouts on Facebook?’
‘That page they set up for Rachel.’
‘Really?’ Winter felt his heart sink. ‘And what did the message say?’
She looked at him a moment, mutual allies, then nodded. ‘It was about someone called Danny Cooper,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think Dad likes him any more.’
Bransbury Park was a couple of acres of playing fields hedged to the north and east by residential streets. Langstone Harbour was a stone’s throw away, and from the front seat of Suttle’s Impreza Faraday had a fine view of a couple of old ladies tossing bread to a cloud of gulls. The gulls milled around on the edge of the car park, fighting for scraps, and Faraday watched as one of the youngest stole a shred of crust from a bigger bird. Pompey gulls, he thought. Fearless. Cheeky. Painfully thin.
Suttle sat beside him at the wheel. Faraday had brought a pair of his birding binoculars and the young detective was scanning the expanse of grass in front of them. A broad footpath ran from the car park to the distant muddle of houses. To the left of the path a bunch of
kids were kicking a ball around. Closer, maybe a hundred metres, was a brick-built pavilion which housed changing rooms for the winter soccer leagues. At this time of the evening the pavilion would be locked but Faraday agreed there was no other obvious place to meet.
It was gone seven. Suttle had borrowed a camera and a big telephoto lens from a friend. Briefing him, Faraday had kept the details to a minimum. His partner had a professional involvement with kids on the city’s estates. She’d run into a spot of bother the previous evening. These same kids were now demanding a meet and she’d agreed to turn up. Faraday was naturally keen to keep an eye on her and welcomed the chance to put a face or two on film. Two birds, he’d added wearily. One stone.
Suttle, intrigued, had asked whether or not this was official. The word had brought a mirthless smile to Faraday’s face. Had he informed DCI Parsons about this little piece of free enterprise? The answer was no. Might it fit into Mandolin’s developing jigsaw? Possibly not. And was Gabrielle aware that her partner was sitting in a car readying himself to spy on her? For the third time, alas, no.
So why didn’t Faraday just sort it out himself? Why involve Jimmy Suttle? It was a good question, exactly what he’d have expected from someone of Suttle’s calibre, and Faraday had been equally honest in his reply. His own camera was at home, he’d said, and just now he didn’t want to meet Gabrielle face to face. She’d also recognise his car, which would destroy the whole point of the exercise.
‘So why not just tell her?’ Suttle had queried. ‘Why all the sneakybeaky? ’
‘Because she wouldn’t have it. Either I do it this way or she meets the kids by herself.’
‘So it’s me doing you a favour, have I got that right?’
‘I’m afraid so, Jimmy. Is that a problem?’
‘Not at all, boss.’ He’d smiled. ‘My pleasure.’
A couple of kids turned up on bikes minutes later. They circled the pavilion, carving skid marks on the grass, then threw the bikes down and tried to get into the building. When one kid, the smaller of the two, found the door locked he gave it a kick.
Suttle reached for the camera.
‘This lot, boss?’
Faraday nodded. He’d retrieved the binoculars and was concentrating on the far end of the footpath where it disappeared into the sprawl of houses on the other side of the park. She’ll come through the estate, Faraday told himself. The Bargemaster’s House was a five-minute walk away. Any other approach would mean a huge detour.
More kids had gathered around the pavilion. One of them must have been on the beach because he had a pocketful of pebbles. The women with the bread had gone but the gulls were still circling. The kid with the pebbles took a shot or two, then gave up. His mate, much smaller, was rolling a cigarette.
Faraday watched them, wondering which one had made the call this afternoon. There were seven in all. They looked to be around twelve or thirteen. Most of them were wearing trainers with hoodies over track bottoms. Thin, hollow faces. Baseball caps pulled low.
‘Any good?’ Faraday nodded at the camera.
‘Not bad. It’s hard to get a decent shot at this distance. Faces, especially. Here … help yourself.’
Faraday thumbed through a succession of shots on the tiny screen at the back of the camera. Suttle was right. Nothing definitive. Nothing that would find its way into one of Jerry Proctor’s Scenes of Crime albums.
‘Keep at it,’ Faraday muttered. ‘This has to be the place.’
He raised the binos again, wondering what had kept Gabrielle. It was nearly quarter to eight. Normally she wouldn’t dream of being late. He began to wonder whether she’d decided not to come, whether the state of her face had kept her indoors, but then dismissed the thought. On the phone a couple of hours ago, when he’d passed on the message, she’d sounded matter-of-fact about this abrupt summons. Maybe they want to give me my mobile back. Maybe they want to say sorry. Pourquoi pas?
She appeared minutes later, a small vivid figure emerging from the estate beyond the end of the path. Faraday muttered a warning to Suttle, aware of him swinging the big lens away from the pavilion. She was wearing a denim jacket over a pair of black jeans. The Médecin Sans Frontières T-shirt had been hanging on Faraday’s washing line only yesterday. My partner, he repeated to himself. My muse.
