‘That’s you?’
‘That’s us. Would lunchtime be OK for you? I have to be away by half two to pick up the kids.’
‘Of course.’ Faraday checked his watch. ‘I’ll be with you by one o’clock.’
Upstairs, he found a map of the island. To his delight, Newchurch was only a couple of miles from the RSPB site at Brading Marsh. The Isle of Wight could be disappointing from the species point of view but short-eared owls wintered in the marshes and with luck one or two might still be around. Late spring also attracted pairs of breeding lapwings, and the reed beds beside the River Yar were another favourite haunt of the reclusive Cetti’s warbler. He packed a rucksack with his walking boots, a light anorak and his precious Leica red spots. Back downstairs, he phoned Wightlink for a ferry booking while the kettle boiled. The flask of sugared coffee should last him all afternoon.
By now, the traffic was thinner. By five to eleven, with the Mondeo stowed on the car deck below, Faraday was leaning on the rail in the sunshine, watching a swirl of gulls fighting for scraps from the fishing boats in the Camber Docks. Peace, he thought.
Newchurch was a tiny village south of Ryde. The fact that the Pointer Inn had survived was a tribute to the locals and the passing trade. An elderly couple were sitting at a table outside, enjoying an early lunch. Faraday pulled into the car park and fumbled for his mobile. The woman was tearing off tiny shreds of bread roll and tossing them to a waiting blackbird.
‘Ms Fogle? I’m afraid I’m earlier than expected.’
‘No problem. Early’s good. Where are you?’
‘Virtually outside. The Pointer Inn?’
‘Oh!’ She sounded startled. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. The place is a tip, I’m afraid.’
Faraday was on her doorstep within minutes, eyeing the battered Land Rover parked on the verge outside the garden gate. He could hear footsteps inside, then came a grunt as someone tugged the door open. Tessa Fogle was in her mid-forties. She had a weathered, lived-in face lightly dusted with freckles. She wore a loose cotton top over a pair of worn jeans and her feet were bare on the flagstones inside the door. Two toe rings, both silver.
‘Come in. Like I said, it’s a mess.’
She was right. Faraday picked his way past a litter of toys and abandoned clothing. He remembered the file. Three kids, he thought, at the very least.
She took him through to the kitchen. More chaos. Faraday found a stool and propped himself beside the breakfast bar. The calendar on the corkboard was covered with crayoned crosses, most of them blue.
‘My daughter, I’m afraid. They’re kisses. She’s very affectionate.’
‘She has special days for kissing?’
‘I’m afraid so. Saturdays and Sundays mainly … as you can see.’ Tessa was right. There wasn’t a single weekend that hadn’t escaped a big waxy blue cross.
‘How many kids have you got?’
‘Three. And three’s enough, believe me. We love them to death but forget real life.’
‘They are real life.’
‘You’re right. Tea? Coffee?’
Faraday asked for tea. Wherever he looked, the bones of the old chapel poked through. The lower half of a stained-glass window, bisected by the floor above. An old timber pew, high-backed, deeply uncomfortable, piled high with newspapers and half-finished kids’ drawings. The flagstones underfoot, polished by age and tiny dancing feet. The conversion was piecemeal, haphazard, a sketch at best, but somehow it worked. The place, even to a total stranger, felt like home.
‘Why Dimpsy?’ Faraday had noticed the name etched on a slate beside the front door.
‘We used to go to the West Country a lot, years back. We had a camper van. Dimpsy’s an old Devon word for twilight. We couldn’t resist it.’
‘Twilight?’
‘Sunset. You get beautiful sunsets here. The back of the house faces west. Great for dimpsy. Even the kids say so.’
Faraday grinned. He liked the idea of living in a house called Twilight. Twilight, on a rising tide, was when the birds on the harbour flocked home to the roost. Twilight, in a couple of months’ time, would see Gabrielle back at the Bargemaster’s House. Smells of garlic and fresh ginger. An open bottle of something delicious on the kitchen table. Dimpsy. Nice.
