Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll wait for Tony.’

  We drive to Bridport. Twice I ask why I’ve been detained like this but conversation is limited to the weather and the policing challenges of the imminent Bridport Food Festival. I find it difficult to envisage a public order breakdown over fresh tomato salsa and portions of apple spelt and say so. This makes the uniformed sergeant laugh, which I find oddly comforting.

  At the police station, I’m booked in by someone called the custody sergeant. I don’t much like the first word in his job description but I give him my full details and hand over the contents of my bag. A female officer appears and shepherds me to a nearby suite where she takes a DNA swab from my mouth. Watching her bag and label it, I can think of nothing but the moment Noodle slipped the needle of the syringe into his broken vein. Bits of me were all over that syringe. The match will be perfect.

  ‘We need photographs. Over here, please.’

  I follow the PC to a neighbouring wall and stand immobile while she prepares to take the shots. I’ve done camera tests all my life but this is very different. Unhappy with the first results, she asks me to keep my mouth shut while she takes another set.

  ‘It’s just like a passport shot,’ she says. ‘Try not to smile.’

  As if, I think. A pair of swing doors takes us to a corridor and an office at the end where I meet a middle-aged man sitting in his shirt sleeves at a bare desk. He has a brutal haircut and the kind of tan that sailors get, and when we walk in he’s studying the contents of a thin file.

  He introduces himself as DC Chaulk. When I raise the issue of legal representation he immediately offers me the services of the duty solicitor. I decline as gracefully as I can and say I prefer Tony Morse.

  ‘Where do we find him?’

  ‘Portsmouth, as far as I know.’

  ‘And he’ll attend?’

  ‘Of course. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.’

  The detective checks his watch. Even with what he calls ‘a following wind’, waiting for Mr Morse could cost us at least three hours. This, he implies, would be less than helpful in the current circumstances.

  ‘No one’s told me what I’m doing here,’ I say. ‘Might that be a good place to start?’

  He shoots me a look. I’m doing my best to be polite and low-key, something that seems to irritate him even further.

  ‘A body was found on the beach down at West Bay,’ he says. ‘A young lad already known to us. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more details at the moment. You have a number for Mr Morse?’

  As it turns out, H has already made contact with Tony. He’s abandoned an afternoon with his kids and he’s now en route down from Pompey. He arrives a minute or two before six o’clock, by which time I’ve read two editions of Dorset Life. Twice.

  Tony has been assigned to a small, bare office reserved for defence solicitors to conference with their clients. He’s beautifully dressed – exquisite suit, plus a mane of greying hair – and he smells divine. He gives me a long hug, which is nice, and asks me how I’m bearing up.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Better than that poor lad on the beach.’

  Tony has already got the bones of the story from the detective inspector leading the investigation. Young junkie. Local lad. No signs of physical violence apart from facial bruising, which may turn out to be days old. Exact cause of death yet to be determined by a post-mortem but currently assumed to be drowning.

  ‘So where’s the crime?’ I ask.

  ‘Very good question. For the time being they’re treating it as a suss death and that’s because they have to.’

  ‘Suss?’

  ‘Suspicious. With respect to your lovely self, they want to know what you were doing in a nearby car park in the middle of the night, and what the forensics might tell them once they’ve finished with the scene.’

  ‘Scene?’

  ‘A tent on the beach where they assume the boy was kipping.’ He smiles at me. ‘Any thoughts?’

  I’ve been anticipating this question for the last three hours. I’m unschooled in exactly how much trust you should vest in your defending solicitor, especially when he’s become a friend. How much has H told him about the last week or so? Has he even mentioned Clem?

  ‘I’ve been worried about Malo,’ I say carefully. ‘I think he’s been doing drugs again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘He had a Spice habit when he came back from Stockholm last year. It was horrible.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘We think cocaine. I’m assuming he buys the stuff down here because he lives nearby. These last few days I’ve been asking around because that’s what mums do. If you want the posh word, I’ve been on a bit of a journey.’

  I tell him about the Landfall, about Danny Flannery, and about Wes kettling Dooley. The latter comes as no surprise to Tony, who’s known Wes for years, but I appreciate his concern on my part.

  ‘The man can be an animal,’ he says. ‘And that’s on a good day. What else have you got for me?’

  I tell him nothing about my expedition to the swimming pool and the conversation with Brodie that followed. Neither do I trouble him with this morning’s encounter at Lockett’s Copse.

  ‘So where’s Malo in all this?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’ve put it to him, surely, about the cocaine?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He denies everything. He’s all over the place. His brain’s gone, and now him with it. A lot of this stuff I try and keep from H. It just upsets him.’

  Tony nods. He’s produced a rather elegant notebook, embossed black leather, and he scribbles himself a line or two before looking up.

  ‘And the boy on the beach?’

  So far, I only know him as Noodle. His real name, according to Tony, is Bradley Sawyer. I explain again about Danny Flannery. He was the one who told me about the tent.

  ‘The kid lives there?’

  ‘Most of the time, yes.’

  ‘And you’re telling me you were with him? Last night?’

  ‘I was.’

