Authors: Graham Hurley
‘He rose to the challenge?’
‘Couldn’t keep him down. We had a meal first, few drinks, then Cécile and I left them to it so Steve could talk business. We were in bed within ten minutes.’
Winter hadn’t wanted the details. Instead, he’d asked about ground rules. What happened if a punter like Wishart fell in love with you?
‘It doesn’t happen. What Maurice wants is control. That’s not the same as falling in love.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because you can tell. I’m a trophy as far as Maurice is concerned. I’m a piece of art he’s bought at an auction. He wants me hanging on his wall, and his wall only. He’s not into sharing.’
‘You knew that from the off?’
‘I sensed it, yes. He’d ask me about the other guys, how they were with me, what I did for them.’
‘How they compared?’
‘Exactly. Most men never put it into words but Maurice did.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘I didn’t. I claimed client confidentiality. He had the grace to laugh.’
Over the spring and summer Wishart became a regular punter. His business was expanding rapidly and he was approaching the point where he had to
make a decision about going public. In bed, he’d plot out various strategies with her, share his hopes, map pathways into the future. There were strokes he’d pulled, she said, of which he was especially proud – stuff that sounded illegal but gave him a flying start on the opposition. He ran his business, she said, the same way as he made love – with fierce disregard for anyone else involved. What mattered was the outcome. Everything else was niff-naff.
‘You liked him?’
‘He amused me.’
‘How? Why?’
‘Because he’s so much the prisoner of his nature. I suppose we all are. But Maurice seems to have more of it than anyone else.’
Winter wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a hefty Bell’s from the bottle on the side. He stood by the window, gazing at his own reflection in the glass – overweight, thinning hair, slightly bemused expression – wondering quite what Maddox really made of him. He’d pushed her harder on Wishart, asking that same question – how do you keep him out of the rest of your life? And she’d repeated that it hadn’t been a problem, not until recently when he’d become obsessed by the need to lock her away for himself.
‘Have you encouraged him at all?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Do you see him out of hours? Off the premises? Meet for a drink?’ Winter had shrugged. ‘A meal, maybe?’
‘Never.’
‘Do you ever phone him? Drop him the odd note? Send him a text? Anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘Has he been here? Apart from the other night?’
‘God, no.’
‘Have you been to his place?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘So he’s no reason to think you might be up for what he wants?’
‘Not unless he’s blind and deaf. But that’s the problem, you see, because Maurice only hears and sees what he wants to hear and see. Everything else, all the other little signals, get filtered out. He knows what he wants and the rest is …’
‘Niff-naff?’
‘Exactly. He just won’t bloody listen.’
Winter had accepted this version of events with a wry shrug. None of it was true but listening to her Winter had begun to ask himself why she’d chosen to complicate her life in this way. The damage to her face was incontestable. He’d no real evidence that Wishart had been responsible but he was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt that he’d beaten her up. If that was true, it would certainly have made a difference. She’d be scared. Wishart was an animal. It might well happen again. Just how could she put this man back in his cage?
The answer seemed equally incontestable. In the shape of Winter, she’d come face to face with a real-life detective. Winter might be the answer to her dreams. He had clout. He represented authority. He could be signed up for the cause. Winter, in short, might be a way of fending Wishart off.
Now, in the silence of the bungalow, Winter drifted back to the lounge, nursing his glass, curious to understand how he’d let this situation develop. The more time he spent with Maddox, the more she got under his skin. Yet the more he listened to her – watched
her face, her easy smile – the more he knew she was lying to him. She might never have made the grade at drama school but she was still a performer and, to Winter at least, a bloody good one. The lies were fluent. The story made sense. Only the visit to Wishart’s apartment had told him the whole thing was bollocks.
And yet. And yet.
Winter sank into the armchair beside the mantelpiece. He hadn’t bothered with a real fire for years but the sight of the plastic flowers that filled the empty gape of the fireplace was beginning to depress him. He stared at them for a moment, wondering about another Scotch before bedtime, then he became aware of a red light winking on his answering machine.
