Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  Within days, increasingly frustrated, Parsons was demanding progress. From the start, after a difficult interview with Morrissey’s mum, Faraday was convinced the answer lay in the earlier file held by the detectives who’d investigated the stamping incident. The knife attack, while a clear escalation in violence, was clearly Munday’s MO. Word on the estate suggested he’d lost it. The bloke had become psychotic. Too much White Lightning. Too many vodkas. Plus all the toot he could lay his hands on. A state like that, you start playing God. Which is precisely what he’d done. Morrissey, the cunt grass, needed a lesson in manners. And Munday had been happy to offer his services.

  Faraday had pulled Munday in, plus all five of the kids named by Morrissey after the stamping incident. To no one’s surprise, every single one of them had an alibi for bonfire night. The alibis, corroborated word for word, proved unbreakable. While individuals on the estate exchanged looks at the mention of Munday’s name, no one was prepared to talk, let alone offer a statement. Stuff happens. None of my business. Shame about the kid.

  Parsons, twisting Willard’s arm, got clearance to put in Special Ops. Melody spent thousands of pounds plotting up surveillance on a series of addresses in Paulsgrove. Steps were taken to tap phone lines and plant bugs. But Munday, with his evil little ways, was streets ahead of them. People buttoned their lips, even behind closed doors. Not because they were clever, or even experienced, but because they were afraid of him. It was common knowledge that Munday had done the kid Morrissey. But common knowledge would cut no ice in court. Who wanted ten minutes in a locked room with Munday’s pit bull?

  Faraday read a little further, reliving those grim days of late November, then closed the file. He understood now why Parsons was so keen to extract a little something, anything for fuck’s sake, from the shambles of Operation Melody. The fact was that Munday and his little band of helpers had humiliated the Major Crime Team. For all their investigative reach - dozens of detectives, thousands of man hours, every covert trick in the book - the sheer brutality of Munday’s MO, his preparedness to maim, even to kill, had put him beyond reach. Here was a man, thought Faraday, who had pitched camp in the darkest corners of a society in free fall. He preyed on the weak and the vulnerable, and gloried in their pain. The fact that he’d got away with it was deeply shaming but the dawning realisation that younger kids were only too prepared to follow in his footsteps was frankly scary. Until, that is, Munday found himself looking at a pair of headlights at half past one in the morning, still playing God.

  Faraday reached for his keyboard, glad he’d seen the post-mortem shots. Where Major Crime had failed, some nameless driver had done the world a favour. Tomorrow Jimmy Suttle would be back in harness. Faraday tapped out an email, enquiring whether a red VW had featured in Melody’s thousands of actions, knowing in his heart that the driver deserved a medal.

  Chapter five

  TUESDAY, 20 MAY 2008. 17.45

  The Tatchbury Mount Spa Hotel lies on the eastern edge of the New Forest. Internet checks had already told Winter that it offered four-star accommodation, fine dining, a fitness centre, pool, beauty and health spa, two squash courts, plus complimentary membership of a nearby golf club. The accompanying photos showed a newish-looking three-storey building artfully timbered to blend into the surrounding trees. A night’s stay in a double room, on the Spring Escape Package, would cost £184.00.

  Winter followed the signs to the parking lot. Esme’s new 4 x 4 occupied the space nearest to the exit and Winter slowed for a moment, gazing at the tinted windows. Why did people like Esme spend another grand or whatever hiding themselves away? Did she really think a sheet of glass would keep her safe?

  He parked the Lexus on the far side of the compound. Bazza had lent him a golf umbrella to go with his surroundings and he stepped into the thin drizzle, setting off for a tour of the premises.

  The health spa lay at the back of the hotel. A huge expanse of lawn fell away to a line of trees beside a small stream and the architect had glazed the side of the spa that faced the view. Winter was clueless when it came to exercise but imagined you’d be grateful for anything that took your mind off the drudgery of the treadmill. There was a small gazebo beside the health spa and he ducked inside, glad of the shelter. From here, he could see figures beyond the spa’s rain-pebbled glass. Ezzie, in her black and white leotard, was easy to spot. Winter had seen this garment only last week, gatecrashing an impromptu modelling session in Marie’s kitchen.

