Angels Passing

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘No can do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Your client’s told you what she knows?’

  ‘Broadly speaking, yes. In Miss Abeka’s own interests, I’m afraid it’s no comment from here on in.’

  ‘And that’s final?’

  It was Louise who nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It is.’

  There was a long silence. Winter looked at his watch, started the tape again and then announced the interview suspended.

  ‘Suspended?’ Crewdson was frowning.

  ‘We arrested your client at 12.04,’ Winter said. ‘I’m afraid she’ll be with us for a while yet.’

  Back out in the car park, Sullivan unlocked the Escort and got in. As they were nosing out into the rush hour traffic, Winter turned to him.

  ‘Mick Harris has a mobe, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve got the number?’

  Sullivan stared across at him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  Twenty-five

  FRIDAY, l6 FEBRUARY, 17.00

  Faraday sat in Hartigan’s office, wondering what exactly lay behind the peremptory summons. The moment the door opened and Hartigan stepped in, he understood.

  ‘Simon Pannell,’ Hartigan waved at his guest, ‘from the News.’

  Pannell was a youngish man, tall and bulky with a slight squint. He produced a biro and a small ring-binder pad and accepted a chair at the conference table opposite Faraday.

  ‘Simon’s masterminding a series of drug-related features.’ Hartigan slipped his jacket off and sat down, glancing at Faraday. ‘I thought it might be helpful if we were both here.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Hartigan turned to Pannell.

  ‘Joe’s been heading the Helen Bassam inquiry. If anyone can give you what you’re after, then Joe’s the man. He’s also been looking for a rather remarkable ten-year-old. Right, Joe?’

  Faraday nodded, saying nothing. Pannell was consulting his notes.

  ‘Gavin Prentice?’ He looked up. ‘AKA Doodie? Lives rough? Doesn’t go to school?’

  Faraday was staring at Hartigan. Where had all this stuff come from?

  ‘Joe’s drawn a blank on Doodie so far,’ Hartigan said smoothly, ‘which I think speaks volumes about life on the street. You’re right, Simon. This child is feral. And he may well be into serious drug abuse.’

  ‘What kind of drugs?’

  ‘Off the record? Heroin. Almost certainly.’ Faraday raised an eyebrow.

  ‘We can’t evidence that, sir.’

  ‘No, we can’t, Joe, but the girl Helen was using heroin and it’s a reasonable inference that the boy might have been into it too. They were certainly together the night she died.’

  ‘A ten-year-old on smack?’ The reporter was looking at Faraday.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Faraday shook his head.

  ‘But if this girl Helen was using heroin, then surely—’

  ‘But she wasn’t, Mr Pannell.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said she wasn’t using heroin.’

  Pannell looked to Hartigan to clear up this sudden confusion. Hartigan had edged himself forward on the chair, his face a picture. First astonishment. Then alarm.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said she wasn’t using heroin.’ Faraday offered a regretful smile. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Then what did the tox give us?’

  ‘The night she died she’d stolen some tablets from a woman called Grace Randall. They were morphine sulphate. It’s a painkiller. It’s easy to confuse it with heroin on tox analysis but she wasn’t using smack.’

  The biro was motionless. The reporter was looking at Hartigan.

  ‘Superintendent?’

  Hartigan hesitated for a long moment, weighing the balance of advantage. Then he forced a smile.

  ‘Joe’s right,’ he said silkily. ‘Although in these cases it’s important that we explore every avenue. The outcome, of course, is the same. Heroin is diamorphine. The girl was off her head.’

  ‘But my editor mentioned smack before. In connection with the girl.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid he was wrong. It was morphine sulphate. Like Joe says, it’s a tricky judgement call, even for a forensic analyst, but a case like this is where we come in. The law hates ambiguity, Simon, and it’s our job to present the clearest possible evidence. Right, Joe?’

  Before Faraday could reply, there was a knock on the door and Hartigan’s management assistant appeared.

  Hartigan waved her away.

  ‘No interruptions, Annabelle.’

  ‘But Mr Hartigan—’

  ‘I said no interruptions.’

