Angels Passing

by Hurley, Graham

  Denise Prentice lived on the seventh floor of Raglan House, another gaunt sixties block which always reminded Faraday of the wastelands of Eastern Europe. Sodden chip wraps and pizza boxes clogged the gutters in the street outside while an upended supermarket trolley lay in the pool of light outside the main entrance. Bucharest, maybe. Or East Berlin before the Wall came down.

  Doodie’s mum lived in 703. Faraday rang the buzzer on the speaker phone but got no reply. He buzzed again and this time a voice answered. It was a woman’s voice, husky with fags. Faraday announced himself. He was a policeman. He wanted a word in connection with Gavin. The speaker phone went dead. Nothing else happened.

  At length Faraday took advantage of a returning resident to get inside the building, standing beside the guy as the lift creaked slowly upwards. These people could smell the Filth. He knew it. At the seventh floor he got out of the lift without a backward glance, making his way around three sides of the block until he found 703. The nearest of the overhead lights was out but even in the gloom he could see that the door lock, a Yale, had recently been replaced.

  He knocked twice. He could hear kids inside and the blare of a television. The television was really loud, a cartoon of some kind, and it took four more knocks, ever harder, before the door opened. Faraday found himself looking down at a tiny girl. She was wearing a grubby, food-stained vest and not much else. How she’d ever managed the door was beyond him.

  ‘Is your mum there?’

  A woman appeared, shooing the girl away. She was thin and blonde with a sharp face and stained teeth. Her Gap T-shirt was cut low enough around the neck to show a fading love bite and there was a dark blue tattoo in the shape of a flower beneath her left ear. She looked exhausted.

  Faraday held up his warrant card while she struggled to push the door closed against the weight of his body. Finally, she shrugged and gave up.

  The flat was cold and bare, and smelled of dogs and old chip fat. Through an open door Faraday could see three kids, all young, sitting on the lino in front of the television. Even the little girl who’d opened the door had ceased to take any interest in the new visitor.

  ‘You’re Mrs Prentice?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ve come about Gavin. Is he here?’

  The woman gave him a long hard look. A bit of make-up, Faraday thought, and a decent meal and she’d be halfway attractive.

  ‘No,’ she said at last, ‘he ain’t.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I fucking am.’

  ‘Mind if I take a look?’

  ‘Help yourself. Everyone else does.’

  She leaned back against the wall and folded her arms while Faraday looked quickly round the flat. The bottom had fallen out of the single armchair in the TV room while the kitchen seemed to house little more than a microwave, a packet of Coco Pops and an empty carton of milk. There were the remains of a Chinese in a dog bowl on the floor while rubbish was spilling out of the black plastic sack in the corner. The open window above did little for the smell. Mrs Prentice had lit a cigarette. Faraday stepped carefully round her. Down the tiny hallway were two bedrooms. One contained an unmade bed with a smaller mattress beside it. The other door was locked.

  ‘What’s in here?’

  ‘The dog.’

  ‘Is that the kid’s bedroom?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’ve got a key?’

  The look again, garnished with a smile that Faraday didn’t altogether trust.

  ‘Good with dogs, are yer?’ She produced a key from her jeans pocket and tossed it towards Faraday.

  The moment he inched open the door, the dog lunged towards him. He wasn’t a big dog, a Jack Russell maybe, or a mongrel, and Faraday managed to hold him off for long enough to confirm that the room was empty. Three beds side by side. What looked like sleeping bags. Plus a Pompey poster on the wall. The dog was yapping fit to bust. Faraday shut the door.

  ‘You want it locked again?’

  ‘Of course I fucking do. They’ll have him out otherwise.’

  Faraday locked the door and returned the key. The woman stared him out. She’d been pretty once. Definitely.

  ‘Where’s Gavin then?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘When does he normally come in?’

  ‘Pass.’ She sucked in a lungful of smoke, tipping her head back to expel it again. ‘Pub quiz, is it? Only I’m really busy.’

  Faraday persevered. What really pissed these people off was staying calm. Lose your rag, and they’d walk all over you.

