Sullivan nodded, his point made. Before they’d left the house, he’d asked Mrs Naylor for a recent photo of her dead son and she’d gone through a couple of drawers in the kitchen before laying her hands on a colour shot that had evidently been taken a while back. The photo was propped on the dashboard in front of him. The boy was in a pub somewhere, his arm round the barmaid.
Sullivan reached out for the photo and switched on the interior light. Alive, behind the drunken grin, Bradley Finch looked thin-faced and haunted, someone for whom life held nothing but bad news.
‘You know what really gutted me?’ Sullivan tapped the photo. ‘This guy’s their son. I don’t care what kind of arsehole he is, the lad’s dead. He’s been dead less than a day. We were there to tell them. We gave them about a second and a half to sort that out, to come to terms with it, and then you were all over them like some fucking rash.’ He looked across at Winter, disgusted. ‘Have you any idea what it means to lose someone that close?’
Winter was staring straight ahead, his face quite blank, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel – some half-buried rhythm, dee-dum-dee-dum-dee-dum. Below them, the city twinkled against a curtain of black.
‘You just blew it, son,’ Winter murmured after a while. ‘You just blew it big time. You ever say that to me again, ever, and I’ll give you the smacking of your life. Depend on it, OK?’
He looked across at Sullivan, underlining the threat with a slow nod, then reached for the ignition key.
‘And another thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t ever think I’m interested in an apology.’
Nine
SUNDAY, 11 FEBRUARY, 05.00
Last thing Saturday night, Faraday had checked the tide times and sunrise. According to the News, high water springs were at 07.43, an hour after dawn. Perfect.
The alarm woke him at five. He stole into the bathroom, doused his face with water, and then returned to the bedroom to get dressed. Outside in the darkness, the wind was beginning to pick up and he could hear the familiar ‘slap-slap’ of halyards against metal masts in the nearby dinghy compound. Most Sundays the sailing club organised Laser races around a triangular buoyed course out in the harbour.
Not so long ago, J-J would have been out on the sea wall with his binos, eyes peeled for rule infringements, and Faraday wondered whether any of this cheerful, artless, harbourside childhood had stuck. Nothing would please him more than to return to find his son raging about some cheat who’d grazed a buoy and neglected to put in the regulatory 360-degree turn.
The empty Thermos was waiting for him in the kitchen. Faraday boiled a saucepan of water and poured it into the Thermos. Into his rucksack with the Thermos went a sachet of powdered French onion soup, a small jar of fresh milk and instant coffee in a twist of paper. Umpteen early starts up on the marshes at Farlington had taught him the importance of having something hot to put in his stomach. Winter or summer, dawn could be chilly.
The walk north along the towpath took him the best part of an hour. He had a torch in his daysack but he preferred to trust his night vision to avoid the potholes and knotty little stands of marram grass that could tip him over the sea wall and onto the foreshore below. The city was off to his left, the nearest road half a mile away, but the distant sodium lights still cast a loom over the scrub and bushes of Milton Common, and it never ceased to amaze him how much detail he could make out. In twenty years beside the water, he’d never known it truly dark.
Half an hour’s brisk walk brought him level with the island’s waist. There was a proper stone quay here, still used by the dredgers which tied up to disgorge hundreds of tons of dripping shingle, and he paused for a moment or two, alerted by a splashing in the shallows. Teal, he thought. Or maybe blackwits washing and preening after a hard night on the mudflats.
He stood on the little promontory that nosed into the harbour, looking south, back towards his house. Recently, he’d got to know a local, a man in his mid-fifties, who’d been born a stone’s throw from his back garden. Where Milton Common now lay, there had existed a long tongue of water, Velder Creek, and over the course of a couple of evenings at a local pub Faraday had been entranced by the memories of this man’s childhood. He’d been born on a houseboat, a converted MTB, and his first conscious memory was his dad ringing a big brass bell he’d fixed up just forward of the stubby little bridge
There’d been dozens of similar houseboats, beached relics from the war, and they’d sustained a tight little community of kids and grown-ups who had savoured life on the mudflats. It was all too easy to imagine this Bohemian post-war idyll – no running water, no electricity – so rich in its simplicity. There’d been discharged naval officers living there, survivors from the Russian convoys with no interest in rejoining the rat race, and men who fed entire families by weaving lobster pots from flotsam salvaged from the highest tides.
