Bassam stared at him. Good living was beginning to cushion his chin, and his face, close to, was mapped with tiny broken blood vessels.
‘I’ve come here to talk about my daughter—’ He began.
‘Nothing happens until you give me a name, Mr Bassam. Then we can talk about whatever you like.’
‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘You know Pete Lamb?’
‘Yes.’
Bassam held his gaze, unprepared to go any further, and Faraday found himself wondering why he wasn’t surprised that this breach of faith should be down to Lamb. When push came to shove, Cathy’s errant husband was reckless enough to trade anything for a favour, and life as a private investigator obviously relied on getting professional men like Bassam onside. Later, at a time of his own choosing, Faraday would sort the matter out, but the last thing he intended to do now was give Bassam the satisfaction of taking this part of the conversation any further.
‘So how can I help you, Mr Bassam?’ Faraday slipped into the chair opposite.
Bassam leaned forward, confidential, man to man.
‘It’s about Helen. As you might imagine, it hasn’t been the easiest twenty-four hours but there are one or two points of detail that it might be worth discussing.’ He paused. ‘You’ll know that her mother and I are divorcing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well …’
He eased the chair back from the table and then propped his elbows on his knees. With his body bent and his head bowed, it was an almost supplicatory pose. He wanted to be frank about one or two things. He wanted Faraday to understand.
‘Understand what, Mr Bassam?’
‘That my wife, my ex-wife, hasn’t taken any of this well. In fact she’s had a kind of breakdown. The marriage going wrong, me leaving, she simply hasn’t been able to cope.’ He looked up at last, seeking eye contact. ‘I’m not blaming her, Mr Faraday. It’s nothing like that. I’m simply trying to explain why Helen went off the rails. In some ways, I suspect it was inevitable.’
Faraday heard the first faint trill from the alarm system hard-wired into his head. Off the rails? Helen? It was his turn to lean forward.
‘What are you telling me, Mr Bassam?’
‘You won’t know about the shoplifting but I’m starting to think it doesn’t end there.’
‘Your daughter was shoplifting?’
‘I’m afraid so. This was recently, just a couple of weeks ago. It was one of those boutique places in Southsea. Helen had the sense to get a phone call through to me before the store owner called you lot and I managed to talk her out of pressing charges. Nice woman. Blonde.’
Faraday began to relax. He’d checked the automatic crime recording system for any entries on the girl but it wasn’t unknown for data to go astray. The fact that Jane Bassam hadn’t volunteered any of this wasn’t her fault. Under the circumstances, she’d probably been too shocked to even remember it.
‘You mentioned other stuff …’
‘I did. Helen had obviously been shoplifting before. She as good as admitted it to me afterwards. Clothes, of course, but make-up as well, stuff from Boots. Apparently all the kids do it. To be frank, I don’t think they understand about money any more.’
‘But you were giving her an allowance, weren’t you? A generous allowance.’
‘That’s just it. I was. £160, first Monday of every month.’
‘So where did all that go?’
‘Good question. She wouldn’t tell me. I pressed her, believe me I pressed her, but she hasn’t been easy to handle recently.’ He studied his hands for a moment. ‘You’d have ideas, wouldn’t you, getting through money like that?’
He glanced up, challenging Faraday with the ghost of a smile, but Faraday stared him out. This was a fishing expedition, he told himself. This man, as slippery as any experienced lawyer, wanted to find out exactly how much Faraday – as SIO – really knew about his precious daughter. That way he might be able to limit the damage. And that way, more to the point, he might be able to address his own guilt. Girls especially needed their dads. A house without a father was a standing invitation, in Bassam’s own phrase, to go off the rails.
‘You think she was using drugs?’
‘I’m afraid it’s more than possible.’
‘What kind of drugs?’
‘I don’t know. My poison comes in a bottle. What do kids use these days? Ecstasy? Cocaine? Heroin? I haven’t a clue.’
‘Did you see her regularly?’
‘Not as regularly as I should.’
‘Was there some kind of arrangement?’