  Winter grinned to himself. One of the pleasures of this new life of his was the slow process of becoming part of someone else’s family. Ezzie hadn’t liked him at first. She had a good law degree from a decent university and had shared her husband’s suspicions of an ex-cop who’d taken Bazza’s shilling. But working for Bazza had forced them together, and when Winter returned from a spell babysitting Marie’s residential development on the Costa Dorada, it was Esme who’d drawn up all the contracts for a raft of brand-new businesses. Between them, she and Winter had launched Mackenzie Confidential, Mackenzie Poolside and Mackenzie Courier, and to their mutual surprise they’d started to get on.

  Esme, Winter quickly realised, was prone to sudden mood changes. One day, wildly extrovert, she’d be a walking exclamation mark. The next, moody and withdrawn, she’d barely bother with conversation. Winter, who didn’t have to live with her, began to feel sorry for Stu Norcliffe. How would you cope with someone who was as volatile and headstrong as this? Blame her gangster dad and pray for quieter times? Or sit her down and tell her the facts of life?

  As it turned out, Stu had probably done neither. Managing hedge funds gave you loads of scope to bury yourself in work, and if the wife ever complained about lack of personal attention you could shower her with goodies. An annual subscription to the Tatchbury Mount Health and Beauty Spa had probably been one peace offering. The gleaming BMW 4 x 4 doubtless another. Both had cheered up Ezzie no end.

  The rain, if anything, was getting heavier. A nearby path ran the length of the spa, and Winter stepped out of the gazebo, the umbrella shielding his face. Walking slowly beside the glass, he had a perfect view of the blur of legs. Ezzie wore a thin gold chain around one ankle and favoured Nike runners. Today’s choice were in silver with mauve laces. Beside the treadmill, he recognised her sports bag abandoned on the floor. On top of the bag was a squash racket.

  Winter quickened his step. Somewhere, he told himself, there would be a reception area, a place where you could book a session on the squash court. And that meant there’d be a reservations schedule. With names.

  Entrance to the spa took him into a lobby. A vending machine offered a range of isotonic drinks and there were glass cabinets stocked with expensive sports gear. The reception desk lay beside a pair of swing doors that led into the exercise area. Behind the desk, a striking-looking redhead was studying her PC screen. The name badge on her sports shirt read Dominika.

  Winter asked her about court availability. He and his daughter were staying overnight. She was mad about squash and in the absence of a decent partner she was threatening to teach her dad the basic moves.

  Dominika eyed Winter’s bulk then smiled. Perfect English with a light Polish accent.

  ‘You sure you’re ready for this, sir?’

  ‘Of course I’m not. Have you got anything in the next hour or so?’

  Dominika bent to the keyboard, then studied the screen again.

  ‘I’m afraid not. We’re fully booked until nine o’clock.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’ Winter reached for the screen, angled it towards himself. The reservation was in Esme’s name. Ms E. Norcliffe. Court Two. 18.30-19.10.

  ‘Shame.’ Winter didn’t hide his disappointment.

  ‘You want to give me your room number? We might get a cancellation. ’

  ‘No need. Tell you the truth, love, it’s the perfect excuse.’ He shot the receptionist a grin. ‘I’ll take her to the bar instead.’

  He retreated to the car park and settled him
self behind the wheel of the Lexus, resigned to a longish wait. A name for the new man in Ezzie’s life would have been a flying start.

  By now, it was gone six. Ezzie and her partner would be on court until way past seven. After that might come a sauna, or a swim, or maybe both. Followed, in all probability, by something more intimate. Stu was up in town. Back home, the babysitter would be putting the kids to bed. If lover boy had £184 to spare, they could shag all night.

  Winter wondered whether to bell Mackenzie but knew it was pointless. Bazza paid him a great deal of money to look after his best interests. In the early days it had been a question of business. More recently the Tide Turn Trust. Tonight it happened to be his wayward daughter. Stick with it, mate. Get me a name, an address, a guarantee that this tosser will get out of our lives. Pretend you’re back with the Old Bill, plotting up some poor bloody criminal. Time-wise, it takes what it takes.

