Angels Passing

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘I’m sure.’ Phillimore passed him a glass of wine.

  ‘One of them has to do with drugs.’

  ‘You mean heavy drugs?’

  ‘I mean heroin.’

  Phillimore raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Not much surprises me about Helen,’ he said at length, ‘but that does. I’m sure she dabbled; most kids seem to these days. But heroin?’ He shook his head. ‘Frankly, that would be a bit out of her league.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I can’t. Of course I can’t. Kids keep secrets like everyone else. But heroin’s something she would have mentioned, I’m sure of it. She shared every other trauma in her life.’

  ‘Maybe she’d have been ashamed?’.

  ‘You might be right. But it would have showed. I was in São Paulo for a while. I saw a lot of heroin in the favelas. If you’ve got a serious habit, it’s not something you can keep to yourself.’

  ‘Then maybe she was experimenting.’

  Faraday explained about the tox results from the post-mortem. The presence of morphine in her bloodstream had opened up another line of enquiry. Somehow or other, it had to be explained.

  ‘I’m sure.’ Phillimore was smiling at him. ‘It must be strange, putting together someone’s life after they’ve gone.’

  Faraday thought about the proposition. ‘But don’t you do that?’ he said at last. ‘Officiating at funerals? Talking about someone you’ve never met?’

  ‘We do, you’re right. But we’re looking to celebrate, not to blame. I suspect there’s a difference.’

  Faraday acknowledged the point with a wry nod. The sunshine, he thought. Not the shadows.

  ‘Did Helen ever mention a Mrs Randall at all?’

  ‘An old lady? Up in one of those tower blocks?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Yes, she did. She had a friend called Trudy. Mrs Randall was a relative of some kind. As far as I could make out, they used her flat as a kind of den.’

  ‘They went there a lot?’

  ‘Yes. Helen thought the world of her. Home from home was the phrase she used.’

  ‘Rather like here?’

  ‘Hardly. Helen came here because she was looking for something that didn’t – couldn’t – exist. She went to Mrs Randall’s because it was warm and comfy. Both of us answered a need, I suppose. But in Mrs Randall’s case it was rather less complex.’

  Older men can be good for a girl.

  ‘Helen talked to Mrs Randall a lot…’ Faraday began.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘About all kinds of things. Including her love life. Mrs Randall got the impression that she was seeing an older man.’

  ‘She was. She was seeing me.’

  ‘But more than that.’

  The smile again, but fainter this time.

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Mr Faraday?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. We have a set of events here. A young girl is found dead at the bottom of a block of flats. She has a history of disturbance. Her family has fallen apart, her relationship with her mother is in tatters. She has traces of morphine in her bloodstream, and alcohol too. She’s extremely upset. She’s extremely vulnerable. And then we discover she’s pregnant. Like I say, a set of events.’

  ‘You think there’s an issue of blame here?’

  ‘I think there may be an issue of culpability, yes.’

  ‘Whose? Her father for leaving her? Her mother for having her in the first place? Mrs Randall for happening to have the key to the roof?’

  The phrase stopped Faraday in his tracks.

  ‘You know about the key?’

  ‘Of course. She told me.’

  ‘Why? Why did she tell you?’

  ‘Because she’d threatened to do this before.’

  ‘Throw herself off the roof?’

  ‘Indeed. You could accuse Helen of a multitude of sins, Mr Faraday, but holding back wouldn’t be one of them. That’s why I don’t think she was using heroin. She’d have told me.’

  ‘So what did you do? When she threatened to kill herself?’

  ‘I told her that we all have a responsibility, for ourselves and for each other. I also told her that life is a gift, something precious, not to be thrown away.’

  ‘Did she understand?’

  ‘Yes, I think she did. Did it make any difference? No, it plainly didn’t.’

  ‘And did you share this … knowledge … with anyone else? Her mother, for instance?’

  ‘Jane was in a worse state than Helen. One of the few positive ways I could help was by not telling her.’

  ‘Social Services? Some kind of counsellor?’