‘To begin with, yes. But my partner and Helen …’ He shrugged, making it plain where his real loyalties lay. The girl would have seen this, Faraday thought. She’d have seen her dad’s awkwardness, his reluctance to risk this new relationship of his, and she’d have drawn her own conclusions about where to head next. Why that journey should have ended on top of a block of flats in Somerstown was anybody’s guess but there were parts of Helen Bassam’s story that were at last beginning to slip into focus.
‘Tell me …’ Faraday began. ‘Did she ever mention a lad called Doodie?’
Bassam thought hard about the name, then shook his head.
‘Not to me. She was out and about with some pretty strange people, that was another worry, but I can’t recall—’
‘What kind of strange people?’
‘Kids mainly, kids her own age, but losers, you know? The kind of kids who bunk off school. The kind of kids who hang around Commercial Road all evening, just looking for trouble. There were a couple of lads she used to talk about, and then there was a girl called Trudy. I don’t think Trudy had been to school for months.’
‘Neither had Helen. Not regularly.’
‘No.’ He nodded, sombre. ‘So I understand. Have you talked to Trudy at all? About Helen?’
‘No, Mr Bassam, we haven’t.’
‘I see.’
There was a long silence. Then Faraday enquired about the Afghan. Had Helen ever mentioned a man called Niamat Tabibi?
‘No, but her mother did. I gather there was some kind of private tutor deal to begin with but she became almost manic about him. Believe me, he got it in the neck for everything.’
‘And you never mentioned any of this to Helen?’
‘Of course I did, but she just refused to talk about him so I never formed a judgement either way. He may have been important to her, he may not. She’d just clam up. She was good at that, Helen. In fact she was world class.’
Faraday produced a pocketbook and scribbled himself a note, remembering Dawn Ellis’s take on this strange relationship. In her view, the Afghan had become a kind of substitute father. No wonder Helen Bassam hadn’t tainted him with exposure to the real thing.
Bassam was talking about his daughter again, about the many ways he’d let her down, about the amends it was too late to make. If he’d known then what he knew now, he’d have made some very different decisions in his life. He’d have stayed in his marriage. He’d have made it work.
Faraday let the little speech wash over him. He’d disliked this man from the moment he’d answered the phone. He resented the way Bassam had tracked him down, and he resented most of all having to listen to all this confessional drivel. If Derek Bassam had a real problem dealing with his own guilt then there was professional help available. He was a wealthy man. He could could buy himself a session or two of counselling. God knows, he could even try the church. Detectives were there to solve crimes, not offer forgiveness.
‘Is there anything else you want to tell me about Helen?’
‘No, that’s pretty much it really. I just thought, you know …’ He looked at his hands again and then shrugged helplessly. ‘This isn’t something you’d wish on anyone.’
‘I’m sure it isn’t, Mr Bassam. The post-mortem’s on Monday. It may well be that we’ll have more information after that. If so, I’ll give you a ring.’
Faraday got to his feet, pocketing his pen
. Bassam had produced a card: Gillespie, Bassam and Cooper. 91 Hampshire Terrace. He gave it to Faraday.
‘Do you have any children, Mr Faraday?’
Faraday studied him a moment. Strictly speaking, it was none of Bassam’s business but for once he was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I have, Mr Bassam. A son. Twenty-three.’
‘No problems?’
‘None at all.’ He offered Bassam a chilly smile. ‘Lovely boy.’
Eight
SATURDAY, 10 FEBRUARY, mid-evening
By seven o’clock, they had a name for the occupant of drawer 17 in the bank of tall fridges at the St Mary’s Hospital mortuary. The Home Office pathologist had taken prints from all ten fingers. The prints had gone straight to the force fingerprint department at Netley for checks against the newly installed NAAFIS system, software programmed with prints from every individual with a criminal record, and within hours they were looking at a result.
Winter got the name on his mobile from a clerk in the incident room. To his intense disappointment, he’d never heard of him.
‘Bradley Finch?’ he said blankly.
‘Yeah. DOB 11.3.80. He’s got previous for burglary and possession with intent to supply. LKA Leigh Park.’
