Angels Passing

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Something to eat?’ Faraday queried again.

  This time, J-J didn’t even bother to reply. Faraday manoeuvred himself in front of the set, staring down at him. The least he was entitled to was a little respect. Was it his fault Valerie had found herself another lover? Was it his role to end up as punchbag for J-J’s raging anger? In truth, he didn’t know the answer to either question but there was a major problem here and he’d spent half the night wondering what to do about it. In his saner moments Faraday was a big believer in communication. Even if you were deaf, there were ways of talking this thing through.

  ‘The computer’s on upstairs. Why don’t you email her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Valerie.’

  J-J frowned, then buried the remains of the roll-up in the mug.

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ he signed.

  Upstairs again, Faraday sat at his desk in the study debating what to do next. An eternity of Sundays stretched ahead of him. More roll-ups. More gloom. More crap television. He’d lived by himself for too long now to welcome this sudden invasion and he realised for the first time how precious his privacy had become. Maybe that’s why it worked so well with Marta, he thought. Because she came with a guarantee that the house – with its stillness and its peace – would always, in the end, be his. He permitted himself a rueful grin at the irony of it all: missing her one minute, missing solitude the next. Then he checked his watch and reached for the phone.

  Dawn Ellis answered on the second ring. Faraday wanted to check the status of the G28 on Helen Bassam. Had the sudden death form gone to the Coroner’s Office yet?

  ‘No, boss. You told me to hold off.’

  ‘What time’s the post-mortem tomorrow?’

  ‘First thing. Nine o’clock.’

  Faraday was peering out of the window at the last of the returning Lasers. Post-mortems involving individuals with previous for drug or alcohol abuse routinely tested for toxicological substances. In Helen’s case, this wouldn’t have been deemed necessary but the conversations with her father and Merry Devlin had now put a rather different interpretation on events.

  ‘I want you there tomorrow,’ Faraday said. ‘Make sure the pathologist takes blood for tox.’

  Eleven

  SUNDAY, 11 FEBRUARY, late afternoon

  Winter noticed the change in Sullivan almost at once. The boy was more talkative, more relaxed, respectful even. Returning from a visit to the corner shop across the road, he’d even bought a packet of Werther’s Originals, Winter’s favourites.

  ‘Who’ve you been talking to, then?’

  ‘No one.’ He offered the bag across. ‘Just liked the look of them.’

  They were parked in a side street in Portsea, beneath the shadow of the dockyard wall. The owner of the Happy Skate Café lived in a looming block of flats over to the right, and according to a phone conversation they’d had an hour or so ago, he’d be back from his mum’s any time now. Eddie Galea was second-generation Maltese and family was still important. Who’d stand their mum up on a Sunday and live to tell the tale?

  Winter was already on his second Werther’s.

  ‘What d’you think then? About our little jungle bunny?’

  Sullivan ignored the remark. Willard had wanted them both to re-interview Louise Abeka and take a full statement, concentrating on her movements on Friday. Her attendance at Central police station was entirely voluntary. She wasn’t under caution and she knew she could leave any time. The last thing he wanted them to do was frighten her.

  Between them, Winter and Sullivan had done his bidding in the stuffy little interview room, courteous to a fault, letting the girl take them step by step through her day. How she’d gone to work as usual, arriving around eight to help Eddie open up. How she’d grabbed half an hour before the lunch-time rush, taking a bus down to the city centre to bank her week’s wages. How she’d left the café at around half five, regretting the fact that she’d never invested in a proper mac. She had some things to think about. She didn’t mind the rain. She walked for hours, way out along the seafront, all the way to the Hayling ferry and then all the way back again. She’d gone home to change and because there was nothing worth watching on the TV, she’d caught a bus to North End and gone to the cinema. The film was Castaway. It was OK but nothing special. Back home by half past ten, she’d done some work for an exam she was about to sit and gone to bed around midnight.

