Angels Passing

by Hurley, Graham

  Faraday glanced at J-J and signed the question. J-J shook his head.

  ‘There’s another place you can get in.’ He gestured into the darkness. ‘Round the back.’

  Faraday’s heart sank. Leaving the DCs outside the window, the four of them trudged round the building, Faraday grateful for J-J’s supporting arm. J-J led them to a hole at ground level that must have been a heating duct. The protective grille had been ripped off and lay beside it. The hole was big enough for a body. Just.

  Hartigan inspected it. The mud around the hole looked freshly churned. He glanced up at Faraday.

  ‘Do we know if the child’s still inside?’

  ‘Obviously not, sir.’

  ‘Then we have a problem, do we not?’

  The two men stared at each other. The rain, if anything, had got harder. Finally, Faraday gave up. He offered a nod to Cathy, another to J-J, and turned on his heel, hobbling away into the wet darkness.

  Willard wanted Winter and Sullivan to sort out Pallister, and left it to Dave Michaels to make the arrangements. Winter and Sullivan found Michaels in the bar at Fratton nick staring glumly at the remains of a cheese roll.

  The interviews at Waterlooville and Fareham had now stalled completely. All three suspects were refusing to answer any further questions and their solicitors were pushing for early release. Custody could be extended beyond the seven o’clock deadline on application to a uniformed Superintendent but even Willard was beginning to wonder what purpose another twelve hours of ‘no comment’ responses would serve. What they needed was a breakthrough on one of the alibis, and it wasn’t happening.

  Winter was wondering about a pint before tackling Pallister again.

  ‘What about the premises?’

  Michaels shook his head.

  ‘We got lucky at Terry Harris’s gaff. The people out at Compton have ID’d the mini-tape so it definitely came from the nicked camera.’

  ‘What’s Harris’s line?’

  ‘He says he bought it off a bloke in a pub. Can’t remember the bloke. Can’t remember the pub. Pathetic, isn’t it?’

  ‘What about the rest of the stuff?’

  ‘Even that’s a maybe. Turns out he’s got receipts for most of the new gear we had down as nicked. Made a bundle on a couple of horses and bought it as a late Christmas present for the missus. This guy was born lucky.’

  ‘What’s he saying about Finch?’

  ‘Not a lot. Says the boy came along on double glazing jobs just to help out. They had the odd drink or two in the evening and that was about it.’

  ‘The girl? Louise?’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Kenny Foster?’

  ‘Mates, definitely. He’s coughed to being second at the fights but we can hardly do him for that, can we?’

  Winter decided against the pint. Sullivan wanted to know about Kenny Foster.

  ‘Dead end.’ Dave Michaels drew a finger across his throat. ‘He’s stuck to what he told you about Friday night and isn’t about to add any more. He’s a cocky bastard, too. Says he’s got another fight on tomorrow morning and says he’ll do us for loss of earnings if we don’t let him go.’

  ‘And the garage?’

  ‘The blokes are still there but they’re not hopeful. What they really wanted was a hit on the rope used on Finch but there’s nothing remotely like it. They’ve taken all kinds of grease samples for a match on the boy’s runners but it’s going to be a couple of days at least before they get anything back. If we go for an extension beyond thirty-six hours, I can’t see the magistrates wearing it.’ He paused. ‘The only thing we could do him on is storing petrol. He’s got gallons of the stuff there.’

  ‘Mick Harris?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Michaels brightened for a moment. ‘The blokes are telling me he’s all over the place, you know, body language-wise. At least we’ve got him fucking worried.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘You’re joking. His brief’s given him the script and “no comment” isn’t a lot to learn, is it?’

  Winter glanced at his watch. If Michaels was serious about an early release, they had barely an hour to squeeze something out of Pallister. It hadn’t been necessary for Bev Yates to arrest him. He’d driven down to Central voluntarily and was now waiting in one of the interview suites.

  ‘Yeah?’ Michaels finished the roll and pushed the plate away. ‘Bad fucking sign.’

  The last thing Faraday expected was sympathy.