Tessa was decanting hot water into a teapot. The only tea bags she could find were chamomile.
‘Fine.’ Faraday shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
She left the pot to brew and turned back to him. She wanted to know why now was the time to reopen an inquiry on something that had happened so long ago. Faraday, sensing she’d had a bit of a think since he’d phoned her earlier from the Bargemaster’s House, said at once that nothing had been decided.
‘So I can say no?’
‘Absolutely. That’s why I’m here. Without your consent, your go-ahead, nothing happens.’
‘But you’d like it to? You want to get to the bottom of this thing?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it might happen again. To be frank we’ve no idea who did it but there are new DNA techniques that might give us a lead. This man, whoever he is, might be on the other side of the world. He might never touch another woman in his life. He might even be dead. But we know what he did to you all those years ago and that’s something for which he should be caught and punished.’
She nodded. She agreed. Over the years she’d thought long and hard about it.
‘And?’
‘Exactly what you said. He’s done it before. He might do it again. That gives me a bit of a responsibility, doesn’t it? As well as … I don’t know … offering some kind of closure.’
The word ‘closure’ took Faraday back to the file. He asked whether she was still working as a counsellor.
‘Yes.’ She poured the tea. ‘The kids keep me busy most of the time but I’ve got clients who go way back and if I can still help them at all then of course I do my best.’
‘And has that -’ Faraday frowned, hunting for the right phrase ‘- made it any easier to come to terms with what happened?’
‘Yes, definitely. In fact I’d never have gone into counselling otherwise. Counselling was incredibly therapeutic, believe it or not. So I guess I owe him my career, such as it is. Weird, don’t you think?’
Faraday didn’t answer. The tea was foul. He looked up.
‘Are you married?’
‘No. Partnered.’
‘And does your partner know what happened?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Oddly enough we got together quite soon after it happened but I took a decision never to tell him. The only people who knew were my mum and dad, and my dad’s dead now so that just leaves my mum.’
‘And she’s the only one who knows?’
‘Yes. Apart from the other people in the house where it happened, of course, but I lost touch with them pretty quickly. I think that’s the way it affects you. You just want to get away, burn your bridges, try and forget it all.’
Faraday toyed with his rainbow mug. Every investigation came with a health warning. Especially this one.
‘This new technique is powerful,’ he said. ‘There’s a reasonable chance we’d get a result. If that were to happen then you’d be in court as a witness. People would know. Your partner would know. Your kids. Everyone. You’d have to be prepared for that. Quite aside from the trauma of having to go through it all again.’
‘I can cope with that.’
‘With what?’
‘Going through it all again. To be honest it now feels like something that happened to someone else. It’s like a script or something. I’m word-perfect about what happened but my life’s moved on. Does that make any sense?’
‘Of course, but you’re still left with having to cope with other people. Take your partner. You think the relationship’s strong enough to survive something like this?’
‘Absolutely. We’ve been together more than twenty years. We’re mates. We have a really s
olid relationship. He’s going to want to know why I haven’t told him all this time, but he’s a sane guy, I know he is.’
‘So you think he can cope?’
‘I know he can. I can read that man like a book. I know him inside out.’ She caught the ghost of a smile on Faraday’s lips. ‘Is that arrogant, do you think? Presumptuous? Thinking - assuming - he loves me enough to forgive me?’
‘Not at all. I think you’re very lucky.’
‘Because he loves me?’
‘Yes. And because you’ve made a life for yourselves in spite of what happened.’
‘Sure.’ She nodded. ‘But he doesn’t know, does he? And that’s the point you’re trying to make.’
She’d hacked a path of her own through this thicket of what-ifs and come full circle. Faraday asked her whether she needed time to reflect a little longer.
‘I’ve had twenty-four years,’ she said at once. ‘Don’t you think that’s time enough?’
‘So it has mattered.’ Faraday’s voice was soft.
‘Of course it’s mattered. There’ve been nights and nights and nights when I’ve thought about that man, what he did, the liberties he took, the way he defiled me. I know I was pissed but you can’t feel dirtier than that, believe me. You feel worthless, useless. And you’re right, it doesn’t go away.’