  The suggestion brought the smile back.

  ‘I’m a priest, Mr Faraday. I’m a counsellor in a black frock and a funny collar. That’s my mission, my calling. That’s what I do.’

  ‘But in this case you’re involved, heavily involved. Doesn’t that make it awkward?’

  ‘Extremely. As the Dean was kind enough to point out.’

  Faraday nodded. In the ongoing grind of criminal investigation, it was rare to have a conversation like this. So many tracks to pursue. So many unanswered questions.

  He put the wine to one side for a moment.

  ‘Were you the father of her child?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know who was?’

  ‘I could give you a list of names but I won’t.’

  ‘Was one of them an Afghan? A man called Niamat Tabibi?’

  ‘No. They were all Helen’s age.’

  ‘And she told you about them?’

  ‘In great and glorious detail, Mr Faraday. It was part of the game she was playing. She wanted me to know there were others. She wanted me to know she was wanted. Whether or not all of it was true I have no idea, but if you’re serious about looking for a father then one of those names would be the lad you were after. She was truly desperate. She’d do anything to send a message.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘To me. To Niamat. To her father. To whoever would spare the time to listen. The message got through, of course. But I expect all the pathologist had was a form.’

  Faraday gazed at him, then folded his pocketbook and put it to one side. He believed every word this man was saying.

  ‘There’s another child we’re trying to find. Younger.’

  Phillimore nodded.

  ‘Doodie. Jane said you’d mentioned him.’

  ‘You know Doodie?’

  ‘Very well. Helen brought him round.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Indeed. He’s been staying, off and on. I have a couple of spare rooms upstairs. Under the circumstances, it’s the least I can do.’

  Faraday gazed at him, and then began to laugh. Six days of looking high and low, six days of phone calls and Misper registers, circulating the name and description to every beat car in the city. And here was young Doodie, tucked up with a priest.

  ‘Staying here? Was that wise? Given you and the …’ he shrugged ‘… Dean?’

  ‘Wise is an interesting word, Mr Faraday. And so is sanctuary.’

  ‘Is that what you were offering?’

  ‘Indeed. Plus food and shelter. Or maybe they’re the same thing.’

  ‘So where is he? Doodie?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He was here a couple of nights back. He comes and goes. It’s an informal arrangement.’

  ‘He has a key?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you talk to him?’

  ‘As much as I can.’

  ‘Has he mentioned Helen at all? Thursday night? The night she died?’

  ‘Not really. I asked him about it, of course I did, but he just changes the subject.’

  ‘Were they together that night?’

  ‘He says not.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s a funny lad. He’ll talk all the time, tell you anything you think you want to know, but most of it’s a smokescreen
. If you think Helen was damaged, you ought to meet Doodie.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Faraday said drily. ‘Maybe you could arrange it.’

  Winter was asleep when the phone beside his bed rang. He rolled over and fumbled for it in the dark. It was Dave Michaels.

  ‘You’re gonna love this,’ Michaels began. ‘We’ve got a problem with Terry Harris.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Twenty-four

  FRIDAY, 16 FEBRUARY, 08.00

  When Dave Michaels made the obvious point – that someone had saved them all a great deal of time and money – Willard finally lost it. It was ten past eight in the morning. Three members of the management team had already soured the atmosphere at the Major Crimes suite by turning up late. Now they all paid the price.

  ‘That is totally out of order,’ Willard said softly. ‘We’re here to put the lid on serious crime. We do that by sorting out decent investigations. What happened to Finch was unacceptable, and so is this. Either we understand that and start behaving like grown-ups or some of us pack it in. Understood?’

  Heads nodded around the table. The fire at 62. Aboukir Road had clearly been deliberately set. The neighbours on both sides of the property reported a strong smell of petrol as they evacuated their own properties and a preliminary investigation by the Fire Brigade believed the seat of the blaze lay just inside the front door. Terry Harris, sleeping alone in the upstairs bedroom, had made it as far as the landing before being overcome by smoke. By the time the rescue crew fought their way through the blaze, he was dead.