  Winter punched a button on the radio, then changed his mind. Anything was better than Chris Evans. He sorted through his collection of CDs, chose an early Elton John album, settled down to enjoy ‘Bennie and the Jets’. The tracks slipped by. It began to get dark. After

  ‘Yellow Brick Road’ came ‘Candle in the Wind’. By half eight, singing along to ‘Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me’, Winter was suddenly aware of two figures heading for the car park. One of them was Ezzie. The other, taller, had his arm round her.

  At Mackenzie’s insistence, Winter had brought along a camera with a decent telephoto lens. It lay on the seat beside him. He picked it up, squinted through the viewfinder, anchored the auto-focus over the approaching couple. Ezzie was laughing. Then she nuzzled her head against her companion’s shoulder. From this angle it was impossible to get a proper look at his face but Winter squirted off a couple of shots regardless. The tableau told its own story. A display of affection like this, in Bazza’s book, would be quite enough to justify a spot or two of serious violence.

  Ezzie got into the 4 x 4. Her bloke had his back to Winter’s probing lens. Seconds later, the big BMW was pulling out of the car park. Winter gave it a moment or two, stowed the camera, and set off in pursuit. For Ezzie, the quickest way home was via the motorway but the BMW was heading west, deeper into the New Forest. Winter hung back, glad of the darkness, wondering quite what might happen next. Did this guy have a place of his own nearby? Somewhere they could get their heads down and enjoy some serious nooky?

  It seemed the answer was yes. On the outskirts of a village called Bramshaw Ezzie suddenly indicated right. Winter slowed, then took the turn. Less than a hundred metres ahead the BMW had come to a halt. Then Ezzie was indicating right again, hauling the 4 x 4 into a driveway. Winter gunned the engine, sweeping by. There were no street lights but he had time to register a modern-looking bungalow, set back from the road, before the darkness swallowed him up again. He drove on for perhaps half a mile, then pulled onto an apron of mud in front of a farm gate. A three-point turn took him back down the road, moving very slowly. At length, round a couple of bends, the bungalow came into view. There were a pair of dormer windows set into the roof and a light was on in one of them. Ezzie’s BMW was still in the drive.

  Winter parked on the verge and took more photos. Later he’d confirm a house number and the name of the road but for the time being - once again - all he had to do was wait. He toyed with another helping or two of Elton John but settled for Carly Simon instead. By the end of the first album, he’d developed a serious respect for this bloke’s stamina. By the end of the second, he was convinced Ezzie was staying the night. Then he realised that the light in the dormer window had been switched off. Moments later, the front door opened and two figures stepped out. Expecting a lingering farewell kiss, Winter watched the pair of them walk around the front of the bungalow to the driveway. For the first time, he realised that another vehicle was parked in front of the BMW. It was an estate car. It looked like a Renault or maybe a Vauxhall.

  Ezzie kissed her lover goodnight, tossed her sports bag into the back of the BMW, got in behind the wheel. The bloke watched her for a moment or two, raised his hand in a farewell wave, then reached in his pocket for his car keys. Ezzie was already backing the big 4 x 4 into the road. The estate car followed. At the top of the road both cars signalled left, back towards the motorway. Winter stirred the Lexus into life. The next village was called Brook. Ezzie, as Winter expected, headed east while the estate car turned right, accelerating hard, plunging deeper into the forest.

  Winter had left the village behind before he caught sight of a pair of red lights in the distance. He couldn’t be sure it was the estate car but it was way past midnight and he had no choice but to find out. It had stopped raining by now but this part of the forest was virtually treeless, a vast plateau of heather and scrub, and despite the 40 mph speed limit the driver had his foot down. Slowly, Winter began to close the gap between them, pushing the Lexus past ninety on the faster stretches. From time to time, in the flare of the headlights, he caught a glimpse of ponies grazing at the roadside. Once, he saw a cow look up with a start as he swept past. What might happen if one of these animals ambled onto the tarmac didn’t bear contemplation but Winter didn’t care. He was back doing what twenty years in CID had trained him for: getting tighter to the target, plotting his next move, trying to assess the many possibilities that lay ahead. By now he’d closed the gap to a hundred metres. Definitely the estate car.