He struggled to his feet, wondering who was mean enough not to get through on the mobile. He picked up the receiver and pressed the
PLAY
button. It was a woman’s voice. She was phoning from the GP’s surgery. A cancellation had come up with the neurological consultant. Apologies for the short notice, but could Mr Winter manage Wednesday afternoon?
Winter stared down at the phone, aware of a sudden churning in the very pit of his stomach. He’d forgotten about the consultant. He’d almost forgotten about the pains in his head. But here was his mortality again: a stranger’s voice on the telephone, a reminder that his immediate future might well rest in someone else’s hands.
He reached for the telephone, then hesitated. He knew the number by heart. And more than that, he knew there was no one else he wanted to talk to. He looked up at the ceiling a moment, his eyes brimming, then shook his head and returned to the kitchen. An hour later the bottle was empty.
Wednesday, 25 February 2004
Willard had been at his desk for a couple of hours by the time Faraday appeared at his office door. A stack of cleared paperwork was awaiting collection by one of the Management Assistants and his fourth cup of coffee was cooling beside the phone.
‘Well?’ Willard wanted an update.
Faraday propped himself on the edge of the long conference table. He’d been up since before dawn, striding north through the puddles on the path that skirted the harbour, marshalling his thoughts for exactly this moment.
He told Willard about the interviews with Pelly and Gary Morgan. Pelly, he said, was a loose cannon, extremely volatile and clearly capable of inflicting considerable physical damage. Gary Morgan had been on the receiving end of Pelly’s wrath and obviously had a score or two to settle. Evidence for the altercation between Pelly and the missing Chris Unwin rested squarely on Morgan’s word, and he – in turn – was pointing the finger at Lajla, Pelly’s Bosnian wife. She was the one who’d overheard the row in Pelly’s office.
‘What’s her version?’
‘Don’t know yet. She wasn’t there yesterday.’
Willard grunted and scribbled himself a note. Then he looked up again.
‘What about Unwin?’
Faraday listed the measures he’d taken to try and find him. Tracy Barber had started a trawl on the Police National Computer via the PNC bureau at headquarters in Winchester. Had Unwin surfaced over the last couple of months – on a stop/check, say – then the details should have been logged. If Unwin had any kind of encounter with the police from here on in, then his name was flagged with a priority phone number. Should Unwin prove to be alive, then Faraday wanted to be the first to know.
Tracy Barber was also in the process of trying to get a judge’s order before submitting Unwin’s full name and date of birth to the major clearing banks in the hope of identifying some kind of account, and if that happened then they’d be able to check for recent transactions. A formal notification had gone to the immigration authorities at the local ferry port should Unwin suddenly reappear, and Barber was awaiting word back from Portsmouth-based ferry companies in the event that they had records of vehicle bookings in Unwin’s name. Either P & O or Brittany Ferries might have taken him to France; Wightlink would certainly have carried his van to Fishbourne. One way or another, these searches might yield a registration number for the van, and maybe even some CCTV footage, a big step forward.
Willard made another note.
‘What about DNA? You’ve got an address for Unwin?’
Faraday described the interviews with his mother and the woman in Bath Road. Unwin, he concluded, was a gypsy – not much liked, no close friends, always on the move. Even without Pelly’s assistance, he told
Willard, he seemed to have a talent for vanishing without trace.
‘So how do you rate the chances?’
‘Of finding DNA?’ Faraday was still hoping to get his hands on a toothbrush or a couple of hairs from a comb.
‘Of getting a match.’
‘I don’t know, sir. The ages seem to tally, same height and build, both white-skinned, both male. But to be honest I think we need a second PM. We still can’t prove foul play. The missing head will be the clincher.’
Willard nodded.
‘I agree. What did the pathologist say?’
‘She said the head could have sheared when he hit the rocks if he came off the cliff, but there’s no indication of other impact injuries so we’re thinking he was washed ashore. A proper look at the spinal bones might tell us a lot.’
Willard swivelled his chair from side to side, deep in thought. A second post-mortem would be expensive, no change from £2000, but the topmost cervical bone would be separated from the spinal column and subjected to microscopic analysis, and if there was evidence of tiny saw or cut marks, then the specialist experts at the Forensic Science Service would find them. On the other hand, as Faraday pointed out, there could still be a million other explanations for the body’s sudden appearance, none of them deserving the attentions of the Major Crimes Team.
