Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Mackenzie was eyeing the pile of equipment that went with the PowerPoint. Mo ran it through his laptop. Neither he nor Winter had a clue how it worked.

  The PTI was body-checking his way towards them through the mill of guests. At Mackenzie’s insistence he was clad in a tracksuit rather than anything more formal. One or two people were beginning to check their watches.

  ‘You got a problem, guys?’ The PTI had to be away by eleven.

  ‘No, mush.’ Mackenzie was staring at the top of the stairs that led up from the entrance below. ‘What the fuck are they doing here?’

  Winter turned to find Faraday and Suttle eyeing the assembled guests. They seemed to be looking for someone. Then Suttle spotted Winter. He came across, took Winter by the arm, found a space behind a model of the French flagship at Trafalgar.

  ‘You’ve heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’ Winter’s heart sank.

  ‘About Sturrock?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Someone called in a body first thing this morning. Over on the island. It turns out to be him.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He put a bullet through his head.’ He nodded towards Mackenzie. ‘You’d better break the news.’

  As a mark of respect, the launch was cancelled. At Mackenzie’s invitation, the PTI muttered a few words about the Offshore Challenge. It was, he said, a bloody fine idea. Kids needed something special in their lives. They also needed someone special to make all that stuff happen. He hadn’t known Mo Sturrock very long but everything he’d seen and heard had convinced him that this guy would make a difference. The fact that he’d gone was a real shame, a real loss, and whatever the circumstances he deserved a moment of silence. Heads bowed around the room. Mackenzie hugged his wife tight. She was sobbing.

  Afterwards, as the guests drifted away, the journalists wanted to know more. Mackenzie did his best, distributing Mo’s fact packs about what the Offshore Challenge involved, but that was no longer what they were after. There was a rumour that Tide Turn’s new boss had committed suicide. Was Mr Mackenzie in a position to confirm that? Mackenzie shook his head, aware that Faraday and Suttle were still on the premises. Lizzie Hodson was nowhere to be seen but a pushy young reporter from Meridian TV had sussed the presence of the police. He cornered Faraday on the viewing platform outside.

  ‘Maurice Sturrock? Is that correct?’ He spelled out the Christian name.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And can you confirm he’s killed himself?’

  ‘I can confirm he’s dead.’

  ‘Would there be any reason why he might have committed suicide?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Is there someone else we can talk to? Someone who might know?’

  ‘Not at this point. I expect there’ll be a press statement later.’ Faraday stepped back inside, thankful that the reporter hadn’t enquired exactly what CID were doing at a function like this.

  Willard and Parsons were waiting for Faraday at Kingston Crescent. At their insistence, Suttle joined them in Parsons’ office. Willard, once again, was incandescent. He’d just conferenced with the duty D/I at Newport police station. Sturrock had taken a single .22 bullet through the temple. There was no indication of foul play. The rifle evidently belonged to his seventeen-year-old son.

  ‘He knew, Joe. Some fucker told him. Am I getting warm?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir. I imagine you must be.’

  ‘So where were you yesterday?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday morning.’

  ‘I went to the island.’

  ‘Good. That’s a good start. You know why? Because that’s exactly what we thought you might do. And you know something else? I asked DCI Parsons to run a check on the ferries. 07.30 to Fishbourne. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So then what?’

  ‘Are we talking PACE here? Should I have a lawyer?’

  ‘Just answer the question, Joe. Tell me why you went to the island.’

  ‘I went to see Tessa Fogle.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To tell her where we’d got to with Sangster. To warn her, I suppose, about what was about to happen. I’d given her my word. It was the least I owed her.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She didn’t. I got as far as her house and there it stopped.’

  ‘She wasn’t in?’

  ‘I didn’t knock on the door.’

  ‘She was in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you got up early, you took the ferry, you drove over to her place, you confirmed she was there, and you didn’t take it any further? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You think I’m lying?’

  ‘Frankly, yes. Either that or you’ve totally lost it.’

  Faraday held his gaze. Then he stood up. His warrant card was in the top pocket of his suit. He slipped it out and laid it carefully on the desk. He’d had enough. His tussle with his conscience was one thing. This was quite another.

  Then came another voice. Suttle’s.

  ‘It was me, sir.’

  ‘What?’ A tiny frown clouded Willard’s massive face.

  ‘Me. My fault.’

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘I live with a journalist. She interviewed Sturrock on Tuesday, ahead of the launch. She was preparing a big piece on him. She was really impressed, really really impressed. After the interview we had a bit of a run-in. In the end I marked her card.’

  ‘Told her what he’d been up to? All those years ago?’

  ‘Told her what he might have been up to.’

  ‘Same thing, son. I’ll put money on it.’ He glanced at Parsons, then went back to Suttle. ‘So what did she do, this girlfriend of yours?’

  ‘She went to the island yesterday with a photographer. She must have had a word with Sturrock. That’s the only way it could have happened.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Why couldn’t it have been Joe here?’