Winter scribbled down Finch’s last known address. Leigh Park was a huge post-war housing development on the other side of Portsdown Hill. He and Sullivan were already on the edges of the estate, trying to tap up an old contact, so the redeployment came as no surprise.
The call had been transferred. Winter recognised the flat Essex vowels of Dave Michaels, the DS acting as Receiver and Statement Reader in the Major Incident Room. His job was to get inside Willard’s head, sieving every incoming document as the mountain of intelligence got higher and higher.
Now he was talking about Bradley Finch: ‘It’s the family address, as far as we know, his mum and dad’s place. We got it off prison records. The ID’s kosher so take it easy, eh? A recent picture would help, if they’ve got one.’
The phone went dead. ‘Easy’ meant that Winter and Sullivan were charged with breaking the bad news. A Family Liaison Officer would doubtless be along later but just now the priority was Bradley Finch. What kind of son was he? Who did he run with? Where had he been these last few days?
Winter could hear the football results from a very loud television in the front room when he rapped on the door. The house was brick-built, with a sagging porch and paving slabs where the front garden should be. There was an ancient caravan parked outside but both tyres were flat and someone had taken a screwdriver to the big window at the back.
‘Yeah?’
The figure at the door was in his fifties, thin and stooped with lank, greying hair. Winter offered his warrant card. He wanted a word or two about a lad called Bradley Finch.
‘What’s he done now?’
Winter ignored the question. He was looking down the narrow little hall. The television was even louder with the door open and he could see a fat woman in a voluminous tracksuit bent over the sink in the kitchen. Watford 2 Portsmouth 2. Some small crumb of comfort before the news got abruptly worse.
With some reluctance, the man at the door stepped aside and Winter heard Sullivan establishing his name. Terry Naylor. Bradley’s stepdad.
‘In here, Mr Naylor?’
Without waiting for an answer, Winter pushed into the front room. The gas fire was on full blast and the sharp bite of roll-ups was overwhelming. Even the ceiling looked yellow.
The woman from the kitchen joined them. She was drying her hands on a tea towel and she stood by the door, weary, apprehensive. More trouble.
‘Mrs Naylor?’
She nodded. Winter was looking pointedly at the TV but nothing happened. At length, he turned it off himself.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news …’ he began ‘… about your boy.’
Winter told them about Bradley, sparing them one or two of the more intimate details. He was brief, factual and offered them his sympathies. These were violent times and it was terrible that stuff like this had to happen, but life could be tough sometimes and it was his job to try and get to the bottom of it all. When Sullivan began to make a little speech of his own, confirming how sorry they were, Winter shut him up with a single glance.
Mrs Naylor had collapsed in the armchair by the door. Her husband remained rooted to the square of coconut matting beside the TV. The space between them spoke volumes.
Winter wanted to know whether young Bradley had been depressed lately. Naylor stirred.
‘You’re telling me he topped himself?’
‘We don’t know, Mr Naylor.’
‘Never. He’d never do that. Would he, Marge?’
The dumpy figure spilling out of the armchair didn’t venture an opinion, just sat there staring into space. Sullivan couldn’t take his eyes off her. This was terrible, he thought. The heat. The smell. The oppressive silence.
‘When did you last see him, Mr Naylor?’ It was Winter again.
‘Dunno. Before Christmas? Must have been.’
‘Doesn’t pop round at all?’
‘Brad? Never. He’s just not like that, never has been. All over the place, Brad. Real gypsy. Eh, Marge? Go on, tell ’em.’
Winter began to sense the picture here. Bradley was Marge’s boy. By the look of the rosary beads draped over the framed Sacred Heart picture over the mantelpiece, there was probably a small tribe of them. Then Naylor had stepped into her life and now he wanted nothing to do with the baggage she trailed behind her. He’d probably been banging on about the boy Bradley for years.
‘Mrs Naylor?’ Winter could charm for England when he felt the need.
‘Yeah?’ She was looking up at him, eyes shiny with tears.
‘Tell me a bit about him. What kind of nipper was he?’