  ‘What about his wife and the nipper?’

  It was the DI in charge of forensics. Willard looked to Dave Michaels for an answer.

  ‘They never went back after the hotel, sir. She’s moved in with her mum-in-law in Paulsgrove.’

  ‘You mean Harris’s mum?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Apparently they’re very close. It’s her husband she can’t stand.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Dawn Ellis. It’s not statemented but she talked to the woman at the Travel Inn and she’s put two and two together.’

  Willard nodded and scribbled himself a note. Then he looked up again.

  ‘So what time did all this happen?’

  ‘The treble nine was logged at 01.13.’ It was Sammy Rollins, the Deputy SIO. ‘The bloke at number sixty raised the alarm.’

  ‘Anyone see anything before?’

  ‘Not so far. Uniforms are still doing the house-to-house.’

  Willard was looking at Brian Imber. He wanted to know about word on the street.

  ‘We’ve heard nothing, sir. Nothing to suggest anything like this.’

  ‘What about the association chart on Harris? What does that tell us?’

  ‘Not a lot. The obvious suspects would be friends of Finch’s but there’s a problem there because he hadn’t got any friends.’

  ‘What about the lad from Brennan’s? The one Winter interviewed?’

  ‘Highly unlikely. He’s got no previous and from what Paul’s saying, they weren’t that close anyway. They had a drink a week or two back but you don’t burn someone’s house down on the strength of a couple of lagers.’

  ‘The girl? Louise Abeka?’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible if they really were an item but it doesn’t feel right to me. For starters, she’s in London.’

  Dave Michaels reminded them that the girl was due down after lunch. He was sending Winter and Sullivan to arrest her at Waterloo.

  ‘I’m with Brian. I just don’t think she’d come back down here. Not unless she absolutely had to.’

  Willard drew a line through a name on his pad, then looked up.

  ‘So where does that leave us? If we’re not talking revenge where do we go next?’

  ‘Pre-emption, boss.’ Michaels again. ‘Someone who wanted to shut Harris’s mouth. I’ve been talking to Winter about Kenny Foster. He’s saying the bloke’s off his head. If he wouldn’t think twice about putting a rope round Finch’s neck, setting fire to Harris would be a stroll in the park.’

  ‘So why would he do it?’

  ‘Dunno. Maybe he’s worried about Harris grassing him up. He knows the bloke’s nicked for burglary and maybe he thinks he’s going to cop a plea. He knows Harris much better than we do and even we think he’s a greasy little shithead.’

  Willard nodded and scribbled himself a note.

  ‘Anyone talked to Foster yet?’

  ‘First on the list this morning, boss. Yates and Ellis are down at the garage now.’

  Faraday was reluctant to declare his own son a Misper but by nine o’clock, setting off for work, he was seriously worried. Not only had J-J failed to show at Highland Road yesterday morning but there’d been no sign of him since.

  Faraday had got back from Phillimore’s at around ten last night. There was still half a slice of cold toast on the kitchen table and J-J’s bedroom was the usual shambles but there was no sign of the boy himself. Neither was there a note of any kind. J-J was as disorganised and chaotic as he’d ever been but he was normally careful to let his father know what he was up to. For obvious reasons, Faraday had always kept him on a tight leash, insisting that J-J keep him briefed on his movements, and old habits died hard.

  From his desk at Highland Road, he called Anghared Davies. Gordon Franks picked up the phone.

  ‘I’m looking for my son,’ Faraday said.

  ‘Join the gang. Where is he?’

  Franks had last seen him yesterday afternoon. He had been offered the use of a minibus all day today and J-J had offered to help him out on an expedition to the New Forest. They’d agreed to meet at eight. It was now 9.25.

  ‘I thought he must have overslept. I’d have rung but there’s no point, is there? He’d never hear the phone.’

  Faraday was thinking about Phillimore, last night.

  ‘This Doodie …’ he began. ‘Is he around at all?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him for days.’

  ‘You know J-J was with him in the cinema?’