  ‘Because D/I Faraday’s straight, sir. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t hide from the truth. And if you don’t mind me saying so, we ought to be able to cope with that.’

  Afterwards

  A DNA swab from the post-mortem on Mo Sturrock provided a perfect match with the scene sample preserved for Operation Sangster. Faraday got the news personally from Willard. His call found Faraday in the Bargemaster’s House. Pending a decision on whether he really wanted to resign or not, he’d been granted what Willard had been careful to describe as ‘compassionate leave’.

  ‘He did it, Joe. He raped that woman. Even you can’t deny it.’

  ‘It’s not denial, sir. That was never my point.’

  ‘I know, but it’s black and white, isn’t it? The guy was a rapist.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Faraday had wearied of this conversation already. He no longer knew or even cared where it led.

  ‘So what next? Have you made a decision yet?’ Willard was trying to sound upbeat. It didn’t work.

  ‘No, sir. DCI Parsons said two weeks. I’ll let you know by Monday.’

  ‘You feel OK?’

  ‘I feel fine.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone?’

  Faraday smiled. He meant a psychiatrist.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Still away with the birds, then?’

  It was a poor joke. Faraday didn’t laugh. There was a long silence.

  ‘Monday then. We’ll talk again.’

  He rang off.

  Two days later, Faraday took another call. It was a woman’s voice this time and it was several seconds before he placed it. Tessa Fogle.

  ‘I’m in Portsmouth,’ she said at once. ‘If it’s possible I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘You gave it to m
e. You left a card.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course I did.’

  He gave her directions for the Bargemaster’s House and wondered whether to put the kettle on. Within minutes she was stepping out of a cab and walking up the path to the front door. She looked terrible.

  ‘Come in.’

  Faraday led her through to the big lounge that looked onto the harbour. Mercifully, it was a beautiful day.

  ‘Are you happy to stay in here or would you prefer to go outside?’

  ‘Here’s fine.’

  She sank onto the sofa, refusing Faraday’s offer of tea. She said she’d been talking to the girl from the News again, Lizzie Hodson. After the trauma of Mo’s funeral and ongoing problems trying to settle the kids, Lizzie had come back to her. At first Tessa had thought she was after a story, some kind of exclusive interview, but it hadn’t turned out that way at all.

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She wanted to tell me about you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I never realised at the time, but it seems you came over the day before Mo … you know … did it. She said you wanted to tell me what was going on, what I should expect. And she said there’d been all kinds of trouble about it, between you and your bosses.’

  Faraday nodded, saying nothing. This was Jimmy Suttle’s doing, he thought. He’s leant on his partner, asked her to pass a message. If so, it was a kind thought.

  Tessa wanted to know if it was true. Faraday said yes. He’d made her a promise. That promise flew in the face of all kinds of other stuff but he’d still felt compelled to keep his word.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ He shook his head. To be honest, he said, he no longer knew. Lizzie was right. There’d been big trouble, huge trouble, but nothing that would hold a candle to what she must be going through.

  ‘Do you think some kind of warning would have made it easier for me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose it might.’ Faraday frowned. ‘Did you ever suspect it was him?’

  ‘Mo, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who did it? Raped me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘So if I’d have warned you, would you have told him? Would you have confronted him?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I would have forgiven him. It wouldn’t have mattered. Back then we were different people. That’s what I’d have told him.’

  ‘So he’d still be alive? Is that what you’re saying?’

  There was a long moment of silence. Outside, two gulls were squabbling over something on the foreshore. Then she shook her head.

  ‘He’d still have gone. He’d still have done it, still have killed himself. Nothing I could have said would have changed that.’ She studied him for a moment then ducked her head. ‘I’ve brought you this. It’s a copy, I’m afraid, but I know you’ll understand.’

  She searched in her bag and produced a folded square of A4. It was typed, single space. At the bottom, a row of inked kisses.

  Tessa was on her feet. She’d asked the taxi to hang on for her at the end of the road. She’d come to tell Faraday that he wasn’t to blame for what had happened. Faraday stared up at her.

  ‘So you don’t think it made a difference? Me not telling you?’

  ‘No.’ She offered him a wan smile. ‘But thanks for trying.’

  She left the room, refusing Faraday’s offer to walk her up the road. He heard the front door open and close. Then silence again.

  He turned to the letter, aware of a sudden chill in the room. A dead man’s voice, sepulchral, beyond reach.

  My lover, it began.

  By the time you read this I’ll have gone. I know it’s the coward’s way out but I’ve always hoped and prayed that what we have, and what we’ve had, would last forever. I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you. You won’t remember because I never had the guts to do anything about it but I was the geek who trailed around all those years ago trying to summon the courage to chat you up or ask you out or any of that stuff.

