There were five faces around the conference table in Martin Barrie’s office. According to Parsons, the Detective Superintendent was due back from leave tomorrow morning, and she was already gathering up the tiny items she’d scattered to make the place feel like home. The flowers, Faraday sensed, would be the last to go. She might even be brave and leave them.
She asked Proctor for an update on the forensic. As far as the killings at the party were concerned, he was able to confirm that the blood beside the pool belonged to Gareth Hughes and Rachel Ault. As far as Matt Berriman was concerned, the forensic checks had revealed no bloodstains.
‘None at all?’
‘Nothing, boss. Zilch.’
‘And you think that wouldn’t have been the case if he’d done Hughes and Rachel Ault?’
‘Sure. Rachel had stab wounds. We’re not talking lots of blood but we’d expect to find something.’
‘What about Mackenzie? When he sorted out the fight back in the house?’ Parsons was looking at Faraday.
‘Mackenzie had blood on his head from the scalp wound, and maybe down his face.’ Faraday shrugged. ‘It needn’t have got onto Berriman’s gear.’
‘So you think his story checks out?’
‘I do.’ Faraday nodded. There was no evidence, he said, to put Berriman on Mackenzie’s property. He’d intervened in the judge’s study and hauled the kids off the desk. He’d afterwards had sex with Rachel in the bathroom, left by the front door for a breath of fresh air and returned in minutes to save Mackenzie from a serious beating. He’d surrendered his clothing, as required, and been moderately helpful in both interviews.
‘Does anyone have any issues with any of that?’ Parsons scanned the faces around the table.
‘We don’t have a mobile for him.’ It was Suttle.
‘That’s true.’
‘Yet he used a mobile in the bathroom. He had to. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been any pictures.’
‘Good point.’ She was frowning at the mountain of statements at Suttle’s elbow. ‘We must have challenged him on that.’
‘We did, boss.’
‘Remind me what he said.’
‘He said he borrowed a mobile off a kid at the party. Specifically to use the camera in the bathroom.’
‘And gave it back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do we have a name for this kid?’
‘No. Berriman told us the kid was a total stranger. Said he wouldn’t recognise him again.’
‘So do we believe him?’
‘Obviously not.’
‘So where is it?’
‘I’ve no idea, boss. If he’d left it in the garden at the Aults, we’d have found it.’
‘But you think he definitely hid it for later?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he could see trouble coming. The party had kicked off and there was no way we wouldn’t turn up in the end. He’d suss we’d seize all the mobiles because of the damage in the house and he didn’t want to risk losing it. Those pictures were important to him. So he left the phone somewhere safe to collect later.’
‘It was pay-as-you-go. Right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But in that case, if the pictures and the phone were so important, why did he stay at the party?’
‘Because of Rachel, boss. He’d put his smell on her. He’d got her back. No way he was going to lose her again.’
Parsons nodded, thinking it over, then looked across at Faraday. ‘Joe? You buy that?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I do.’
‘So where does that take us? To the girl? To Jax Bonner?’
Faraday had been anticipating this question for the last twenty-four hours. To date, despite nationwide publicity, there’d been no sightings of Bonner. Yet here he was, living with a woman who knew exactly where to find the girl. Not only that; Gabrielle had been to see her, talked to her, formed an opinion, along with his son. Was now the time to table these new facts? Faraday thought not.
‘Bonner remains a prime suspect,’ he said carefully. ‘We’re obviously moving heaven and earth to find her. She’ll surface in the end. These people always do.’
Something in his voice, an unusual caution, touched a nerve in Parsons. Faraday could see it in her face, the tiny raise of her eyebrow, the way she stiffened herself in the chair. Shit, he thought.
‘What are you saying, Joe?’
‘I’m saying we have to wait, boss.’
‘And we’ve no idea where she might be? Which part of the country even?’
‘The ATM withdrawals on her brother’s business account are all local. You could draw a reasonable inference from that.’
‘But who takes out the money?’
‘It could be anyone. All you need is the card and the PIN number.
If she’s aware, then she’ll know that most ATMs are cameraed. We’ll be talking to the banks again tomorrow.’
‘So she could be in hiding locally?’
‘Yes, that’s what I just said.’
‘But we still don’t know where?’
‘Obviously not, boss.’
She looked at him a moment longer then scribbled a note to herself. It was Suttle’s turn.
‘Given we’ve yet to lay hands on the girl, Jimmy, what’s the strength?’
‘I’m with D/I Faraday,’ he said at once. ‘She’s definitely a prime suspect. She hated the Aults. She goes off like a firework. She’s got previous for violence. She was carrying a knife. That tells me she needs to answer a question or two.’
‘Quite.’ Parsons was animated now, looking for a way out of this impasse. The last thing she needed was a Monday morning session with Martin Barrie, incredulous at her lack of progress. The girl’s local. She stands out a mile in any crowd. Why on earth haven’t you banged her up already?
‘Glen? Outside Enquiries? No trace at all of her?’
‘None, boss. She’s gone to ground.’
‘And the kids, Jimmy?’ This to Suttle. ‘You’ve been talking to them too?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘No one’s saying a word. They’re terrified of her.’