  When Winter had asked her about Finch again, and the strength of their relationship, she’d repeated that they were just friends. They met from time to time. She hadn’t seen him for a while. He’d always been nice to her. She liked talking to him. Winter had finished the interview with an enquiry about the stuff Finch normally wore. His body had been naked except for an ear stud and a scarlet thong. Did he have a watch? Rings on his fingers? Some kind of wallet? Louise had thought about it, then nodded. He had a couple of rings on the first and second fingers of his right hand. One was big and quite distinctive. Winter passed her his pad and asked her to sketch the design. Then there’d been a watch, a big chunky thing. She thought it was black. As for a wallet, she’d never seen one, which wasn’t really a surprise because he never had anything to put in it.

  ‘Skint, was he?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ The girl hadn’t understood.

  ‘No money?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  Sullivan, at Winter’s request, had made notes throughout this account, carefully writing it up as a statement, but at no point had either of them challenged her. What was more important was establishing exactly the way she wanted to play it; no arguments on their part, no second thoughts on hers. Indeed, when it came to her visit to the Odeon, North End, they didn’t even ask about Tom Hanks or the movie’s plot.

  Afterwards, the interview over, Winter had explained a little more about the guys in the white zip-up suits who’d descended on the house in Margate Road. They were there to take a look around. They’d probably be at it for the rest of the day and Winter made a point of saying how grateful he was for the loan of her key. As detectives they were responsible for finding out exactly how Bradley Finch had died, and the kind of help they were getting from Louise was absolutely invaluable. Was there somewhere she might go until, say, early evening? Did she have friends in the city?

  She’d said yes to both questions and left the police station around four in the afternoon, totally unaware of the two-man surveillance team that DI Sammy Rollins had hastily organised. With a bit more notice, these jobs normally went to the Hampshire Surveillance Unit, but the HSU was often booked weeks in advance and Rollins scarcely had time to fill in the fast-track RIPA forms and find two bodies to do the job. It was Willard’s belief that Louise Abeka would be in touch with other associates of Bradley Finch, either voluntarily or because they’d go looking for her. If Winter had it right about some kind of confrontation at the house in Margate Road, then the girl might represent unfinished business.

  To Sullivan, it was the forensic search that was truly impressive. Willard had declared the house a potential Scene of Crime and Jerry Proctor’s SOC boys were already busy covering all the usual bases. They’d be taking fingerprint lifts and tapings from Louise’s room, the corridor outside and the shared facilities. They’d be lifting floorboards and exploring drain traps. The filter from the communal washing machine would be seized and the garden searched for evidence of buried clothing or weapons. After all that, Louise could return home.

  Sullivan was musing on what might happen next. It was too early to speculate about fingerprints but any promising swabs would go up to Lambeth for DNA analysis, together with a sample from Bradley Finch’s post-mortem. Willard was demanding the premium twenty-four-hour service. At £2300 for the minimum two samples that had to indicate more than a passing interest.

  ‘She’s in it up to here.’ Winter drew a line across his forehead then looked across at Sullivan. ‘You believe all that shit about walking to Hayling Island and back? It’s f
ucking dark on the seafront for one thing. I know she’s black but that doesn’t make her invisible and there are some ugly bastards out there. No, she’s not a bad girl but she’s definitely implicated.’

  ‘And Willard?’

  ‘He knows that. He never shows it but it’s there. Fuck knows what he does when he’s happy.’

  Winter nodded, musing contentedly about the characters he’d known who’d made it to Willard’s level: highflying university graduates with PhDs in form-filling but clueless when it came to human nature. Over-promoted plodders without two ideas to rub together. And a legend called Tankie who, according to Winter, was the best detective he’d ever met.

  ‘Took the hump one day, and just walked out,’ he said. ‘Saw the way it was going and voted with his feet. Lovely bloke. Completely his own man. And look what happened.’

  Sullivan was watching a small figure in a heavy overcoat hurrying towards the main entrance of the flats. He was carrying a newspaper in one hand and a heavy-looking Lidl bag in the other. It was nearly dark now, the streets empty except for the occasional passing car.