  ‘You’re soaking wet.’ Mrs Bassam peered at him under the porch light. ‘Come in.’

  Faraday stepped into the neat little hall. There was a small suitcase on the floor beside the occasional table and a coat spotted with rain draped over the banisters.

  ‘I’ve just come in myself,’ she said. ‘Filthy weather.’

  She disappeared upstairs and returned with a towel. Faraday mopped his face and hair. The towel smelled of air freshener.

  ‘Tea?’

  Without waiting for an answer, Mrs Bassam disappeared into the kitchen. Faraday, mystified, limped after her. His ankle was swollen now. He’d checked it in the car, switching on the vanity light and rolling up his trouser leg, and the throbbing made him wonder about a visit to the QA hospital at the top of the city. A couple of hours waiting in the A & E department was normally the last thing he could afford but just now he’d do anything to avoid going back to his claustrophobic little office.

  ‘What’s the matter with your leg?’

  Mrs Bassam was busy with the teapot. Faraday began to explain about the cinema, then stopped.

  ‘Did Helen ever say anything about the ABC?’ he asked instead. ‘The place up at Mile End? The one they’ve boarded up?’

  Mrs Bassam said yes. Helen had never gone into detail because conversation wasn’t her thing but she’d mentioned it a couple of times.

  ‘Was she ever in there?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. It’s some kind of squat, isn’t it?’

  Faraday nodded. He wasn’t sure what kind of word he’d use to describe the squalor inside those towering brick walls but squat would do for starters.

  ‘It’s like somewhere you can’t imagine,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve been around this city twenty-five years but I’ve never seen anything like that.’

  Something in his voice brought Mrs Bassam to a halt. Abandoning the tea, she waved Faraday onto one of the stools at the tiny breakfast bar.

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  He gazed at her. It was the truth. He simply didn’t know. What he’d seen had spoken of disintegration and chaos, of lives spinning out of control, but the worst of all was the sheer physical state of the place. Turn on the torch and you were looking at pictures from some undeclared war. The bombs had gone off. The smoke had drifted away. And everything was in the process of falling apart.

  ‘Does that make sense? To you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Bassam had followed his every word. ‘I’m afraid it does.’

  ‘There are kids living in there. Young kids.’

  ‘As young as Helen?’

  ‘Younger. Ten years old.’ He lifted his hands, a gesture – he later realised – of resignation. ‘One of the richest nations on earth and we’ve got kids living like animals.’

  He at last put the towel to one side and fumbled in his jacket pocket. The envelope, like everything else, was damp to the touch. The big ‘N’ on the front had smudged but the card itself seemed to have survived. He opened it and passed it across. He needed to know about the writing. Was this a hand Mrs Bassam might recognise?

  She took the card and studied it. Then she nodded.

  ‘Helen wrote that,’ she muttered. ‘I can even show you the receipt upstairs.’

  Pallister was on his second cup of coffee by the time Winter and Sullivan made it to Central police station. The Custody Sergeant had done his best to advise the presence of a solicitor but Pallister was adamant. He had nothing to hide.
The blokes who’d been up to his pub earlier had been nice enough. He was only too happy to help in whatever way he could.

  Winter stepped into the interview room and shut the door behind him. The interview suites had just been refurbished but there wasn’t a paint job on earth that could soften the starkness of these four walls. Two chairs on either side of a table. A cassette machine with four tape decks and a clock. And that was that.

  Pallister greeted them like old friends. You didn’t have to be a traffic cop to know that he’d been drinking.

  ‘My pleasure, boys.’ He offered them a big, cheesy grin. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Winter formally cautioned him. Anything he said would be recorded and might be used in evidence against him. He wanted Pallister to know that they weren’t discussing a parking offence. A man had died and it was Winter’s job to find out who had killed him.

  ‘What about your mate there?’ Sullivan was sitting beside Winter. ‘Does he get a speaking part in all this?’

  Winter ignored the dig. He wanted to know why Pallister had driven all the way down to Southsea to see Harris’s wife.