  ‘Gavin’s ten,’ he pointed out. I expect he’ll be home for tea soon.’

  I doubt it. He’s off somewhere.’

  ‘Any idea where?’

  ‘Not the slightest.’

  ‘What about last night? What was he up to last night?’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘You didn’t see him last night?’

  ‘Nope. Nor the night before. Nor the night before that. He comes home when it suits him. Like most men.’

  ‘He’s ten,’ Faraday reminded her. ‘And he’s your son.’

  ‘So?’

  She stepped into the kitchen, grinding out the remains of the cigarette in the sink. Faraday wondered how quickly you’d get used to the stench.

  ‘You’ll have a photo,’ he suggested.

  ‘Of Gav?’ The woman was grinning now, taking the piss. ‘You from the telly or something? Gonna make him famous?’

  For a moment Faraday toyed with explaining about this morning, about what they’d found outside Chuzzlewit House, but decided against it. Mrs Prentice was way beyond caring, least of all about a nice middle-class girl from Old Portsmouth lying dead in the rain. Looking at her, Faraday could hear the phrases already. Shit happens. Big deal.

  ‘The name Doodie,’ he began. ‘Does everyone call him that?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your Gavin.’

  ‘Doodie?’ She mugged a big, stagey frown. ‘Never heard of it. His name’s Gavin. I calls him Gavin. The kids calls him Gavin. Everyone calls him Gavin. OK?’

  ‘So where does he sleep at night?’

  ‘Loadsa places. His nan’s. Friends. Loadsa places.’

  ‘But you don’t know? You don’t check?’

  ‘No point. He’d only get in a strop and then I’d never see him at all, would I? Thing about Gav, he’ll always come back. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. But he’s like the dog, can’t do without us. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Food?’

  ‘He gets by, looks after himself. Never hungry, not my Gav.’

  ‘And school?’

  ‘Hates it. Can’t be doing with it. Hits the teachers, even women teachers. He’s wicked that way, really naughty. Like I tell them, they’re better off without him.’ She laughed – a short, mirthless bark of laughter – then nodded towards the front door. ‘That it then?’

  ‘What about his dad?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Does he live here?’

  ‘With us, you mean? Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘You’ve got a name? A contact number?’

  She was back against the wall, arms crossed again. She offered Faraday a slow shake of her head. No, she didn’t have a name. She’d long got the tosser out of her life and there was no way he’d ever get back in. Woman’s right. Woman’s privilege. Now fuck off and leave us alone.

  Faraday nodded, thanking her for her time. He’d doubtless be back and he wanted her to know that.

  ‘Do you have a mobile?’

  ‘Binned it.’ She nodded back towards the kitchen.

  ‘Any other way I can get hold of you?’

  ‘Yeah. Write me one of those nice letters with a big fat cheque inside. Know what I mean?’

  She pushed herself off the wall and pulled the front door open. From the kids’ bedroom came the sound of barking again. Then the little girl was back in the hall, clutching at the bottom of her vest.
She gazed up at Faraday, big brown eyes, then reached for her mother’s hand.

  ‘Where Doodie?’ she whispered.

  The Brennan’s briefing over, Winter settled himself in the corner of the bar at Fratton nick. Bev Yates, who had a wife to pacify, had disappeared home for a couple of hours but Cathy Lamb had stayed on, determined to screw a couple of drinks out of Winter in return for her efforts to get him to Portugal. Winter, recognising a peace opportunity when he saw one, was only too delighted to oblige, extending the compensation to the offer of a curry afterwards. The stake-out was due to kick off at ten o’clock. Plenty of time for a vindaloo.

  Cathy shook her head. A pint of Stella would be nice but she had a couple of things to attend to before they settled in at Brennan’s.

  ‘But I thought you told me Pete was away?’

  ‘He is. You think I’d be sitting here with you if he wasn’t?’

  Winter grinned. One of things you liked about Cathy Lamb was the way she always took life head-on. When she’d caught Pete shagging a young probationer from Fareham nick, she’d first thrown him out and then done her best to give the girl a real hiding. Now, with Pete at last back in harness, she couldn’t get enough of him.