Often, on hot summer afternoons, parties of inmates from the big psychiatric hospital on Locksway Road would wander down to gaze out across the harbour. Amongst them was an artist, Edward King, who had won an international reputation for his vivid, beautifully captured landscapes. The Blitz had robbed him of the last of his sanity and the canvases he’d painted amongst the ruins of the city had done ample justice to the wider madness of war. One of his pictures, a garish study of the bombed wastelands around the cathedral, still hung above the staircase at Highland Road police station, and Faraday often paused to admire it. Fifty years of peace had covered the city’s scars, but every new working day suggested – to Faraday at least – that the madness lived on.
He pushed north again, chilled by the stiffening wind. Normally, at low tide, the exposed mud would be thick with bird life, and when he finally made it to the big sea wall that circled Farlington Marshes, he knew that his luck was in. A short-eared owl flew within yards of him, then settled on a fence post, yellow-eyed, unblinking, staring him out. A good night amongst the voles, Faraday thought, waiting for the owl to bring this perfect moment to an end.
Dawn had come and gone by now, and a thin, grey wash had spread across the harbour, light the colour of brushed steel. The wind was from the south, bringing with it the taste of rain, and as the tide began to creep back in the birds retreated with it. Soon they’d be packed on the scattered little islands that dotted the upper harbour, shuffling around and bickering amongst themselves for the best positions. One way or another, thought Faraday, Portsmouth was a city which had always dealt in the currency of aggression.
But what of J-J? He’d returned last night at just gone ten. At some point during the day he’d visited a barber’s shop, acquiring a Pompey grade one crop, a down payment, Faraday realised, on a lengthy stay. With the near baldness, he’d camouflaged himself for the months to come, and afterwards – maybe after catching sight of himself in a shop window – he’d gone to some pub or other and got very drunk.
He’d been staggering by the time he got home, offering a flurry of sign that signalled a gleeful, incoherent return to the city of his adolescence. He was glad to be back, he told his father. Glad to be shot of Valerie and all those French friends he’d been stupid enough to trust. From now on he’d know how to play it. Look out for number one. Take nothing at face value. When Faraday had pressed him on exactly where he’d been, and who he’d been with, it turned out it wasn’t a pub at all. J-J had dropped into Threshers with what was left on his debit card, and sunk six cans of Kronenburg in a cemetery opposite St Mary’s Hospital.
Why, in God’s name, a graveyard? The boy had looked at him uncomprehending, then signalled a weary goodnight and reeled off to bed. Watching him weaving up the stairs, Faraday had felt an immense heaviness in his own heart. This was exactly the moment when it might have been nice to lift the phone and share a thought or two with Marta. But that, alas, was out of the question. Birds, in a phrase he understood only too well, occasionally come home to roost. He lifted his binos again, sweeping the foreshore way down the harb
our and glimpsing the first signs of activity in the dinghy park beyond his house. The Laser boys were early this morning and Faraday glanced at his watch, wondering whether J-J would be even conscious by the time he got home.
Sullivan had been at the MIR at Fratton for nearly half an hour, haunting the little kitchen at the end of the main corridor, by the time Winter arrived. It was nearly nine’o’clock and Winter waved the offer of a coffee aside.
‘Had one already,’ he said briskly.
DS Dave Michaels was in his office next to the incident room. He was a squat, cheerful forty-year-old with a lifelong passion for football. His years turning out for the CID team had given him a taste for keeping goal, and his reputation as a safe pair of hands had stuck. Like Winter, he knew most of Pompey’s major villains on first-name terms and if he got out less often than before, then maybe that was a perk of this new role of his. There were worse things in life than despatching Willard’s troops to the four corners of the city. He’d been in since six.