  ‘She phoned me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was fucking upset, that’s why. You blokes barge into her house at God knows what hour, all tooled up, drag her husband away, upset her nipper, tell her to pack a bag, start tearing her kitchen apart, what the fuck else is she supposed to feel?’

  ‘And she phoned you for comfort?’

  ‘She phoned me for advice.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what to say to her daughter. The kid’s gone to a friend’s for tea. She’s not used to sleeping in hotels in her own fucking city.’

  ‘But why you? Why ask you all these questions?’

  ‘Because we’re mates, that’s why.’

  ‘Mates?’ Winter raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Think what you like.’ Pallister shrugged. ‘It’s possible to be friends with a woman and not shag her. At least in my world it is.’

  Winter let the point ride. Bev Yates had told him about the interview at the Travel Inn. The woman was scared shitless that a burglary charge would take her from her daughter. So far she’d stuck by her husband’s alibi but – in Yates’s judgement – she wasn’t far off cracking. Everything in life boiled down to the balance of advantage. Just now, Maisie weighed heavy in the scales.

  Sullivan stirred. So far, he’d done little but pick at his nails. Now, he looked Pallister in the eye.

  ‘Say we think different,’ he began. ‘Say we hear a whisper that you’re knocking out fags and booze on the black. Say we get curious about just how much money you’re turning over in that pub of yours. You with me?’

  Pallister’s smile had vanished.

  ‘Go on, son.’

  ‘OK.’ Sullivan nodded, the soul of reason. ‘And say, just say, we get evidence that Mick Harris is your buyer, that Mick Harris is the one who’s making all those heavy trips across the Channel and bunging you contraband by the vanful.’ He paused, inviting Pallister to join him on this speculative little journey. ‘Wouldn’t that give you every reason to keep Mick sweet? And wouldn’t keeping Mick sweet extend to his brother?’

  ‘But why, son? Why would I be interested in doing that?’

  ‘Because Terry Harris is in trouble. Friday night, we think he murdered someone. That’s deep shit. He needs an alibi. He needs to have been somewhere else. So guess what? He has a word with Mick, and Mick thinks of you.’

  ‘That’s a fairy tale, son. You should be onto the bigger books by now.’

  Winter took over. The exchange had brought a smile to his face and now he leaned forward.

  ‘He’s got a point though, hasn’t he? Our Gary? You’re telling us that Mick and Terry came up on Friday night. Didn’t leave until Saturday morning. No one else clocked them. No one else except your good lady and the two blokes in the cribbage school. Your good lady naturally sees it your way and the two other blokes we can’t trace. Not yet, anyway. So, my friend, that leaves you in exactly the same boat as poor Mrs Harris. She stands to lose her daughter. And you?’ Winter leaned back, his hands held wide. ‘It’s a good business, Steve. Be a shame to fuck it up.’

  There was a long silence. Down the corridor, a banged-up junkie was shouting for more tea. Sullivan drew a pad towards him.

  ‘Maybe we should start all over again,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s pretend you haven’t told us anything about the Harris twins and the cribbage school. Let’s imagine we’ve only just met. So … what really happened Friday night?’

  Pallister looked from one face to the other. For a moment, just a second or two, Winter thought they had him. Then he leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

  ‘You guys make me laugh,’ he said. ‘You must think I’m off my fucking head.’

  By half past seven, Faraday was parked outside Marta’s house. He’d phoned her four times in the last hour, dialling her mobile number, but had got no further than the messaging service. On each occasion he’d muttered his name and asked her to call back, but so far she hadn’t bothered. The pain in his ankle he could cope with. Even the scene outside the cinema had its lighter side. But this – the blank indifference – had become unbearable. They’d shared thirteen unforgettable months. And now she wouldn’t even lift the phone.

  The rain had stopped by now and it was much colder. The wind had backed round to the north-west and shadows from the trees danced on the wet road. From the car, Faraday had perfect line of sight to Marta’s house and it was impossible not to wonder what was going on inside. Her own Alfa was parked on the hardstanding outside the garage. Was her husband’s motor locked away behind that big metal door? Had he come back? Had they kissed and made up? Had they promised each other a new start? No more affairs? No more dumping their surplus baggage on passing strangers?