Willard thought otherwise.
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘What else?’
‘We might take a look at Pelly’s boat.’
‘He’s got a boat?’
Faraday hadn’t mentioned it. He gave Willard the
details. Pelly used it for fishing plus the odd spot of people smuggling. So Gary Morgan claimed.
‘How big’s this thing?’ Mention of the boat had put a gleam in Willard’s eye.
Faraday was trying to visualise the photo Blu-tacked to the wallchart in Pelly’s office. He estimated around twenty-five feet.
‘That’s big. It’s got accommodation? Some kind of cabin?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Then bosh it, for sure. Christ, it’s all beginning to slot in, isn’t it? If you can establish motive then the rest of it writes itself. He’s pissed off with Unwin. He’s a headcase when it comes to violence. He gives the bloke a leathering. Things get out of hand. He finds himself with a body; knows a thing or two about ID procedures; saws off the head; dumps the evidence way out to sea; doesn’t allow for expanding gases or tidal currents or any of that stuff, and hey presto …’ He held up both hands. ‘We find the rest of him on the rocks.’
Willard was pleased with himself. In ten brief minutes between phone calls he’d identified the prime suspect, figured out a sequence of events and cracked the case single-handed. All that remained was the tiresome business of putting Pelly in front of a jury.
‘You really think we should treat the boat as a crime scene?’
‘Of course.’ Willard nodded.
‘And his house? The premises? The old folks’ home?’
‘Yeah. If he was killed at the home, there’ll be DNA. Bosh whatever car he drives as well. Bodies leak in transit.’ He gazed up at Faraday a moment. ‘Why am I having to tell you all this, Joe?’
‘Because I’m not sure we’ve got the grounds yet. All
we have is a toerag of an informant. Pelly’s right about Morgan. The man might be telling us what we want to hear but I don’t believe a word he says.’
‘You’re being too clever. Sometimes the truth stares you in the face.’
‘Yes, sir, and sometimes it doesn’t.’
‘My money’s still on Unwin.’ Willard was turning this into a pissing contest. ‘Rule him out and I’m open to other suggestions. Use your judgement. You’re closest. But a favour, eh Joe? Don’t use my precious bloody budget to hedge your bets. If it looks like a duck, it is a duck.’
‘So where are we with the second PM?’
‘Commission it if you think it’s necessary. But why not get Scenes of Crime to take a look at the boat first?’
There was a longish silence. Willard was seldom this bullish. Normally he insisted on keeping every lead open until the overwhelming weight of evidence indicated a name at the end of a proven chain of events. Anything else, as he often pointed out with some force, would only come unstuck in court, an outcome he viewed as unforgivable. Now, Faraday wanted to know why he was casting caution to the winds like this, piling all his investigative chips on a single name.
‘Talked to Nick Hayder recently?’ Willard nodded at the pile of newspaper cuttings on the conference table, all of them about the double killing in Newbridge. ‘He’s still sorting the small print but it turns out we’ve got a TV star in the frame, bloke they were about to chop from the series. These people are off their heads. They live in a different world. Another twenty-four hours, and we’ll probably have the bloke
charged. Imagine that, eh?’ He grinned, relishing the thought. ‘Every front page in the country.’
Faraday’s first call went to Colin Irving on the Isle of Wight. The DI’s Scenes of Crime unit was based, conveniently enough, at Shanklin. Faraday passed on Mr Willard’s compliments and said he’d be glad of SOC’s services on the Tennyson Down incident. As of now, Major Crimes were treating the headless body as a suspicious death. Faraday’s little operation even had a codename –
Congress
.
‘Do you have a search warrant?’
‘Not yet. We’ll need to sort one out.’
‘So when do you want to box this thing off?’
Faraday glanced at his watch. 09.55. Favourite would be a search warrant from a Pompey magistrate, minimising gossip on the island. Say an hour and a half to secure the warrant, plus thirty minutes for the journey time across the Solent, and they could be over on the island by half past twelve. Given a one o’clock start at Bembridge Harbour, they’d still have three and a half hours’ daylight for the SOC team.