  ‘That’s him.’ Sullivan was already halfway out of the car.

  He was right. Up in a small, cosy flat on the fifth floor, Eddie Galea put the kettle on and insisted they try his mum’s Madeira cake. He sold it in the Happy Skate, eighteen slices per cake, and the whole lot always went by mid-afternoon.

  ‘You know what would make me a rich man?’ He licked the crumbs off his fingertips. ‘The day I buy my mum a bigger oven.’

  Sullivan wanted to know about Louise Abeka and Winter was happy to let him make the running. Buying the Werther’s had been a clever move. The boy was brighter than he’d thought.

  ‘Lou?’ Eddie frowned. ‘What can I say? You’ve seen her, talked to her. Lovely, lovely girl. If my kids were little babies again, I’d trust her with them, no question. If my son wasn’t such a dickhead, she could make him the luckiest man in the world. The girl’s an angel, I swear it.’

  ‘You mentioned boyfriends.’

  ‘Sure.’ He nodded.

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Two or three. Very popular girl.’

  ‘Do you have any names at all? Does she talk about them?’

  Eddie shook his head, a gesture of immense regret. He’d taken this conversation as far as he was prepared to go. There were things you didn’t do in Portsea, and one of them was name names.

  Sullivan produced the photo he’d picked up at the Naylors’. Eddie gave it a single glance. The smile had gone.

  ‘Ah,’ he murmured. ‘Finch.’

  He’d been coming in for years, off and on. He seemed to have business in the area but Eddie had never pried too deeply. Then Louise had arrived and after that Bradley Finch hadn’t missed a day.

  ‘Mad for her,’ he said. ‘Just crazy.’

  ‘And Louise?’

  ‘Puts up with him. Like we all have to. I told you; she’s a good girl – kind. If you’re looking for a relationship, I’d say she mothers him more than anything else.’

  ‘Mothers him?’

  ‘That’s right. Blokes like Bradley Finch, they’re all over the place. Give him a couple of years, you’ll find him kipping out in some shop doorway with a can of Special Brew and one of them dogs. Give the girl credit, she does her best with him, but that’s because it runs in the blood. People like us, family still matters. You’re taught to care … know what I mean?’

  Winter was contemplating another slice of Madeira. Cake like that, no wonder you stuck with your mum.

  ‘Did he ever mention staying at his nan’s place at all – Finch?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Any idea where he was living, then?’

  ‘None. Like I said, the bloke was halfway a vagrant already. Dunno where he kipped. Girlfriends, I expect. And mates, if he had any.’

  ‘Got any names, have you?’

  ‘’Fraid not. Conversation was something we never got into.’ Sullivan wanted to know when Finch had last been in the café. ‘Friday. I’ll tell you exactly: Friday after lunch. Say two, two-thirty. Lou was doing the tables.’

  ‘You remember what he was wearing?’

  ‘Black. He always dressed in black. Black T-shirt, black jeans, manky old leather jacket. That wasn’t the point though, see. He was limping, limping quite bad.’

  ‘You know why?’

  ‘No. He has a bit of a session with Lou, heads together like, then he’s out the door again.’

  ‘Could you see any damage?’ Winter this time, touching his own face.

  ‘No. They were over by the window, but no. He looked the same old dosser to me. Never shaved. Never discovered soap and water. Can you imagine that? Girl like Lou wasting her time with a bloke like Finch?’

  ‘And you didn’t see him again? He didn’t come back?’

  ‘No.’ Galea shook his head. ‘We packed up Friday around half five, six. Why don’t you hang on till tomorrow? You can talk to him yourself then. He’s bound to be in.’

  Sullivan glanced across at Winter. Winter shrugged, and reached for the second slice.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, Mr Galea,’ Sullivan said.

  Eddie frowned and then got to his feet and went to the window. He gazed down at the street for a moment or two.