She thought about the question, then sniffed and wiped her nose on the tea towel. He was a good boy really, just never got it together. He’d met the wrong people, too. He was soft in the head that way, easily led.
‘What kind of people?’
‘Horrible people. People in all kinds of trouble. People who didn’t care. People who’d … you know … lead him on.’
‘Is this as a kid?’
‘Yeah, then too. He always chose the wrong friends. That’s why he did so bad at school. Couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle anything.’
‘He’s been away, hasn’t he?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Inside. Prison.’
‘Yeah.’ She nodded. ‘He has.’
‘Why’s that, then?’
‘Drugs. He got involved with drugs. I always told him. I knew. You could tell, but he never listened.’
‘What sort of drugs?’
‘Them tablets. Don’t ask me.’
‘But he was selling, too, wasn’t he?’
She nodded, bending before this wind that had blown so suddenly into her life.
‘Yeah, he was.’
‘Recently. Only a couple of years ago. Before we locked him up.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So he must have had a car, mustn’t he? Getting out and about? Keeping his customers happy?’
Mrs Naylor looked across at her husband, pleading for help, but Naylor was busy with another roll-up. At length, she nodded. Winter was right about the car. He’d had an old banger, a wreck of a thing.
‘What sort?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’ She frowned, wanting an end to these incessant questions. ‘I think he once said it was Italian.’
‘Fiat?’
‘Might be.’
‘Colour?’
‘White.’
‘Big car? Small?’
She stared up at Winter, panic-stricken.
‘I dunno. Medium. I dunno.’ She swallowed hard, twisting the tea towel in her lap. ‘He was terrible with money, Bradley, always has been. He just spent it all the time – spend, spend, spend. Lend him a fiver and
it was gone, just like that. It was like an illness. He hadn’t got a clue.’ She looked up again. ‘Was he hurt at all?’
‘He was dead, Mrs Naylor.’
‘I know, but—’ She buried her face in her hands. Winter stood beside the chair, a hand on her shoulder. Sullivan stirred uneasily behind him.
‘These mates of his you mentioned. You wouldn’t have any names by any chance?’
She buried her head in her hands. Winter gave her a moment or two and then put the question again. Mates. Blokes he hung around with. People who might be able to help on a terrible, terrible day like this.
At last her head came up. In the space of a minute, she seemed to have aged years.
‘No.’ She shook her head, emphatic, then plucked at the baggy tracksuit. ‘Head like a sieve, me.’
Winter got slowly to his feet, thinking about the scene on Hilsea Lines. Back at the briefing in the incident room, Willard had made a big point of the scarlet thong. It was the first thing he’d noticed, he’d said.
‘What about girlfriends?’
Winter stood beside the chair, waiting for an answer, but Mrs Naylor had had enough. Then there came the scrape of a match and a rattly cough as smoke from the roll-up hit Naylor’s lungs.
‘He never went short.’ He coughed again, then swallowed hard. ‘Had a mouth on him, Bradley. Talk any woman into bed.’
‘He had lots of girlfriends?’
‘Yeah. Never kept them, but yeah.’
‘Anyone in particular? Anyone recent?’
‘Haven’t got a clue, mate. Like I say, it wasn’t like we saw him every day.’
Winter nodded, then gestured casually back towards the stairs in the hall.
‘What about stuff of his? Clothes? Bits and pieces? Mind if I take a look?’
The expression on Naylor’s face – first surprise, then panic – brought a smile to Winter’s lips. He turned and headed for the stairs. Naylor came after him but quickly had second thoughts. There were four doors off the landing at the top. Winter tried them one after the other. Third time he was lucky, switching on the light for a better look.
There were piles of boxes stacked beside the MFI wardrobe, the kind of gear a good burglar could screw in a couple of minutes. Most of it was stuff for the kitchen: food mixers, coffee machines, good quality saucepans, stuff you could shift to housewives on the estate. Winter took a closer look, searching for evidence of a particular outlet, but the goods must have been nicked from stock before they got anywhere near a shelf. There might be serial numbers, though, and if so it should be child’s play getting a match on recently reported break-ins.
Angels Passing Page 11