  He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the wilder fantasies. There was a light behind the front door, another in one of the bay windows upstairs. Was this their bedroom? Had they somehow got rid of the kids for the evening? Might this be the moment Marta broke out the body oils and the scented candles, paying her debts for a year of betrayal? Until Marta came along, Faraday had never believed in physical abandon, never truly let himself go. But once it had happened, once he knew that total surrender was possible, then everything changed. A relationship like that could lead to a thousand mystery destinations. And one of them was here.

  He sank deeper behind the wheel, trying to ease the pain in his ankle. For once in his life he hadn’t the faintest idea what would happen next. Should he phone her again? Tell her he was parked across the road, as pathetic and helpless as some desperate adolescent? Should he hobble across and knock on her door? Throw stones at the window? Smash his way in? Did he have any rights here? Apart from the need to simply see her? Smell her? Touch her? Sit her down and tell her exactly what was happening to him? Should he apologise for walking out last time? Offer to start all over again?

  He looked away a moment, distracted by a cat prowling in the shadows beneath a nearby hedge, then he heard the noise of a door opening and he looked back towards her house in time to see Marta’s silhouette in the light from the hall. She was talking to someone who’d just stepped out. Faraday wound down the window, catching a snatch of Spanish. Then a laugh and a wave from Marta, and a flurry of movement as the other person, a woman, ran to Marta’s Alfa. She bent to the door and got in. The rear lights came on and the car backed onto the road. Seconds later, it had gone.

  Upstairs, briefly, Marta appeared in the window. Then she pulled the curtains and the light went out. Faraday sat motionless. She was definitely there. Her car had gone. She probably had kids to look after. Was now the moment?

  He got out of the car, his good foot first. Thirty metres to her front door seemed to take an age. He rang once, then again. He heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and the sound of a woman humming. He recognised the tune, something from Carmen
. He felt about fifteen.

  The door opened. Marta was standing there. Her feet were bare and she was wearing a dressing gown Faraday had never seen before. It was a man’s dressing gown, far too big for her. Her husband must have come back, he thought. What happens now?

  ‘Joe.’ Her voice was cold. She wasn’t pleased to see him.

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Me.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m …’ he frowned ‘… not sure.’

  She was looking beyond him, out into the darkness.

  ‘That’s your car, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you been watching me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She pulled the dressing gown more tightly around her. Faraday wanted to ask a thousand questions. Instead, he could only manage one.

  ‘Who was the girl?’

  ‘My au pair.’

  ‘Au pair?’

  ‘Claudia, Joe. She’s been with me eighteen months.’

  Faraday did his best to hide his confusion. Not once had Marta ever mentioned an au pair.

  ‘Why do you need her?’ he asked.

  Marta studied him a moment. Upstairs, a bath was filling.

  ‘My husband left me two years ago.’ She began to close the door. ‘If you really want to know.’

  Twenty-two

  THURSDAY, 15 FEBRUARY, 06.00

  Faraday knew he had to start all over again, assuming nothing.

  The colour of the night sky? Black. The first pale hint of dawn? A cold, metallic grey. The first angry flare of sunrise? A deep, crimson red. Red was the colour she’d loved most of all. Red was the colour she flaunted with those beautifully cut summer dresses. If you packed up her life in a box, red would be the colour you’d choose for the wrapping.

  Faraday sat in his study, gazing east across the harbour. He’d been here all night, brooding. J-J had brought him tea before he’d gone to bed, asking him again what was wrong, but the last thing he wanted to do was compare emotional traumas. When the boy had persevered, signing his concern with hands spread wide, Faraday had blamed it on the weather. Touch of flu, he’d said. Given the trembling deep inside and the waves of choking nausea, it seemed a close enough description. Were there drugs for this kind of betrayal? Should he make an appointment with the doctor?