  ‘When’s he back, then?’

  ‘Next week. He’s on a job in Germany.’

  Out of the force now, Pete Lamb was working for a big Pompey-based insurance company, investigating dodgy claims. The work took him away a good deal, doing absolutely nothing for Cathy Lamb’s blood pressure.

  ‘You need a holiday, skip.’ Winter reached for his Pils. I know just the place.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have the tickets as well, would you?’

  Winter tipped his glass in salute.

  ‘I mean it. The place sounded perfect.’

  ‘So why didn’t you bloody go?’

  ‘I meant for you, Cath, you and Pete. If you’re really lucky it might even rain. Then you wouldn’t have to get up at all.’

  Cathy ignored him. Several members of Willard’s Major Crimes team had appeared at the bar and one – to Winter’s amusement – had given her a little wave. Now he came over and whispered something in Cathy’s ear. Cathy stared up at him, astonished, and he nodded in confirmation before returning to the bar.

  Winter didn’t even bother asking. There were certain categories of gossip that Cathy Lamb could never keep to herself and he sensed that this might be one of them. She sat motionless for a moment or two then leaned forward.

  ‘Guess who’s favourite for the next DI job.’ She gestured back towards the knot of watching detectives. ‘On Major Crimes.’

  The café-bar was already busy by the time Faraday arrived. Le Dome, with its big horseshoe bar and warm conversational buzz, had become a regular rendezvous before the Friday night Guildhall concerts. The place was often full of foreign students huddled together over cups of cappuccino, and Marta said she felt at home there.

  Faraday found a quiet table near the back. He’d bought a paper from the newsagent across the road and he studied the weather report, wondering about prospects for the weekend. It seemed to have been raining non-stop since Christmas, and tonight’s chart showed yet another frontal system out in the Atlantic, preparing to dump a couple more inches on the swamp that had once been Faraday’s front garden. Weather like this could seriously get to you, yet another reason why Marta had become so important. Five minutes in her company, and the sun came out.

  As ever, she caught him by surprise, approaching from behind and kissing him softly on the cheek. She was wearing a beautifully cut cashmere coat, filmed with rain, and a richly striped silk scarf wound turban-style around her head. Faraday had watched her knotting that scarf dozens of times and her deftness never ceased to amaze him. She smelled wonderful too, a subtle, slightly musky scent that always reminded Faraday of their first nights together. This was a world away from Raglan House, thank Christ, and Faraday got to his feet, pulling out the adjoining chair.

  Marta had driven straight in from the big IBM complex at the top of the city. She had a huge job there, something to do with marketing, but it was one clue to this strange relationship of theirs that he’d never quite fathomed what she actually did. Face to face or even on the phone he was sure she could sell anything. He’d never met anyone so self-confident, so vividly themselves. But whenever he’d pressed her for details on her role or her responsibilities, she’d always change the subject. His was the job they should be talking about, she’d say. Something real for a change.

  She loosened her coat and asked for a glass of white wine. Faraday had already talked to her on the phone, a snatched conversation between afternoon meetings, and now she wanted to know about Willard’s offer.

  ‘It wasn’t an offer,’ Faraday said hastily.

  He did his best to explain the way Willard had put it. There were three DIs on the core Major Crimes team. They all reported to the Detective Superintendent, and Willard described them as the hinge on his door. They were the ones who’d act as his deputy on the really complex inquiries that couldn’t be handled on division. They were the ones he’d trust to run the well-oiled investigative machine that, in the end, had to deliver a result. Getting the right people was never easy. And with a vacancy looming, Willard had decided that Faraday was the ideal candidate.

  Marta’s eyes were bright with excitement. A single glance would tell you she was Spanish: the dark eyes, the perfect make-up, the sheer animation in her face. Mediterranean women, Faraday had concluded, were seldom frightened of showing their emotions. Unlike the glum, blank, clouded faces he saw all around him, they challenged you with a smile.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she was saying. ‘Perfecto.’