  Annabelle retreated, closing the door behind her. The reporter wanted to know how many of these tablets the girl had swallowed before making it onto the roof.

  ‘The tox gives us thirty micrograms,’ Faraday said. ‘And she’d been drinking as well.’

  ‘Drinking what?’

  ‘Impossible to say. Alcohol, certainly, and lots of it.’

  Pannell made a note, then looked up again.

  ‘So what makes a girl like that end up on a tower block, smashed out of her head?’

  ‘It’s an indictment, Simon,’ Hartigan said at once, ‘of the gravest possible kind.’

  ‘An indictment of what?’

  ‘Of society. Of the mess we’ve made for ourselves. And that’s the point, really. Unless we can get on top of all this, unless we can nip these problems in the bud, then there’ll be more Helen Bassams. And that, of course, carries certain cost implications.’ He paused, waiting for Pannell to write it all down. Instead, the reporter glanced across at Faraday.

  ‘You agree?’

  ‘Up to a point, yes. Mr Hartigan’s right. Society’s all over the place. Families are falling apart. But we’re policemen, not sociologists. It’s our business to deal in the small print, in individual cases. We’re there to connect particular sets of dots. Whether they form a larger pattern is down to someone else.’

  ‘And Helen Bassam?’

  ‘We simply don’t know. We have suspicions, of course. We know a certain amount about her background, about the people she mixed with, but this is pretty personal stuff.’

  ‘My editor gave me the impression this was going to be the full brief.’ Pannell was looking at Hartigan.

  ‘It is, Simon, it is. What Joe’s saying is that it’s tough being an attractive fourteen-year-old these days. Someone like Helen, the situation she was in, I’m not sure what anyone would do. Eh, Joe?’

  Faraday felt the trap closing around him. On the one hand, a professional journalist paid to ferret out certain kinds of truth; on the other, a publicity-obsessed senior policeman with one eye on the next interview board.

  ‘Helen Bassam certainly had problems,’ Faraday conceded, ‘but in my view that’s not what this is about. Mr Hartigan’s right. Society’s a mess. In our job, we sweep up afterwards; in yours, there’s money to be made. If bad news sells newspapers, you’re all going to be very rich.’

  Pannell put his biro down. Hartigan was looking visibly angry. Another knock at the door.

  ‘Come,’ Hartigan barked.

  It was Annabelle again. This time, she was looking at Faraday.

  ‘It’s Cathy Lamb,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I think it’s really urgent.’

  ‘What do you think she could tell us?’ Willard was back at his desk in his office.

  Michaels and Winter sat at the conference table, Winter consulting notes he’d made during the first interview with Louise Abeka.

  ‘I think she knows most of what happened on the Friday night, sir.’

  ‘And that would be enough to put Foster away?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because he’s holding the full deck. Number one, he’s got loads of motive. He fancies the girl. Plus Finch’s pissed him off big time. We can evidence that on both counts. Number two, he�
��s got the track record. This is a bloke who settles every debt in blood. And number three, he’s got the opportunity.’

  ‘Except he wasn’t there.’

  ‘The alibi’s bollocks. They could have knocked the video up any time. A child can fiddle around with dates and times.’

  ‘Yeah, but can we prove it?’ Willard was tapping the end of his pencil on the desk. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  ‘The girl can,’ Michaels pointed out. ‘If she’d only bloody talk to us.’

  ‘And you’re saying she won’t?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ Winter gestured at his pad. ‘She’ll take it up to last week. Then it’s the big no-no. I don’t know what he said to her but there’s no way she’ll go anywhere near him. We can buy her a new life, a new name, whatever, but it won’t solve the problem if we need her in court.’

  ‘Of course we need her in court. That’s where this thing begins and ends.’ He paused. ‘How much do we know about her background? She’s a student, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Third year at the university. That’s why she stayed here after what happened. She had a big exam on Monday, then she went off to London. Now I gather she’s trying to negotiate some kind of deal on the rest of the course. She wants to go back to Nigeria and teach.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The pencil again, tap-tap. ‘OK, here’s what we do. Re-interview her. Give her an opportunity to talk about last week and suggest that she might be up on a Perverting the Course of Justice charge if she doesn’t. That might shift the logjam.’