  Tony pulls a face. He doesn’t want to hear this. ‘Why?’ he asks. ‘Why do a thing like that?’

  I do my best to offer a coherent explanation. I badly needed to join up all my Bridport dots and I thought Noodle might be the one to help me.

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘Yes, in a way he was. He’d met Malo. I showed him a photo. He remembered the face.’

  ‘And he sold to Malo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cocaine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tony scribbles another note. Then he wants to go back to last night. I paid my son’s dealer a visit. Then what happened?

  ‘There was another man there. He was off the moment the torch woke him up. Noodle was out of it.’

  I describe exactly what happened. I have Tony’s full attention.

  ‘You helped him smoke crack?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And you were there when he shot up afterwards?’

  ‘I was. He needed help again. The state of the boy …’ I shake my head.

  ‘But why? Why did you get so involved?’

  ‘Because I felt sorry for him. Maybe I shouldn’t have done what I did. Maybe I shouldn’t have been there at all. Maybe I’m just soft in the head. Does the law allow for that? For trying to help?’

  For the first time I recognize a flicker of anger deep in my soul. For the life of me, I can’t work out what I’ve done wrong.

  ‘The lad’s dead,’ Tony points out.

  ‘And you think I did that?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying, but you may have been the last person to see him alive, and that marks any detective’s card.’

  ‘You think he committed suicide? Just walked into the ocean and filled his lungs?’

  ‘I’m suggesting
nothing. I’m doing what the police are doing. I’m marshalling the facts into the likeliest order and wondering what they tell me. There’s CCTV proof you were in the car park. The footage has you away from the car for nearly an hour. They’re boshing the scene as we speak. The forensics will put you in that tent. By your own account you were playing nurse. That’s where the interview will take them. As long as you stick to this story of yours.’

  ‘You believe me? Or you think I’m making it up?’

  ‘I believe you. I believe what you’ve told me. It won’t be the whole truth because everyone always keeps a little something back but that needn’t trouble us for the time being. No …’ He pushes his notebook away and leans back in the chair. ‘It’s nice. It’s neat. It’s tidy. It paints you in a good light. You’re looking out for your son. And you’re playing mum with Mr Noodle, as well. Let’s just hope they don’t find anything embarrassing back home.’

  ‘At Flixcombe, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. They’re doing the full search as we speak and my guess is they’ll bosh the cars as well. Some people would say they’re being over the top, even vindictive, and I’d be tempted to agree. From time to time they get the urge to send everyone a message and this might be one of those occasions.’

  A full search of Flixcombe Manor? Looking for the white powder floor by floor? Room by room? I’m appalled by the chaos I’ve unleashed.

  ‘And H?’ I enquire.

  Tony studies me for a moment. That same pained expression. ‘Pissed-off won’t cover it.’ He smiles. ‘I’d suggest incandescent.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Tony sits beside me as the interview begins. DC Chaulk has been joined by a younger female detective he introduces as DC Carrie Martin. Carrie has an innocence about her that reminds me slightly of Clem. She’s a good-looking girl with a neat blonde crop and the subtlest line of mascara under her eyes. She’s wearing a low-neck black T-shirt under a two-piece suit and has a habit of studying her perfect nails while DC Chaulk makes the running. In any other setting I’d put her down as a bit of an adornment. This proves to be a woeful miscalculation.

  Chaulk starts the recording machine, announces the date and time, and repeats the caution under which I was arrested. He then introduces the faces around the table and asks for a full account of my movements last night. I oblige as best I can, aware of Carrie Martin making notes as I speak. Only when I crawl into the tent, disturbing the other figure inside, does her biro pause.

  ‘You saw this man?’ she asks.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘So how do you know it was a man?’

  ‘He needed a shave.’

  ‘Can you describe him? Age, for instance?’

  ‘I’d be guessing.’ I frown. I’m thinking of my brief glimpse of the two figures intertwined. ‘Young, probably. Maybe Noodle’s age.’

  ‘You mean Bradley Sawyer?’

  ‘I mean Noodle.’

  She nods, says nothing, ducks her head, makes another note. Chaulk tells me to carry on. I describe what happened between myself and Noodle. This episode ends with the boy unconscious again, a beatific smile on his face, a thin trickle of blood seeping from the puncture wound in his skinny forearm.

  ‘And that’s it?’ Chaulk hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

  ‘That’s it. I went back to the car park. The rest you know.’

  Chaulk glances sideways at Carrie. This appears to be some kind of invitation. Get in there and help yourself.

  Carrie studies me for a moment or two. Her gaze is unblinking. I was wrong about her innocence.

  ‘You went there to score drugs, didn’t you?’ she says.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Then what were you after?’

  ‘I’ve just told you. Nothing.’

  ‘Then why bother the lad? At that time of night?’

  I start to explain about Malo, my wayward son, and my journey through the netherworld of Bridport, but then I feel the lightest pressure on my forearm. It’s Tony. He wants me to stop.