  Faraday grinned, warmed by the recklessness of her enthusiasm. No ifs or buts. No agonising about the downside. Just do it.

  ‘It’s not that simple. It’s a different set-up. At the moment I’m my own boss. On Major Crimes, you report to Willard. He sets the pace. We do the running.’

  ‘You run already, my darling. All the time.’

  It was true. Faraday couldn’t remember a day when his desk had been empty, when he’d finally caught up with the backlog of so-called volume crime. Nicking domestic burglars and serial shoplifters might be the dream of every politician but the facts argued otherwise. In the real world, you’d never put all the bad guys away.

  ‘It’s a pain,’ Faraday admitted.

  ‘Then listen to this man. Let him help you.’

  ‘Help me?’ The thought brought another smile to Faraday’s face. Benevolence had never been part of CID management style. If Willard wanted him on board then there was something in it for Willard. But what?

  ‘You think I should do it?’

  ‘Definitely. Big, juicy murders? Claro.’ She bent towards him, her head close to his, and kissed him on the lips. ‘You smell terrible,’ she whispered. ‘Where have you been?’

  The concert was built around a performance of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique. Faraday and Marta sat through a Beethoven overture and a piece from Vaughan Williams, waiting for the evening’s highlight. Faraday had recently developed a passion for Berlioz, and Marta had given him a big two-volume biography for Christmas.

  The young Berlioz had written the symphony in just six weeks, breaking most of the accepted rules of orchestration in the process. He’d based its development quite shamelessly on episodes in his own life and Faraday warmed to the notion of an overpowering, obsessional passion for the woman of his dreams. A year at French evening classes had offered Faraday a working knowledge of the language, and the phrase idée fixe stirred definite echoes. It was these same evening classes, after all, that had given him Marta.

  The first movement began and Faraday settled back, letting the suddenness of the rhythmic changes envelop him. The real pleasure of music like this was the depth of the moat it dug between himself and the increasingly brutal demands of his working day. Berlioz was no stranger to the kind of inner turmoil that could take you to the very edge bu
t he’d managed to conjure something magical and lasting from the experience. Unlike Helen Bassam.

  Faraday thought about the girl as the music swirled on. On Monday there’d be a post-mortem. Maybe the pathologist might throw up a lead or two. On Monday, as well, he’d have to organise a serious bid to pin down the kid, Doodie. At first he’d been tempted to dismiss the mother’s version of events out of hand. The thought that a child of ten was on the loose somewhere, living from hand to mouth, was absurd. He’d already put the boy’s name on the official Mispers list, a heads-up for every beat man and squad car in the city, but he still clung to the assumption that Denise Prentice had been lying. This was 2001. The city of Dickens, of vagrant kids fending for themselves, had long gone. Or had it? Maybe life at 703 Raglan House really was as desperate and threadbare as appearances suggested. Would anyone in his right mind want to live in circumstances like that? Would Doodie?

  The first movement came to an end and Faraday felt Marta’s hand in his lap. She was looking at him, a hint of concern in those deep, brown eyes.

  ‘OK?’

  He smiled and gave her hand a squeeze, glad to forget at last about Misper kids and teenage corpses. She’d made every difference, this woman. She was funny and sexy and immensely stylish, and she’d brought light and laughter to parts of him that had been shadowed for decades. For a working detective, it was worrying that he’d taken so long to discover that she was married but even this realisation hadn’t made him any less needful. They’d been seeing each other now for more than a year, and each new stolen evening convinced him they were a perfect fit.

  Back in September, she’d somehow managed to steal a whole week away from work and family. Faraday had booked a last-minute package to Corsica, and they’d flown out from Gatwick. The holiday had been a dream – empty beaches, tiny bays, fabulous snorkelling – and towards the end of the week they’d taken a train inland, finding a back-street hotel in Corte and walking the mountain paths deep into the Restonica Valley. There’d been warblers darting in and out of the maquis and the distant silhouette of buzzards riding thermals in the hot afternoons. At night, from their hotel bedroom, he could hear the call of a scops owl, clear as a bell, and he’d whispered the name to Marta in the warm darkness.