‘What happened to her face?’ Suttle sounded alarmed.
‘She got jumped. Last night.’
‘By these kids?’
‘No. At least I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘I don’t know. Keep snapping.’
Suttle raised the camera again, riding the focus as Gabrielle got closer.
The kids had seen her too. One set off on his bike. The others followed. They all met on the path. Through the binos Faraday watched them mobbing her. The smallest kid, the smoker, seemed to be doing most of the talking. He kept looking up at her, then touching his own face. Then one of the bigger kids dug in his pocket and produced a phone. Gabrielle examined it, gave him a nod of thanks, stowed it away in her daysack.
Seconds later, like pollen, the kids had gone, just blown away on the evening breeze. They weaved back down the path on their bikes, the young smoker standing on his pedals, his thin body twisted as he gave Gabrielle a farewell wave. Faraday could hear them now, yelling to each other. One of them was heading towards the road that led to the seafront. They streamed past the Impreza, weaving in and out among the parked cars. One of them aimed a playful kick at a nearby van. Then they were gone.
Gabrielle was standing on the path, still watching them. At length she retrieved the phone from her daysack and keyed in a number. Moments later Faraday’s mobile began to ring.
Suttle had seen it too. He started laughing. Faraday put the mobile to his ear. Gabrielle sounded very far away.
‘I got my phone back,’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Just.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Still at work.’ It was a lie, Faraday thought, but only just.
He asked her whether it had been OK with the kids.
‘Of course, chéri. You shouldn’t worry. That’s all they are … just kids.’ Her voice was getting fainter and fainter.
Faraday told her to check the battery. Maybe it needed charging. No answer. He watched her inspecting the mobile, then lowered the binos as she turned on her heel and began to walk away.
Suttle was still tracking her through the telephoto. As he took one final shot his mouth curled into a grin.
‘This is seriously weird, boss.’ He glanced across at Faraday. ‘You know that?’
It took Winter more time than he’d anticipated to find the house in Copnor, and it was nearly dark before he was sure of the address. Danny Cooper’s auntie opened the door to his knock and he knew at once that she’d recognised him from the previous visit. She stepped back, tried to shut the door in Winter’s face.
‘It’s OK,’ Winter told her. ‘I just need a word with young Danny.’
‘That’s what you said before. The state of the boy, you should see him. You should be ashamed of yourselves. All of you. I told Danny to go to the police. You should be locked up, people like you.’
Winter admired her spirit. When she told him Danny had moved out, he was inclined to believe her.
‘D’you know where he’s gone?’
‘I’ve not the first idea. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’
‘He’s at home then, yeah?’
She stared up at him, saying nothing, but Winter knew he’d got it right. Home was a newly acquired house less than half a mile away. Winter had made a mental note of the address a couple of weeks ago when Bazza had asked him to find a plumber to sort out a new bathroom for the lad.
He ducked back into the Lexus. Salcombe Avenue was five minutes away, a row of terraced houses that went nowhere. Beyond the wall at the end of the road was an acre or so of allotments. The houses backed onto a football pitch beside the railway line.
Good place to hide yourself away, Winter thought as he looked for a parking place.
Danny Cooper’s was the end property. It was getting dark by now. The windows were curtained at the front of the house, and Winter gazed up, looking in vain for a chink of light. He went to the door and rang the bell. When he got no response, he knocked. Again, nothing. He bent to the letter box and peered in through the flap. In the dim light he could make out a narrow hall. There was a smell of new carpets. He put his mouth to the flap, yelled Cooper’s name, but nothing broke the silence.
He stepped back from the door. A path led round the side of the house. He squeezed past a bicycle and a water butt and found himself in a tiny back garden. A rusting bath was upended against the rear wall and he recognised the shape of an abandoned khazi under an old sheet. The back door beside the kitchen window was locked. He peered in through the window. An open bottle of milk stood on the draining board and there were a couple of plates in the washing-up bowl in the sink. On the table, against the far wall, he could just make out the headline on the front page of the News. He’d clocked the same story on a placard outside a newsagent’s earlier in the evening. I was right, Winter thought. He’s back.
He retraced his steps to the front of the house. A couple more knocks on the door. Still no response. He was looking for his car keys when he heard a door open across the street. Moments later a figure appeared from behind a builder’s van. His jeans were scabbed with plaster and he was wearing a vest. He padded across the road, barefoot. He looked to be in his thirties, maybe older. He hadn’t shaved for days.
‘Help you, mush? Only it’s normally nice and quiet round here.’ Winter said he was looking for a mate. Danny Cooper.
‘Young bloke? Walks with a limp?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about him?’
‘He doesn’t seem to be in.’
‘Fucking right, he isn’t in. Either that or the geezer’s deaf.’ He was looking at the Lexus. ‘Nice motor. That yours?’
Winter nodded. He might be back later, he said. Just in case Danny came home.
No Lovelier Death Page 22