‘Even now?’
‘Now’s different. It’s been different for years. Now I’ve got kids, a family that works. We laugh a lot, we enjoy each other. The odd night? A bad dream? Sure, it all comes back. And maybe that’s why I know it’s right for you guys to go off and do what you do. I’ve got no doubts about that. Absolutely none. I’d only ask one favour.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’ll warn me if you find him.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘I know. But he’ll be in custody so there’s no need for you to worry.’
‘It’s not that.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s my partner. I’ll only tell him if I have to. And that will only happen if you get lucky.’
‘Lucky?’
‘By finding him.’ She nodded at the rainbow mug. ‘More tea?’
Bazza drove Winter and Mo Sturrock to the dockyard. The Victory Gate lay at the end of the Hard, a busy stretch of waterfront beside the harbour station. He parked the Bentley, had a brisk word with a woman on the security gate, and shepherded Winter and Sturrock through. This was the Historic Dockyard, the jewel in Pompey’s crown, acres of museums, boat sheds, and - her masts already visible - Nelson’s flagship HMS Victory.
Winter had a shrewd idea what was coming next. Already, as far as Mackenzie was concerned, the dramas of the past week were history. Guy was back where he belonged, the Garfield problem had been sorted, and thanks to Esme’s sudden passion for married life there might even be a possibility of resurrecting the hotel deal in Baiona. No one else’s money this time, just family cash.
Most of this was lost on Sturrock. He wanted to know where they were heading.
‘The Victory Gallery, son. A mate of mine hired it last year. The people here do you proud.’
The Victory Gallery turned out to be part of the Naval Museum. It was available for private or corporate functions and Mackenzie regarded the £500 fee as entirely reasonable. Two hundred guests could get cheerfully pissed while Tide Turn explained the magic of the Offshore Challenge. The Lord Mayor would be there, together with the councillors who mattered. The top honchos from Social Services, educational welfare and the magistrates’ court would all be getting an invite together with a whole bunch of high-profile people from the voluntary sector. The Navy would obviously be turning out in force and Bazza planned to lure every head teacher in the city with the promise of a Tide Turn goody pack for their school library. He was even considering a special invite for the police.
‘I need a name, mush. You’ll know.’
Winter was studying a scale model of the Battle of Trafalgar. Nelson’s flagship was in the windward column of vessels heading for the French line.
‘Willard, Baz. He’s in charge of CID.’
‘You think he’ll come?’
‘Bound to. He loves a nice day out.’
The implications of this recce were beginning to dawn on Sturrock. ‘This is the launch party, right? For the Offshore Challenge?’
‘Spot on, mush.’
‘Do you have a date in mind?’
‘Yeah. They’ve got a free slot in a couple of weeks. Wednesday 18th. You think you can handle that?’
Sturrock blinked. Local authorities never worked at this speed. He began to tally the boxes he’d have to tick: the preparation of detailed training programmes, finding suitable boats, firming up the partnership with the Navy, getting some kind of AV presentation together. The list went on and on and he was about to mention his own status - still suspended from Social Services - when Bazza cut in.
‘This is a launch, son. This tells the world we’ve arrived, we’re in business. Think of it as a selling opportunity. It’s your baby, your idea. Get out there and flog it.’ He shot Sturrock a grin. ‘I’ve said yes to the 18th. You happy with that?’
Faraday spent the rest of the day on Brading Marsh. The wetlands extended south from the wide sweep of Bembridge Harbour and he ducked off the main road that skirted the waterfront, following the path that led deep into the reserve.
Before leaving Tessa Fogle he’d borrowed her PC for a quick check on the RSPB website. Birders had recently reported nine breeding pairs of grey herons. Grey herons had always been a favourite with J-J, and Faraday remembered the evening after he’d first laid eyes on the bird. J-J had been a child then, barely nine years old, and Faraday could still picture him strutting up and down the kitchen in his Star Trek pyjamas, his arms glued to his sides, his skinny neck stretched forward, trying to master the elements of being a heron while his dad ladled out another helping of spaghetti hoops.