‘But you think some of them might know?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Can’t we action that?’
‘How, boss? Talk nicely to their parents? Take them round the back and beat the shit out of them? If these were Rachel’s friends, we might be in with a chance. Bonner’s side of the tracks, we’re on enemy territory. They hate us, boss. It’s a sad thing to say but it’s true.’
The vehemence of Suttle’s little speech seemed to shock her. She opened the file at her elbow.
‘This is some of the media coverage from last night,’ she said. ‘Mr Willard emailed me the more important bits.’
She passed photocopies down the table. Despite the lateness of the wake, coverage had appeared in most of the Sunday papers. There were photos too, candlelit young faces looming out of the darkness. If you were looking for a symbol of the times we live in, as the leader writer in the Observer pointed out, then here it was. Darkness and light, a candle’s width apart.
Faraday’s attention was caught by a paragraph in the Sunday Telegraph. The reporter had roughly tallied Mandolin’s costs to date. These costs included the forensic bills, overtime, invoices submitted by neighbouring forces under the mutual aid arrangements and various sundries. The reporter must have had an inside source because the sums looked right. So far, in his estimate, the Craneswater party had run up a bill of nearly half a million pounds with no arrests in sight.
There were now rumours that a third murder was linked to the party deaths but once again there’d been no arrest.
Parsons hadn’t bothered with her own set of cuttings. She’d probably memorised them by now.
‘This is not our golden hour, gentlemen.’ She closed her file. ‘To be frank, I’m disappointed.’
Faraday glanc
ed at Suttle. Like everyone else in the room, he’d got used to Parsons in this mood.
‘One other thing, boss.’ He raised a hand. ‘The stuff on Ault’s hard disk. Does that raise any new issues?’
Parsons shook her head. ‘There’s no offence involved. I’ve seen the images. This isn’t kiddie porn. There’s no abuse involved, no violence. It appears to be consensual sex.’
‘But aren’t they young? Rachel’s age?’
‘It’s hard to tell. In Mr Willard’s view it’s something of a blessing.
He’s been wondering why Ault hasn’t been more vocal about our performance last weekend.’ She offered Suttle a bleak smile. ‘Now we know the answer.’
Chapter thirty-one
SUNDAY, 19 AUGUST 2007. 14.28
Winter had never been so glad to get home. He dumped his bag in the hall, circled the big living room, threw open the French windows, stepped onto the balcony. The weather had cheered up at last and the sunshine was hot on his face. Malaga without the aggravation, he thought, beaming fondly down on a young mum trying to teach her toddler to stay upright. No Westie. No London hit men on ten grand a body. Just an hour or two trying to restore some sanity to this life of his.
He made a pot of tea. The Pompey phone directory was under a pile of Telegraph magazines beside the sofa. Nikki Dunlop’s number was listed. He rang her on the cordless, ready to hang up if she answered. After a while her recorded voice invited him to leave a message. Glancing at his watch, he swallowed the rest of the tea, found his car keys, and headed for the door.
Parking was hopeless in Adair Road. He found a space on the nearby seafront and walked back. He knew it was possible that Nikki was in but hadn’t answered the phone. Equally, she might have come back. Either way, he was prepared to take the risk. He wanted this thing sorted.
He tried to visualise her tiny kitchen. The baby he’d heard crying through the party wall had been on the seaward side of the property. He crossed the road and knocked at the house next door. After a while a curtain twitched. He knocked again, then a third time. At last the door opened. A young woman stood blinking in the afternoon sunlight. She was wearing a grubby T-shirt and a pair of shorts. She had curly dark hair and a lousy complexion. She looked as if she’d just woken up.
‘Please?’ Foreign, Winter thought.
‘I’m from the council.’ He flashed his plastic driving licence. ‘Do you mind if I come in?’
He stepped past her without waiting for an answer. By the time the door closed behind him, he’d squeezed past the buggy in the front room and found himself some standing room beside a pile of laundry. A fan heater was whirring beneath the drying rack and there was a single mattress lying behind it, upended against the wall. The room felt like an oven.
‘The council?’ He knew she didn’t believe him.
‘That’s right. I’m sorry to call on a Sunday. You are … ?’
She shook her head. The last thing she owed Winter was a name.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘I work for the Noise Abatement Section,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a complaint from next door.’ He nodded at the wall that adjoined Nikki Dunlop’s house.
‘Complaint?’
‘About the noise. The lady next door … she says you’re very noisy.’
‘Me?’ She was outraged.
‘Yes.’
‘She says that? About me? That I make too much noise? She says that.’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Winter softened his tone. He wished he’d brought a clipboard now, really got into it. ‘I know it can be hard with a new baby.’ He nodded at the buggy. ‘I’m not blaming you, love. I’m just here to establish the facts.’
‘Nadja’s one year old. Maybe she cries a little but only when she’s hurt. Or maybe when she can’t sleep. You know where we sleep now? Both of us? Here. In this room. And you know why? Because she’s so noisy. Not me. The lady next door. So why don’t you ask her?’
Winter was eyeing the single armchair. The frame and fabric looked knackered but she’d done her best to brighten it with a couple of cushions.