  ‘The ABC?’ Franks’s voice quickened. ‘When?’

  Faraday explained about breaking in on Wednesday. Doodie seemed to have some kind of doss in there, not that he’d be silly enough to use it again.

  ‘You’re right. The kid’s really cluey. Never makes the same mistake twice.’

  ‘So where is he now? And where’s my bloody son?’

  ‘Pass. If I had some ideas you’d be the first to know.’ It didn’t help that Franks sounded worried.

  ‘You think we’ve got a problem?’

  ‘I think J-J might have. If he’s with Doodie.’

  J-J had never been inside a house in Old Portsmouth before. Two decades in the city had given him a working knowledge of Southsea and the eastern suburbs but never this little enclave of cobbled streets and swinging tavern signs, of mullioned windows and thick oak doors.

  He settled himself in a chair beside the bookcase, gazing out at the cathedral, wondering vaguely where Doodie had got to. They’d taken a cab from near the ABC where they’d stayed overnight and Doodie had let himself in with his own key. Did this fabulous place, with its shadowed nooks and crannies, belong to a relative? A friend? Some grand species of social worker? J-J simply didn’t know.

  He sat back, leafing through an old copy of the National Geographic. Seconds later, Doodie was at his elbow. He’d found a bottle of wine from somewhere and a corkscrew but he didn’t have the strength to pull the cork. J-J gazed at the bottle. It was half past ten in the morning. Did the Persistent Young Offender project stretch to getting pissed this early?

  He gave Doodie a look and shook his head, using his fingers to signal the letter ‘T’. There was an electric kettle downstairs in the kitchen, he’d seen it, and there’d be milk in the fridge. They could have a cuppa instead. Doodie ignored him, taking his hand and wrapping it round the neck of the bottle. His other hand, at Doodie’s insistence, found the corkscrew. T
hen, suddenly, the boy was gone – only to reappear seconds later with two glasses.

  They were crystal, truly beautiful, and J-J watched the boy place them on the small occasional table with infinite care. The gesture, with its elaborate delicacy, made J-J laugh. He knew from Gordon Franks that Doodie couldn’t care less about other people’s possessions. He’d trash a car, or someone’s front garden, as casually as other kids would kick a ball. Yet here he was, auditioning for the part of a waiter in the drama of his dreams.

  J-J beamed at him for a moment, then put the bottle between his knees, tightened his grip on the corkscrew and began to pull.

  Bev Yates and Dawn Ellis waited nearly an hour before Kenny Foster turned up at his garage. An Aqua cab bumped down the rough path from the main road and Foster stepped out of the back. He was carrying a Jaguar sports bag and stood watching them for the best part of a minute until Yates and Ellis got out of their car.

  ‘You people make me laugh,’ he said. ‘Deep cover, is it?’ Yates looked him up and down. He and Foster had met a couple of times before and on neither occasion had Yates paid the slightest attention to Foster’s attempts at intimidation.

  ‘We’re cutting to the chase here,’ he said briskly, ‘because it’s fucking cold. Where were you last night?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Who do you think, dickhead? Me.’

  ‘You, pal? And why would that be?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Just do yourself a favour. Where were you?’

  ‘Isle of Wight. Ventnor. Pier Approach Hotel. Room 209. Give them a ring, pal, and ask for a barmaid called Nathalie. Nice French lady. Sweetest fuck imaginable.’

  Yates was writing down the details. Then he glanced at his watch.

  ‘You’ve got a phone number?’

  ‘On the receipt.’ Foster put his holdall down and dug in the pocket of his denim jacket. ‘Here.’

  Yates glanced at the receipt, then nodded at the garage.

  ‘Stick around. I’ll be a couple of minutes.’

  He returned to the car and phoned the hotel on his mobile. The receptionist had been on first thing this morning and confirmed that Foster had checked out around seven. Asked whether she knew for certain that he’d stayed the night, she started to laugh.

  ‘How’s your French?’ she said. Yates pocketed the mobile. Foster emerged from the garage.