The memory warmed him, drew him back to this morning’s encounter with Tessa Fogle. He hadn’t given much thought to what he’d find at the converted chapel. Day after working day he stepped into other people’s lives. Often he was there to deal with the consequences of family breakdown. A single mother on the game battered by a drunken client. A vengeful husband taking it out on his luckless wife. A son kicked to death for drug debts.
Case by case, incident by incident, the evidence mounted, and Faraday knew it was hard to avoid the dark conclusion that he and others like him were watching a society tearing itself apart. For some unfathomable reason, all the post-war miracles hadn’t worked. Better health care, shorter working hours, greater affluence, even the guarantee of a longer lifespan had failed to make people happier. We whined more. We worried more. And we started wondering when the shiny must-have bubble that was modern life would burst.
Then, all of a sudden, you walked into the seeming chaos of the Fogle household and you realised that there was still plenty of room for warmth and laughter in the world. Faraday didn’t doubt for a moment that times would have been tough for them, maybe still were. Kids weren’t cheap to run and three of them would cost a fortune. Tessa hadn’t volunteered anything about her partner and trying to imagine what he did for a living was pure guesswork, but jobs were scarce on the island and the pay was lousy.
A glance through the kitchen window told Faraday that much of their veg was home-grown and she’d mentioned a local fox that had designs on the chicken coop beyond the onion sets. Her oldest, she said, had recently acquired a .22 rifle and sat up late some nights. The boy had turned out to be a natural with the gun and was on the promise of a trip across to Fratton Park for a decent home game if he ended up nailing Mr Hungry.
The story had made Faraday laugh. It was funny, and real, and smacked of a proper family. One way or another, he’d concluded, Tessa Fogle and her brood were making it work. Before leaving, Faraday had given her a card. Any problem, he’d told her, just get on the phone.
At the far end of the
marsh Faraday stopped to watch a circling buzzard. According to the RSPB website, there were two breeding pairs. Later, enjoying the last of the coffee from the Thermos, he spent a contented hour hunkered down beside a stand of reeds. Through the red spots he had perfect line of sight on a family of lapwings, busying around beside a lined scrape amongst the scrub and heather. There were three chicks with Mum and Dad, tiny little speckled pom-poms, battling to keep up with their parents as they foraged for food. Another take on domestic life, Faraday thought, wondering about the possibility of a pint before he returned to the ferry.
By the time he finally left the marsh, it was sunset. The shadows were lengthening over the harbour and he paused beside the long crescent of beach, hearing the soft lap of the tide. The beach was littered with debris and there was a faint tarry smell he always associated with waterside evenings like these at the Bargemaster’s House. He paused for a moment, enjoying the silence, then came a distant flap of wings and a distinctive harsh croaking sound and he looked up to see a pair of grey herons flying overhead, heading home to their roost. He half-turned to follow their progress, catching the wide spread of their wings against the failing light, knowing it was a moment to treasure. Dimpsy, he thought, fumbling for his car keys.
Chapter thirty
FRIDAY, 13 JUNE 2008. 11.42
Mo Sturrock had never worked so hard in his life. Ten days, flat out. A week and a half of hurried phone calls, snatched conversations, carefully noted promises. Ignoring the stipulation that he was meant to stay at home, awaiting the call to his final disciplinary hearing, he’d come across daily on the hovercraft, begging time with senior city officials, cornering key social workers, making his case with a magistrate or two, spreading the word about Tide Turn’s bold new initiative. He’d even sacrificed his morning session on the rowing machine to squeeze an extra half-hour from his working day.
The reactions, though, had been worth it. Everywhere he went there’d been agreement that issues around youth offending were in dire need of a good shake. The Every Child Matters agenda had provided a launch pad for all kinds of enterprising schemes, some effective, others not, but the brutal truth was that lots of kids were still getting lost, still getting into bad company, still getting into trouble.
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