  A signpost flashed by. FORDINGBRIDGE 3 MILES. Winter didn’t know this part of the world but they seemed to have crossed the New Forest in no time at all. The road started to descend. Suddenly they were back in the trees. Then, for whatever reason, the hazard lights came on in the estate car. It began to slow. Winter did the same, his brain furiously computing his next move. Should he hit the indicator and overtake? Should he then find a spot down the road from which he could resume the chase? Seconds later, the mystery driver saved him having to make the decision. Slewed across the road, the estate car blocked his path. Right first time. A Renault.

  Winter braked and came to a halt barely yards away. The driver’s door opened and a tallish figure in a black tracksuit stepped out. In the throw of his headlights, Winter watched him approaching. There was something familiar in the way this man held himself, in the rigid upright posture, in the jut of his chin, but only when he bent to the Lexus’ now-open window did Winter realise who he was looking at.

  The recognition was mutual. The face from the darkness stared at Winter for a long moment, then the door was wrenched open.

  ‘Out,’ he said.

  An evening with his new Mahler CD had lifted the worst of Faraday’s gloom. Depression was too big a word, irritation too meagre. Somewhere in between lay the growing realisation that Gabrielle really had left him, that he was once again alone in the world.

  As far as women were concerned, this had happened before. In fact Faraday had lost count of the times when he’d piled all his chips on a single square only to fall victim to a roll of the croupier’s dice. Years ago it had been Ruth Potterne, the widow of a tormented soul who’d run an art gallery. Then had come Marta, a vivid, sexy IBM executive who’d remained, to the end, an enigma. An Australian video producer, Eadie Sykes, had stolen his heart for a while before she, too, had drifted away. And now there was Gabrielle. Immense promise. Total immersion. Real tenderness. Then, quite suddenly, an empty space. Was it a case of recklessness on his part? Of naivety? Was he expecting too much of human flesh and blood? Or might he, one day, stumble on a woman - a relationship - that lasted longer than a year or so?

  In truth, he wasn’t sure. If he’d shown judgement this flawed in the Job, he knew he’d never have made it into CID. With every justification, they’d have kept him in uniform and put him in charge of lost property. So how come he’d ended up on Major Crime, with a real talent for reading the criminal mind, if he was so hopeless when it came to making more personal judgements?

  He shook his head, switching off the audio stack, happy that it was
one o’clock in the morning and his body was at last ready to surrender to sleep. Upstairs, in the bathroom, he was looking for a new tube of toothpaste when the big framed etching of the naval dockyard caught his eye. The etching had been a present from Gabrielle. She’d spotted it in a local antiques shop and brought it home, wrapped in newspaper. Hanging it in the bathroom had been her idea. With its wealth of detail it was an extraordinary snapshot of mid-Victorian Portsmouth and she’d wanted it to become an everyday part of their lives.

  Faraday gazed at it now. The tall brick chimneys belching smoke. The lines of horse-drawn wagons outside the Rigging House. The South Camber dock, brimming with navigational buoys. The comings and goings of thousands of men, tiny figures, perfectly realised. In that sense, these harbourside acres would have been the beating heart of the city, the very reason for its existence, but it was Gabrielle who’d pointed out something else. That this army of men, and all the generations before them, had helped build and protect the project that had become the British Empire. Without these skills, she said, the trade routes to the east would have been wide open. Without the sawmills, and the rope sheds, and the new machines for making blocks and pulleys, the French or the Dutch or the Portuguese would have feasted on India and Singapore, and those great pink-painted swathes of Africa. Without Pompey, in short, the cut and thrust of British imperial history would have been very different.

  The truth of this had struck Faraday with some force and he thought about it again now. The Bargemaster’s House was a relic of the same period and talking to Steph Callan had made him realise how much he owed to the place. It had become a friend as well as a refuge and at times like now it was something else as well. A solace.