‘So how did you get on last night?’
Winter was examining a photo scissored from a recent edition of the News. Pinned to the wall board next to the duty roster, it showed a team of eleven-year-olds staring grimly at the camera. AFC Anchorage were heading one of the junior Sunday leagues and Dave’s boy, according to the names beneath, was captain.
‘Fine.’
Winter outlined the visit to Naylor’s place and dropped the photo on the desk. Michaels studied it with interest. Prints from the SOCO photographer were in an envelope on his desk and he told Winter to help himself. Winter shook out the photos and leafed quickly through them. A length of nylon rope and a night out in the rain had done nothing for Finch’s complexion but it was definitely the same face. The lolling head and bloated purple features reminded Winter of shots he’d once seen on an exchange visit to Polish colleagues in Lodz. The atrocity museum at Auschwitz was full of images like these.
‘What about the post-mortem? They get a result?’
‘Definitely. Two rib fractures here, down the right side, and a compound fracture up here.’ He indicated his cheekbone, just beneath his right eye. ‘Plus multiple abrasions and bruising. Someone had been whacking him, definitely. There were a couple of other rib fractures, too, but they were a while back.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Cause of death was asphyxiation due to hanging but they got some interesting marks off his wrists. He’d been tied up before he died. Oh yeah, and a couple of other things. He was well pissed, nearly four hundred micrograms, and his arse was a mess. You know the score, damage to the rectal tissues consistent with the introduction of a foreign object. Plus a puncture wound.’
‘In his arse?’
‘Left foot.’
‘Foot?’
‘Yeah. Deep penetration, fairly recent. Might have been a knife, skewer, anything. We’re checking it out with A and E in case he booked in.’
Winter was still studying the photos. Finch had certainly taken a beating, and then some, but even without the tally of injuries ID’d at the post-mortem, he still cut a sorry figure. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on his thin body, and Winter couldn’t help thinking of his mother, spilling out of the armchair, a monument to a lifetime of crisps and Mighty White.
‘The parents were fuck-all use,’ he grunted. ‘Except for a couple of names off the stepfather. He’s been fencing stolen gear, by the way. I got it photographed and booked in last night.’
‘Did you pull him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Statement him?’
‘No point. He’ll come across with more once he’s had a bit of a think. Colin McGuire? Tony Barrett? That’s all he’s managed so far.’
Michaels scribbled himself a note.
‘McGuire’s inside,’ he said. ‘ABH and the Alliance and Leicester job. What was the strength on Barrett?’
‘Naylor says he’s been tipping up sometimes. Looking for Finch.’
‘Recently?’
‘Week before last, he says.’
‘They mates, or what?’
‘Naylor thinks yes. Apparently Barrett has a couple of greyhounds. Naylor hates dogs.’
Michaels had turned to his computer. As far as he knew, Barrett had a place in Southsea. He’d been a half-decent central defender once, team of heavies in the Dockyard League, but the drink had got to him and he now scraped a living by shoplifting to order and flogging happy pills to students. Michaels named the pub where he did most of his deals. He was a lazy bastard and his pad would be close by.
‘Yeah, here it is.’
Winter peered at the screen. Barrett lived in Shaftesbury Road, a street of tall, once-handsome Victorian houses that had since been subdivided for the vagrant army of students and single men that washed through this corner of the city. Winter made a note of the address and checked his watch. Sunday morning, it was odds-on that Barrett would still be asleep.
‘Thanks for the vehicle, by the way.’
Winter had phoned in about the Fiat last night. Pressed for details, Naylor had come up with a roof rack, a towbar and a lot of rust. It seemed his stepson had been running the old banger for at least a couple of years and had parked it outside the house while he was doing his bird. Naylor had never done anything as sensible as writing the registration down but it was definitely a Uno, and he thought it might have been a K plate with an A and a couple of 7s in the number. Overnight, these details had been flashed to every traffic car in the county, and this morning Michaels would be extending the search further.
