Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘This was your son?’ Callan didn’t hide her interest.

  ‘Tim? Yes.’

  ‘Lovely-looking boy. It must have been heartbreaking, what happened to him.’

  ‘It was. It was horrible.’

  The cat fled the sofa the moment Faraday sat down. In the car he’d agreed that Steph Callan would take the lead. She settled herself on the other end of the sofa and produced a notebook.

  ‘You may be aware of an accident up on Southwick Hill Road …’ she began, ‘last Saturday night.’

  Mrs Morrissey said she’d heard about it. A man off the estate had been killed.

  ‘May I ask you what you were doing on Saturday night?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was -’ she frowned as if trying to remember ‘- I was here, at home.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Watching TV mostly. It’s all rubbish on Saturday night, but to be honest I was exhausted. I work at the health centre. We’re on the go all the time. It’s just non-stop.’

  ‘Was anyone with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you make any phone calls?’

  She looked up at the ceiling a moment, concentrating hard. Then she nodded.

  ‘I phoned my friend Katie. She’s just come back from Greece. We had a bit of a chat. She had a lovely time out there. It was nice talking again.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ She shrugged. ‘Eight? Nine? I’m sure you can check if you want to.’

  She gave Callan the number. She knew it by heart. Callan wanted to know what time she went to bed.

  ‘Early. I watched the news at ten then went straight upstairs. Like I say, I was just exhausted.’

  Callan glanced across at Faraday. He motioned for her to carry on. She turned back to Jeanette Morrissey.

  ‘And you went straight to sleep that night?’

  ‘Yes. Out like a light.’

  Callan nodded, scribbled herself another note.

  ‘Tell me about the following morning.’

  ‘Sunday? I woke up as usual, had a bit of a wash, went downstairs, made myself a pot of tea. Just the usual things.’

  ‘So when did you realise the camper had gone?’

  ‘When I pulled back the curtains in the front room. I leave it right outside the house. At first I didn’t believe it. In fact I got dressed and went out to check that I hadn’t parked it somewhere else.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About nine o’clock. On Sundays I have a bit of a lie-in.’

  ‘Was there any glass in the road outside? Any indication that someone might have broken a window to get into the van?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You looked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, thinking back, when you were lying in bed during the night, did you hear anything? A door closing? An engine starting?’

  ‘My bedroom’s at the back of the house. You get a lot of noise here at weekends, kids mainly. It’s quieter at the back.’

  ‘So you heard nothing?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Then next morning I got up, just like normal, and like I say … it had gone.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I went to the police and told them what had happened.’

  ‘You didn’t phone first?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because there’s no point. We get lots of trouble up here. I’m not blaming the police. They must be really stretched. But a case like this -’ she shrugged ‘- I just thought it would be quicker for me to come to you. The sooner you’ve got all the details, the quicker you might get it back. Isn’t that right?’

  Callan said nothing. Neither did Faraday. Over the course of an extremely difficult year this woman had been in touch with the local police on countless occasions. She’d have made personal contacts, even friends. So why not lift the phone?

  It was Mrs Morrissey who broke the silence. She wanted to know why she was having to answer all these questions. Callan explained about the accident. Evidence recovered from the scene suggested that a red VW camper van might have been involved.

  ‘You mean mine?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Callan glanced down at her notes. ‘The man who died … Kyle Munday. I understand you knew him.’

  ‘Of him, certainly. He’s notorious round here. Nothing but trouble. A horrible, horrible man.’

  ‘He’d had dealings with your son … is that right?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it dealings. Munday bullied him, hurt him, made Tim’s life a misery.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘No. And neither could you lot. And you know why? Because everyone on this estate’s terrified of him. Or was. And that’s why no one had the courage to come forward and give evidence. He ruled the place with that dog of his. He just strutted around like no one could touch him. Decent kids, grown-ups, people who should have known better, they all kept their heads down. When something like that happens, you give up. It’s anarchy. There’s absolutely nothing you can do. I can’t describe what that feels like. It’s like living in the Dark Ages. You’re totally, totally helpless.’

  For the first time there was colour in her face. Faraday could sense the force of her anger. Callan too.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Morrissey,’ she said. ‘This must be very distressing. ’

  ‘Munday getting killed like that?’ She shook her head. ‘Not at all. If you want the truth, I was glad someone had the good sense to run him over.’

  Another silence, longer this time. Then Callan cleared her throat.

  ‘As a matter of interest,’ she said, ‘how do you know he was run over?’

  ‘I don’t. I just assume that was what happened. And you know something else? I hope he took a while to die.’

  Carol Legge had always been one of Paul Winter’s favourite contacts. A small, talkative Geordie, she’d become a legend in the city’s Child Protection Team. People who knew her well spoke of her instinctive ability to recognise when a kid was in trouble and of the knack she had of cutting through all the bullshit and getting to the truth. In this respect, and many others, she’d never let Winter down.

  They were sitting in a café in Fratton Road. Carol, who adored cakes, had just demolished a hefty slice of Battenberg. Now she was showing Winter snaps of her latest grandchild. Winter went through the motions. What he really wanted to talk about was Tide Turn Trust.