‘Do you mind?’ He settled himself in the chair. He was right. It had lumps in all the wrong places. He gave her a smile. ‘So tell me more.’
The woman needed no encouragement. First there was the little dog, always barking. Then, because the walls were thin, she could hear every detail of her neighbour’s life.
‘Everything?’ Winter had found a gas bill in his jacket pocket. He began to make notes on the back of the envelope. ‘Like how?’
‘Like what she does all the time, what she says. There’s a man in there with her, a younger man. Sometimes they shout. At night too.’
‘Rows, you mean? They’re shouting at each other?’
‘Da.’
‘What do they say?’
‘Say?’
‘I have to have details. For the report.’
‘You make a report?’
‘Of course.’
‘But I can’t help you. My English … not so good.’ She raised her hands, angry at herself. ‘All I know is they shout. And then my baby, Nadja, she cries.’
Winter nodded, looked concerned, scribbled himself another note, then looked up.
‘What else?’
‘Everything. The television. The music. So loud. Even the washing machine.’
‘Washing machine?’
‘Da. She has the washing machine upstairs, maybe in the bathroom.
It makes a big noise, a very big noise. The other night she does the washing at half past one in the morning time. You think I’m crazy? I tell you no. I look at the clock. Half past one. Dark outside. When the washing machine …’ She frowned, making a circle with her finger.
‘Spins?’
‘Da, it spins, for the drying, then the house … it shakes.’ She nodded. ‘Half past one. Dark outside. And you come knocking on my door?’
‘When was this? Can you remember?’
‘With the washing machine?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s important?’
‘Very.’
‘For the report?’ She was looking at the envelope.
‘Of course.’
She nodded, frowned, had a think. Then she nodded again.
‘Last night,’ she said. ‘Last week.’
‘Last Saturday?’
‘Da. Saturday. I tell you true. Half past one. When it comes dark.’ The finger again, spinning. ‘Everything shaking, like in a storm, everything mad.’
Everything mad. Winter grinned to himself. The woman’s name, he’d finally discovered, was Jenica. She was Romanian. Her immigration status was uncertain but she said she had an English boyfriend, the father of her daughter. He worked in the oil business. She’d met him in Romania, in Ploesti. Now he was working on a rig off the south coast of Ireland. They were saving up for somewhere nicer. One day she hoped they’d have a house back in Romania.
Before he left she’d offered him a glass of juice from the carton she kept in the fridge for the baby. She was worried about the report, what the woman next door might say, but when Winter explained that the council had special procedures in cases like this she appeared to believe him. As he left the house, Winter glanced back to see her crossing herself and genuflecting before a creased picture pinned to the living-room wall. He’d seen the picture earlier and hadn’t realised it was the Virgin Mary.
Now he debated what to do. It was nearly half past three. He stood on the seafront, wondering whether Nikki Dunlop had decamped to the beach again. Under a near-cloudless sky the sea looked inviting enough and he lingered a moment or two longer, watching a bunch of students daring each other to be the first in. Then he turned on his heel and dug in his pocket for the car keys, shaking his head. Hayling Island, he thought.
Misty Gallagher was on a lounger by the pool when he arrived. He’d parked the Lexus out front and followed the footpath round the side of the house. He heard the radio before he rounded the
conservatory at the back, Celine Dion at full throttle, and marvelled that she could doze through a noise like that. Apart from gold bikini briefs, she was naked. There were drips of coconut oil beside the lounger and her body gleamed in the afternoon sun. He looked down at her for a long moment.
‘Mist?’
His voice startled her. She struggled upright on the lounger, covering her breasts, then reached for the towelling robe she’d abandoned earlier.
‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to phone first.’
She wasn’t pleased to see him. He shuffled sideways until his shadow fell over her eyes. When she asked what he wanted, he reached down and lowered the volume on the radio.
‘The thing I gave you the other day?’ he said.
‘You want it now?’
‘Yeah.’
She stared at him a moment longer, then got up and left the patio. Barefoot, she stalked across the lawn. At the bottom of the garden, tucked behind a trellis at the water’s edge, was a garden shed. She disappeared inside and re-emerged seconds later. She had a garden fork in one hand and a pair of wellington boots in the other. She dumped them both on the lawn and beckoned him down with an impatient wave.
‘These belong to Baz.’ She nudged one of the boots with a bare toe.
‘The soil’s still soaking after all that rain. I’m buggered if I’m going to dig it up.’
She led the way to a patch of garden closer to the house, looked at one spot, then another, then a third. Winter, still wondering why she was being so hostile, began to suspect she’d forgotten the hiding place.
‘You could always ring the fucking thing,’ she said at last.
‘You looked in the bag then?’
‘Of course I did. I think it’s here.’ She indicated an area of recently turned soil beside a rose bush. Winter took his shoes off and struggled into the boots. They were very tight.
‘Baz phoned a couple of hours ago,’ she said.
‘And?’ Winter was poking at the soil.
‘He was round on Wednesday night. You remember Wednesday night?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Apparently he turned up late, really late, half past three in the morning.’
No Lovelier Death Page 38