‘Finch was disqual. D and D. Did he mention that?’
Winter shook his head. This was shaping up nicely. Personally, he’d never heard of Bradley Finch until yesterday but there were dozens of little scrotes in the city who could have ended up in the SOC photo envelope, petty criminals at the very bottom of the food chain. The fact that he’d lost his driving licence for some drink/drive offence went with the territory. If they weren’t driving round with a bellyful of Stella, they were out of their heads on all kinds of other garbage.
Michaels wanted to get moving on the Fiat. Yesterday he’d called for CCTV tapes from cameras across the city. The nearest camera to Hilsea Lines was nearly half a mile away and the tape would be analysed this morning. Hard intelligence on the Fiat offered a solid lead, something to go on, and he could now set about organising a street-by-street search. Tomorrow, once the city got back to business, he’d sort out checks on scrapyards in case the car had been dumped. Then there’d be the spreadsheet from the CIMU guys recording every vehicle stop-check over the past month or so, plus a general circulation to neighbouring forces along the coast. If necessary, he’d even bid for the services of Boxer One, call sign of the force spotter plane, a brand-new turboprop Islander garaged at the old Fleet Air Arm base at Lee-on-Solent.
Michaels scribbled himself another note then stood up for a stretch. Most of the murders he dealt with were three-day events, domestic killings so obvious there was rarely any point in firing up the HOLMES system and calling for the cavalry. It was normally the husband or the boyfriend and some row that got out of hand, and in most of these cases a simple confession saved a great deal of paperwork. But this one, ‘Bisley’, had the feel of a definite runner, an opportunity to get in amongst the city’s low life and see who they could sort out in the way of suspects. Like Winter, he found the prospect of the next few days deeply pleasurable, and the two men were debating who else might be in the frame when a figure appeared at the door. It was Sullivan.
‘All right, son?’ Michaels gestured towards Winter. ‘Breaking you in, is he?’
Sullivan and Winter were in Shaftesbury Road by half nine. Saturday night had left a trail of polystyrene cartons, kebab sticks and broken glass down the middle of the road and someone had carpet-bombed the pavement outside number 17 with the half-digested remains of a Chinese. Winter stepped carefully around the crusting splat and pushed at the broken gate. The big bay windows on the gr
ound floor were hung with blankets and there was a faded Creamfields poster in the flat upstairs.
Barrett lived at the top of the building on the third floor. It was dark on the staircase and the lino was sticky underfoot. A couple were at it as they passed a door on the way up and Winter could hear water pouring from an overflow outside.
There were two black plastic sacks on the landing outside Barrett’s flat. Winter gave the nearest one a kick, hearing the rattle of cans inside. He shot Sullivan a look then rapped at the door. A dog began to yelp, then another, but nothing else happened. Finally, at the umpteenth knock, the door opened. The tottering figure on the threshold was wearing nothing but a grimy towel. He was tall and flabby with spindly legs and a scarlet face. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and he looked wrecked.
‘Tony Barrett?’
‘Yeah?’
He peered at them in the gloom. Winter pocketed his warrant card and pushed past him into the flat, leaving Sullivan to close the door. The dogs were in the main room that looked out over the street, two skinny greyhounds, both tied to a table leg. One of them had recently crapped on an open copy of the Sun, spread beneath the table. A stench like this was something you were supposed to get used to but Winter wasn’t at all sure. The quicker they were out of here, the happier he’d be.
‘Bradley Sean Finch,’ he grunted. ‘Know him, do you?’
Still dazed, Barrett found trouble mustering an answer. Finally he nodded. ‘What of it?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Yeah?’ He blinked and ran a hand over his face. He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Since when?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly.’
Sullivan had backed away a little, putting space between himself and Barrett. His face was chalk-white and he’d loosened his tie. Any minute now, Winter thought, he’ll be out on the pavement, doing his own bit for Shaftesbury Road.
‘Knew him well, did you? Bradley?’
Angels Passing Page 13