  Finally, he spotted an opening. Carol had spent most of the afternoon trying to sort out a feral seven-year-old who’d been squirting his kid sister with bleach. The mother, a career junkie, had given up, and the kids were currently in the care of the great-grandparents.

  ‘This is a couple in their seventies, pet. They’re that poor they can’t afford the daytime tariff on the electric. In the middle of the night it’s much cheaper so they do all their washing and cooking at three in the morning. Drives the bairns mad, especially when the lady of the house is getting up every hour to baste the chicken. It’s old school, isn’t it, pet? Mustn’t let the Lidl bird dry out.’

  Winter told her about Tide Turn Trust. He’d been trying to baste this particular broiler for nine months. He’d chalked up the odd success or two, keeping kids off the streets, but the truth was the thing was driving him barmy. Time for someone else to take their turn at the stove.

  ‘This is Mackenzie’s little party piece?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Still friends, are you?’

  ‘Blood brothers. Inseparable.’

  ‘No regrets about leaving the Job?’

  ‘None.’

  She gave him a look then asked how she could help. If Mackenzie was serious about sorting out wayward kids and had money to spare she’d be the last person to stand in his way.

  ‘He’s got loads of money. He practically invented the stuff. And he’s happy to spend a decent whack on Tide Turn. In fact he insists.’


  ‘Good. So what do you need from me?’

  Winter explained that he was standing aside. The Trust needed a new Chief Executive, someone to drive it forward, someone who understood the real challenge that these kinds of kids were offering.

  ‘I’ve been the midwife,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought it into the world. Now it needs someone who knows what they’re doing.’

  Carol was thinking hard. She knew exactly the hole that Winter had dug for himself. More importantly, she sensed the makings of a solution.

  ‘You need someone with lots of local authority experience,’ she said. ‘That’s going to be a man or a woman in their forties. They’ll have been at the coalface as a social worker. They’ll have climbed the ladder - Senior Practitioner, Deputy Team Leader, all that stuff. They might be a Service Manager by now. That’s someone with real clout, believe me.’

  ‘So why would they want to join us?’

  ‘Because the higher you get, the tougher the frustrations become.’ She beckoned Winter closer. ‘In our little world, pet, we get short-changed all the time. Politicians are brilliant with the sound bites. Every child matters. Early intervention. Positive outcomes. The integration agenda. But every single one of these phrases comes with a price tag. And the truth is, no one’s prepared to cough up. Now that’s bad enough at the sharp end - people like me can give you chapter and verse on what we could do with more resources. But by the time you get towards the top of the tree you find people - good people, clever people - tearing their hair out. These guys are under siege. Wherever you look, society’s falling apart. Whether it’s booze or drugs or domestic violence or poverty, families can’t cope any more. And so the bosses, my bosses, have got the world knocking on their door, demanding the impossible, and there’s absolutely no way they can deliver. Not under the current lot. Probably not ever.’ She leaned back again, spearing cake crumbs with a wettened fingertip. Then she looked up. ‘Have you got the picture, pet, or am I going too fast for you?’

  Winter shook his head. All that sounded fine. But how on earth could he lay hands on these people?

  ‘You do what everyone else does, pet. You advertise. It costs a fortune but in the end it works.’

  She named a handful of publications. The Guardian’s Wednesday supplement. Community Care. Young People Today.

  Winter wasn’t convinced. If advertising meant months of waiting for the right bunch of interviewees to turn up then it was a no-no. The last thing he had was time.

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘I need someone now, love. Someone who’s got the experience. Someone who knows the city. Someone who can turn up to work tomorrow, hand in their notice, and be with us by next month.’

  ‘Why are you looking at me, pet?’

  ‘Three guesses.’

  ‘No way.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m an honest woman.’

  ‘What are you on at the moment?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky.’

  ‘We’ll double it.’

  ‘No. Believe it or not, I like my job. Some days I even love it.’ She broke off, checking her watch and then peering at the traffic outside. ‘I’ll have a little think tonight and give you a ring in the morning.’

  ‘About whether to say yes or no?’

  ‘About anyone else you might like to consider.’

  Faraday drove Steph Callan back to the Marriott. In the interests of the coming days, maybe even weeks, he suggested a drink before she returned to Eastleigh. She hesitated a moment beside her car then said yes. Faraday had a glimpse of what looked like a lifejacket in the back of the estate.

  ‘You go sailing?’

  ‘Kite surfing. It’s become an addiction.’

  ‘Difficult?’

  ‘Very. They warn you how hard it’s going to be to begin with but no one ever tells you it gets tougher.’ She pocketed her keys and shot him a wary grin. ‘Bit like the Job, really.’

  The bar in the Marriott was beginning to fill up. Men in jeans and sports shirts, newly pinked by a session in the hotel gym. Single women in business suits, bent over laptops. Faraday bought himself a pint of Guinness. Steph settled for lime and soda.