  ‘This line of questioning is oppressive,’ he says to DC Chaulk. ‘You asked for an open account. That’s exactly what you’ve got. I suggest my client has nothing to add. When she left that tent, Mr Sawyer was alive. That’s all you need to know.’

  Chaulk mumbles something about these being early days in the investigation and the importance of keeping an open mind but Carrie hasn’t finished. She produces a laptop from a bag beside her chair and makes an announcement for the benefit of the recording machine.

  ‘19.47,’ she says. ‘DC Martin introduces CCTV evidence.’

  She opens the laptop. A couple of keystrokes take her to a video file. Then she angles the screen so we can all take a look. Both Tony and I lean forward. I’m expecting to see a well-lit car park in the middle of the night. Instead, I’m gazing at the interior of a crowded pub. It’s the Landfall. I recognize the jukebox in the corner. Already highlighted is a middle-aged woman standing beside the bar. She’s wearing a red beret and she has a roll of notes in her hand.

  Carrie is watching me carefully. ‘Would that be you?’ she asks.

  ‘It would.’

  ‘We’ve done some work around that hand of yours, blown up the image. We estimate around two hundred pounds. Would that be fair?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘It would.’

  ‘So what are you doing in a pub like that with two hundred quid? Everyone knows that’s where you go to score. You were buying, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘Three glasses of something red for the lads you can see beside me.’ I nod at the screen. ‘That’s the barman who served me a minute or so earlier. I’m sure it’s all there in the footage.’

  ‘Twenty quid? Twenty-five? What about the rest? What did that get you? Cocaine, was it? Smack? A meet round the corner when you left the pub? Cut us just a bit of slack, Ms Andressen. Pretend we’re not quite as thick as everyone thinks we are.’

  ‘I went in there to try and find out about my son.’

  ‘This is Malo? The boy you mentioned to Sawyer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did these youths at the bar tell you, Ms Andressen?’ Chaulk this time.

  ‘Not much. I suspect they’ll tell you anything if you’re buying the drinks.’

  ‘So it was a waste of money? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that I came down to the pub that night to ask some questions, to make some enquiries. In the end those enquiries led to Noodle. There’s a man you’ll see in that footage. He’s got a leather jacket. He takes me out of the pub. Afterwards we talked and he mentioned someone called Noodle, someone who sold drugs, and he told me where this character often spent the night.’

  ‘So you went to find him?’ Carrie Martin again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To buy drugs?’

  ‘I couldn’t. I had no money on me.’

  ‘Then maybe it was a barter deal. Some of the guys on the street love that. In fact, they prefer it to money.’

  ‘Barter what?’ I’m staring at her.

  ‘Sex. A blow job, was it? Or the main course?’

  I’m staring at her. I want to tell her to wash her mouth out, to have just an ounce of respect. Is she serious? Or is she simply trying to shock me into some indiscretion or other, some tiny mistake that will, under pressure, bring my little house crashing down?

  Tony is lodging another protest. DC Martin’s line of questioning, he tells Chaulk, is misconceived, deeply offensive and entirely inappropriate. Her suggestion that his client would be offering sexual favours in exchange for drugs she never uses is frankly grotesque. He condemns the interview as a fishing expedition. Unless the line of questioning changes tack, he will counsel his client to keep her silence. In other words, go ‘no comment’.

  Chaulk shrugs. ‘That’s your right, Ms Andressen,’ he says. ‘A court of law, of course, would draw its own conclusions.’ />
  Court of law? I blink. This is getting out of control. My eyes return to the laptop. If only I’d never gone to the bloody Landfall in the first place. If only, as my neighbour Evelyn might say, I’d stuck to my knitting, concentrated on my career, crossed my fingers for the next brain scan and got on with real life. Malo has a great deal to answer for.

  ‘Is this your son, Ms Andressen?’ DC Chaulk has accessed another file on the laptop. I’m looking at Malo, head and shoulders, photographed against a plain white wall I recognize only too well.

  ‘You’ve arrested him?’ I can’t believe it.

  ‘This is a couple of months back. He was arrested by our colleagues in Reading at a gig for possession of cannabis. He was lucky. He got off with a caution.’

  I nod. I’m numb. Malo never said a word. DC Martin wants to know more about my son.

  ‘You say you’ve been trying to find him. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that makes him a missing person, does it not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you reported it? We call these people mispers. We take them very seriously. You don’t just mislay people, not if you love them, not if they’re close to you, not if they’re your son or daughter.’ She pauses. ‘Do you have any comment to make?’

  I have a great deal to get off my chest. I was foolish enough to walk into this airless little office in the expectation that I’d be treated with just a modicum of respect. Instead, in short order, I’ve been accused first of prostitution and now of parental neglect. I’m about to tell this woman exactly what it feels like to lose a son and a possible daughter-in-law to a bunch of marauding Somali gangsters when Tony, once again, steps in.

  He’s asking for a pause in proceedings. He needs a moment or two in private with his client. Chaulk’s finger hovers over the stop button on the recording machine. He announces a brief adjournment. Then, after an exchange of glances, he and Carrie Martin get to their feet. Tony watches them leave the interview room. The moment the door closes, I realize just how angry he is.