  Winter glanced at Michaels. Perverting the Course of Justice could carry life imprisonment. Nigeria might be further away than Louise Abeka thought.

  There was the patter of running feet in the yard outside, and then the sound of car doors slamming. Willard was on his feet, peering into the gathering dusk. The first of the sirens began to wail as a squad car accelerated towards the road, then another.

  ‘Fucking cavalry,’ he muttered, sinking into his chair again.

  Faraday was in the third car, wedged in the back between two uniforms. In his bleakest moments, he’d never once thought it would come to this. Cathy Lamb had taken a call from Mrs Randall at Chuzzlewit House. The little boy was back, the one who’d come with Helen. This time he had someone else with him – a tall man, very quiet, no hair. They’d taken her key and a bottle or two from her cupboard. And she thought they’d gone up to the roof.

  It was barely a mile from Fratton police station to the flats. The squad cars squealed to a halt in the parking lot outside the main entrance and Faraday fought the temptation to lean over the lap of the man next to him, craning his neck upwards to steal a glimpse of the roof. There’d be plenty of time for that. He knew there would.

  The uniforms pushed out of the squad car. To Faraday’s alarm, there were already two fire engines parked round the corner, their engines running. If it’s true that Doodie’s up there on the roof, he thought, then this circus will give him exactly the audience he’s always craved. Little tiny men in uniforms. Fire engines. Squad cars. And soon, presumably, ambulances. All because of Gavin Prentice. If you were looking for a rationale for years and years of vile behaviour, for breaking every rule and making umpteen lives a misery, then this was surely it. Add a couple of TV crews, and the tiny figure up there on the roof would soon be looking for an agent.

  He peered upwards, feeling the first spots of rain on his face. It was nearly dark by now and it was difficult to be certain but he thought he detected movement against the blackness of the sky. Let it not be J-J, he prayed. Please God let, it not be J-J.

  There was a touch on his arm and he turned to find himself looking at Cathy Lamb.

  ‘What happened?’ he muttered.

  She went through it again. Grace Randall, number 131, had put a call through Faraday’s private line. Intercepted by the switchboard, it had come to Cathy’s desk. The old lady had explained about the little boy, the wicked one, and Cathy had begun to put two and two together.

  ‘You’re saying she mentioned someone else,’ Faraday said quickly.

  ‘She did. Some deaf guy.’

  ‘How did she know?’

  ‘She said he kept using his hands. She called it cat’s cradle.’

  Cat’s cradle. J-J. Faraday made for the main entrance, Cathy calling after him. The incident was already in the hands of a uniformed Inspector. More senior officers were on their way. Access to the roof was tightly controlled. Faraday fumbled in his pocket for his warrant card.

  The main entrance was chocked open, two PCs standing guard. One of them recognised Faraday and waved him through. Both lifts were way up the building so Faraday made for the stairs, taking them two at a time until his legs began to jelly. By the tenth floor, he was gasping for breath. He slowed, checked the lift again, then headed upwards. There were little knots of residents standing in the corridors, peering down at the activity below. Forcing himself up yet another flight of stairs, he felt his breath rasping in his chest. Floor 20. Floor 21. The numbers began to blur. At last, dizzy with the effort, he made it to the twenty-third floor, sweat pouring from his face. One day, he promised himself he’d get fit. One day, he’d be in the kind of shape to deal with a crisis like this. One day.

  As Cathy had warned, access to the roof was controlled. There was a Sergeant and another PC on the stairs. The Sergeant peered at Faraday’s ID, uncertain what to do.

  ‘Who’s out there?’ Faraday sucked air into his burning lungs.

  ‘A kid and someone older, sir.’

  ‘How much older?’

  ‘It’s dark. I’m guessing. Twenty?’

  ‘Tall?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Have you tried to talk to him? Has anyone?’