  ‘It’s yoga tonight,’ she explained. ‘I find it helps.’

  ‘The soft drink?’

  ‘The yoga.’

  ‘Helps with what?’

  ‘Pretty much everything really.’ She reached for the drink. ‘Cheers.’

  Earlier, after they’d left Mrs Morrissey, they’d done a series of house-to-house calls up the road, asking whether anyone had seen the VW camper leaving late on Saturday night. This would normally have been the job of local CID but Faraday knew how pressed they were. At every address they’d drawn a blank. Yes, the big red van was often parked outside number 33. And no, they definitely hadn’t seen some young scrote nicking it.

  ‘She’s lying, isn’t she?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Faraday nodded. ‘She’s got the motivation. For some reason she must have been out late Saturday night, which means she probably had the opportunity. Plus we’re looking at a red VW camper. This is someone who works in the medical field. She’ll know about DNA. She’ll realise what we can do with that vehicle. So once she’s run the guy over, what’s the first thing she does?’

  ‘She bins it.’

  ‘Sure. But where?’

  First thing in the morning Faraday would task Jimmy Suttle to pay Mrs Morrissey another visit. They needed an association chart, a list of friends and relatives she might trust to look after her precious camper van. The front would have impact damage. Bits of Kyle Munday would still be hanging underneath. One way or another, she had to get rid of that evidence. Not easy.

  Steph was worrying about the timeline. Once Mrs Morrissey had dumped the van, did she come home again? If the garage or lock-up was somewhere local, would she have made that journey on foot? Or if it turned out that the camper was secured miles away, should they be looking at a lift with a friend? Or a call to a taxi firm?

  The questions went on and on, a net of suppositions designed to snare her alibi and test it to breaking point. DCI Parsons, meanwhile, would have to make a decision about applying for billing records on her mobile phone and landline. She may have made calls after the accident. If her mobile was switched on, cell site analysis might be able to track her movements. More questions for when they finally got Jeanette Morrissey down to the interview suite at the Bridewell.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Steph again. ‘Three days? Four? Longer than that? Only I’m off to Greece at the end of next week.’

  Faraday was still musing about the first question. Guinness was something he hated to rush.

  ‘I think it’s a shame,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve read the file. I was at the Melody post-mortem back in November. I saw what Munday, if it was Munday, did to that kid. His mum was traumatised by what happened. Not just then but before, with all the bullying. Anyone would be. And for my money, for what it’s worth, she’ll never get over it. You heard her this afternoon. For once in her life she’s looking at a result. The guy’s dead. He died horribly. It wasn’t pretty. You know that better than anyone. And if it turns out to be her that ran him over, and we can prove it, then …’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I’d blame her.’

  ‘You’re suggesting we pack it in? Turn a blind eye? Go through the motions?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then this is all a bit of a wank, isn’t it?’

  The suggestion brought a smile to Faraday’s face. ‘You think I’m getting soft in the head?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. I’ve only known you three days. But until someone tells me different I’m assuming I’m here to collect evidence. What a bunch of lawyers, or a jury, does with that evidence is down to them. Are we on the same page, boss, or am I missing something?’

  Faraday shook his head. He felt, all of a sudden, unaccountably old.

  ‘Somewhere nice in Greece?’ he enquired, reaching for his glass.

  Mari
e cooked that night while Mackenzie and Winter sat at the kitchen table, a bottle of decent malt between them. The big house in Craneswater’s Sandown Road had become a second home to Winter over the course of the last nine months, a tacit thank you for sorting out the complicated homicide investigation that had begun with two dead bodies beside Bazza’s pool, but this was the first time he’d seen Bazza’s new souvenir corkboard.

  It occupied half the back wall in the kitchen and was covered with pictures from the Wembley final. Bazza and his mates dismounting from the hired executive chopper. The same bunch of faces, arms linked, dancing up Olympic Way. A blur of blue and white from the Pompey end seconds before the ref got the first half going. Shots of the crowd erupting after Kanu slotted the winner. Shots of Calamity James lofting the Cup on the team’s post-match lap of the stadium. A late-night snap of Bazza, pissed as a rat, at an undisclosed party somewhere in the depths of Southsea. This, Bazza told everyone who’d listen, had been the happiest day of his fucking life. The happiest day. No bullshit.

  Now the mood was darker. Pompey’s staunchest fan was trying to assess exactly how much damage his crazy daughter had inflicted on years of inspired criminality. Which meant, in turn, suppressing an urge to jump in his new motor, head for the Meon Valley, and throttle the life out of her.

  ‘No point, Baz.’ Winter had said it before. ‘Absolutely none. Treat it like a business problem.’

  ‘Sure. Easy as that.’

  ‘Hard, Baz. But think about it. We know she’s a goner as far as Madison is concerned. It doesn’t matter how and it doesn’t matter why. What matters is what she may have said already. She says she wouldn’t and she hasn’t. You know her better than me. What’s that really worth?’

  ‘A lot.’ It was Marie. ‘Esme can be a little witch but she’s pretty straight when it comes to family.’