  ‘Dead how?’

  ‘We think someone may have killed him.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a soft swish as Eddie pulled the curtains. Then he was back with them, settling into the sofa with an expression of mild regret.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ Winter grunted.

  ‘About Finch?’ He looked at them both, then reached for his teacup. ‘You’re right. I’m not the least bit surprised. Bloke like that was put on earth to make trouble for himself. I don’t suppose too many people will miss him either. Except Lou.’

  Back at Fratton nick, Winter found Dave Michaels in his office next door to the incident room. People were coming and going all the time, swiping their cards through the electronic lock on the secured door that accessed the entire floor. So many bodies on a Sunday evening meant a sizeable overtime bill. Most murders were either solved within the first forty-eight hours or dragged on for months. Willard had obviously put his foot on the throttle.

  Michaels was intrigued by Winter’s news. This was the first definite sighting of Finch on the Friday of his death, and would anchor the time line Willard needed to establish. Only by plotting his movements hour by hour would they be able to implicate others.

  ‘You telling me someone had a pop at him before he got into the caff?’

  ‘I’m telling you the guy was hurt. I got a statement off this bloke Eddie. Finch had definitely been in the wars.’

  ‘But the girl didn’t say anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Eddie ask her?’

  ‘He says he did. She wouldn’t talk about it.’

  ‘So where did Finch go next?’

  ‘Fuck knows. Back out in the rain.’

  ‘Did he have the motor with him?’

  ‘Eddie doesn’t know, but the motor’s interesting. Finch had got himself booked for a double yellow, right outside the caff.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last week. Apparently he’d been pissing off the local warden and the bloke was just waiting for his chance.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Michaels was already reaching for the phone. Information on parking offences was held at the civic offices. With the date and location, they could come up with a registration for the car from the database. The office was probably unmanned on Sundays but it was certainly worth trying.

  Waiting for the call to answer, Michaels eyed Winter.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. Finch was obviously in deep with all kinds of villains. This guy Eddie isn’t into names and addresses but he didn’t have to spell it out. Bloke was a right little scrote. Whatever he touched turne
d to shit.’

  Michaels bent to the phone. One of the traffic wardens had finally answered his call. The office staff with access to the database didn’t work on Sundays but given the urgency a call to the manager would get someone in to fire up the system. Michaels scribbled a number and then put the phone down. Winter was still standing by the open door. Michaels told him to close it.

  ‘Willard’s chuffed,’ Michaels said. ‘He’ll never tell you but that was good, finding the girl. He thinks we can get a bit of leverage there. You know how many bodies he’s asking for now? Starting tomorrow? Another dozen.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ Even Winter was impressed. A squad that big and there wouldn’t be anyone left for the other thousand crimes awaiting investigation.

  The phone rang and while Michaels answered it Winter mused on the direction this inquiry was taking. The thought that the entire city could be virtually stripped of cover for a scrotey little tosspot like Bradley Finch was deeply ironic. Alive, he’d already attracted more than his fair share of CID time. But that wasn’t the point and Winter knew it. The skinny little corpse on Hilsea Lines had been a declaration. There’d been a perfunctory attempt to dress murder up to look like suicide but the evidence that Finch had taken his own life went no further than a noose and a kicked-over crate with the word Schweppes on the side. The rest – the broken ribs, the swollen face, the thong – sent a very different message. Take one look at Bradley Finch dangling in the rain, and you’d have a very pressing reason not to mess with whoever had done it.

  To Willard, of course, that was unacceptable. In his own dry phrase, it was a question of appropriate behaviour. There were certain things you simply didn’t do, not in a city for which Willard was responsible, and killing other people was one of them. There was a line to be drawn here. And Willard was only too willing to oblige.

  Michaels had finished his phone conversation. He’d been talking to Jerry Proctor at Margate Road.

  ‘What have they got?’

  ‘They found blood in the bathroom. Spots on the splashback.’

  ‘Enough for a swab?’