  You were beautiful and I loved you from a safe distance and then one night I got as pissed as a rat and decided to do something about it. That was the night it happened. You were out of it too. I followed you home. I found the little alley at the back. There were two rooms that looked onto the garden but yours was the window that was open. I could see you inside. I couldn’t help myself. I knew you’d be off the next week, just like all the other third years. When would I ever see you again?

  So that’s the way it happened. I remember getting in through the window but the rest of it I’ve pretty much blanked. The police got nowhere and after a while I started asking around after you. You were mates with a girl on my course. That’s how we both ended up at that pub in Petersfield. The rest you know about.

  I love you, Tess. I’ve always loved you and I always will. Kiss the kids from me and never forget the family we’ve been. What happens next I could never cope with. To tell you the truth I thought we’d cracked it but it turns out I was wrong. Maybe I was greedy. Maybe I wanted too much. Maybe our kind of heaven is beyond reach.

  XXXXX

  Faraday folded the letter and then looked up. Beyond reach. Too right. He blinked, wiped an eye with the back of his hand, stared out through the big glass doors. The harbour was a blur. He didn’t know what to do, who to phone, who to talk to. He didn’t know anything. He’d never read anything so sad in his entire life.

  The following afternoon he phoned Winter.

  ‘Have you got a moment?’

  Winter didn’t want to talk on the phone. He said he’d drive over from Craneswater. Sandown Road was a tomb. He was back in charge of Tide Turn. Life, he thought, couldn’t possibly get worse.

  Faraday opened a bottle of wine. Already, he felt like a convalescent. Tessa’s visit seemed to have blown away some of the fog in his head. He was beginning to think straight again. He was beginning to sense the need for decisions.

  Winter had shed his jacket. It was another perfect day. They sat in the garden, two men deep into middle age, sharing a bottle of decent Rioja.

  Faraday told Winter about Operation Sangster, about the doors that familial DNA could open, about the dawning realisation that he’d walked into a horror show. The guy was a loyal partner, a great father and the kind of social worker that gave the profession a good name. A thimbleful of semen, shed in a long-ago moment of drunken madness, had destroyed all that. Where was the logic? Where was the justice?

  ‘There isn’t any.’ Winter was monitoring the approach of a young blonde jogger along the towpath beside the harbour. ‘So how come you got the familial hit?’

  Faraday told him about Jeanette Morrissey, Sturrock’s sister, and what had happened to Kyle Munday. Winter abandoned the jogger.

  ‘She killed this bloke?’

  ‘Ran him down.’

  ‘Deliberately?’

  ‘No question about it. She spelled it out for us. She saw him in the road and put her foot down. She’d been wanting to do it for ages, just never had the chance.’

  ‘And this is a nurse?’

  ‘Pillar of the community. Straight as a die. Saw the opportunity. Took it.’

  Saw the opportunity. Took it.

  Winter nodded and then turned his head away, remembering Sturrock sprawled on his sofa, pissed as a rat. I just fancied it, he’d said. It just happened. Bang. You go for it. At the time, Winter had assumed he was talking about the speech he’d made at the conference. Only now did he realise what he’d really been getting off his chest.

  ‘Something the matter?’ It was Faraday.

  ‘No, boss.’ Winter shook his head. ‘Nothing you shouldn’t expect.’

  ‘Share it with me?’

  ‘One day maybe.’ He reached for the bottle then raised his brimming glass. ‘Jimmy Suttle tells me you might be looking for something new. It happens I know just the man to talk to.’


  On Monday the weather broke. Faraday, who’d spent most of the weekend on the phone talking to Gabrielle, drove to Kingston Crescent in pouring rain. Faintly surprised to find his name still on his office door, he shed his coat, sat down at the desk and lifted the phone. Willard’s secretary was about to put him on hold when Willard himself came on the line.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘Me, sir.’

  ‘Had a think?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  Faraday suddenly saw the message scrawled across his whiteboard. Sangster was having a modest celebration upstairs in the bar at six o’clock. Be there. Faraday started laughing. Suttle must have been in.

  Willard was getting impatient. He was demanding an answer. Did they still have the pleasure of Faraday’s company or not? Faraday bent to the phone, trying to compose himself. He needn’t have bothered. Willard made the decision for him.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes then, Joe.’

  The phone went dead.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to the following for their time and patience: Dave Anderson, John Ashworth, Gary Cable, Scott Chilton, Martin Chudley, Deborah Cook, Roly Dumont, Diana Franklin, Mark Hall, Alan Hunter, Liz Harkin, Andy Harrington, Simon Hodgekin, Richard John, Dean Juster, Tina Lowe, Terry Lowe, Bruce Marr, Teresa Norton, Paul O’Brien, Rosie Rae, Matthias Reiss, Tony Tipping, Danielle Stoakes, Wayne Tommans-Parker, Doug Utting, Alyson West.

  Simon Spanton, my editor, loyally supported Paul Winter’s trek into the fictional unknown while my wife, Lin, kept him from his worst excesses. Winter owes them both.