  The sergeant nodded. Both he and the PC had done their best to get them down but neither would play ball. He was now awaiting instructions from his Inspector.

  ‘Down?’ Faraday felt a deep, deep chill.

  ‘They’re up on the parapet on the retaining wall, sir.’ He glanced at the PC and motioned him aside. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  Faraday climbed the last flight of stairs to the roof. The door was open, the night air suddenly cold on his face. Lines of washing criss-crossed the roof space, flapping in the wind. Absurdly, he wondered why no one was getting all this stuff in. The rain was getting heavier by the minute.

  He began to circle the roof, peering upwards. The retaining wall was eight, maybe nine feet tall. He’d scaled it before, exactly a week ago, using the metal grille that permitted a view of the city on all four sides. It hadn’t been easy for him. How come a ten-year-old had managed it?

  He didn’t know, didn’t care. All that mattered was J-J. He’d covered two sides of the square now, finding nothing, then suddenly he saw the figures outlined against the pale remains of the dusk. J-J was unmistakable – tall, thin, gawky. He had both arms stretched wide, the way you’d walk a tightrope, and every time the wind blew and the washing flapped he’d sway from side to side, fighting for his balance. Beside him, running up and down the parapet, was another figure, infinitely smaller. Doodie, Faraday thought. He’d turned real life into the drama he craved and now he was the superstar of his dreams.

  Faraday closed the distance between them, moving slowly. He was aware of figures behind him, of bursts of conversation from police radios, but his world had narrowed to the figures on the parapet above. There was no way he could reach Doodie without climbing the walls. If he was to get between the kid and J-J, between Doodie and this unfolding disaster, then he had to be up there on the parapet with them.

  Doodie was off on another little excursion. He ran like the child he was, skipping through the rain, oblivious of danger. He ran to the end of the parapet, coming to a halt at the right-angled turn, then disappeared behind the tower that overlooked the roof space. For the first time Faraday caught sight of J-J’s face. He was terrified. It was there in his eyes, in the slight bend of his knees, in the way he was trying to will his f
eet to glue themselves onto the concrete. He’d never liked heights, and now his worst nightmare had come true. Jumping the nine feet back to the roof was clearly unthinkable. A step the other way would send him tumbling into the void. He was paralysed with fear.

  Faraday shook his coat off and reached up, securing a handhold on the metal grille. He levered his body up and sideways, using a brick abutment to brace his feet. Handhold by handhold, he inched upwards, praying for Doodie not to return. Slowly, sweating again, he clawed his way up the wall. Then, suddenly, he felt the wind on his face. He was half lying on the parapet now, one wet leg bent beneath him. He eased the other leg up, then, very slowly, got to his feet, bracing himself against sudden gusts of wind. Of Doodie he could see no sign. Looking down, he knew, would be sudden death. He inched his body round, keeping his head up, searching for his son.

  A face swam into view. It was J-J. His eyes were wide and his face looked chalk white against the darkness. Faraday began to talk to him – hand language, the old conversation. It’s me, he signed. I’m here. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll sort this out. Just don’t do anything rash. J-J nodded. Slowly, his hands began to move. Behind you, he signed. Look out behind you.

  Faraday heard a wild yelp of laughter and turned in time to see Doodie running along the parapet towards him. He was right about the skipping, right about the child’s absolute disregard for the rules. Even the terrifying suck of gravity didn’t seem to give him pause for thought. Even the prospect of a 200-foot fall didn’t, for a single moment, slow him down. This was now a party for three. What a laugh.

  Doodie came to a halt a pace away and for one heart-stopping moment Faraday thought he was going to push his way by. There simply wasn’t the space, Faraday wanted to explain. Try and get by me and one or other of us will end up on the pavement. Just like Helen Bassam.

  ‘Awright, mister?’ The old Pompey greeting. Faraday nodded.

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  ‘Yeah. Brilliant, ain’t it?’ He nodded down. ‘All them fire engines. You lives here, do you?’

  Faraday wanted to laugh. Did he live here? On the edge? One permanent step from disaster? The answer, he thought, was probably yes.