Authors: Graham Hurley
‘I was lying.’
‘Why?’
The question had been a long time coming but Winter sensed that she must have anticipated it. Her head went down. She began to pick at a loose thread on the hem of the shirt. She’s acting, he thought. Again.
‘There was a time when I thought it might work,’ she said quietly.
‘Did you encourage him?’
‘I didn’t say no.’
‘But were you keen? Did you –’ Winter shrugged, remembering every word of the emails ‘– ever write to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Make him feel …’ Winter had done his best to avoid the word. ‘Loved?’
‘Yes. And I might even have meant it too. He’s a powerful man. Powerful men can be sexy, believe it or not.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘Because I needed him off my back. The thing had become impossible. Like I said, he just wanted too much of me. I told him that but he wouldn’t listen. When he lost his temper, when he hit me, I knew I had to find a way out of it. Then you turned up.’
‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘Mr Gullible.’
‘Not at all. Most men I know would have tried to shag me and then moved on. You’ve gone way past that.’
Winter permitted himself a rueful smile. Maddox was more right than she knew.
‘Tell me about last night.’ He returned to the sofa, sat down. ‘We didn’t stick around.’
‘Shame. You missed the best bits.’
‘Really? And you expect me to believe that?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Because it’s true. I’d agreed to the meal because I had to tell him it was over. The only way you do that with someone like Maurice is dress it up. They can’t handle rejection. There has to be another way.’
‘So what did you tell him?’
‘I told him about you. I said we’d become friends. I said you cared enough to want to look out for me.’
‘You think that’s true?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘Badly. We never got as far as the main course. The management had to call a cab.’
‘Why?’
‘Ask them. They were brilliant.’
‘Wishart got stroppy again?’
‘Ask them,’ she repeated. ‘The
patron
’s a Mr Lawrence – Tony Lawrence, ex-navy, just like Maurice. Thank God he was there.’
Winter kept telling himself this was bullshit. All the same he badly wanted it to be true. At length he produced the photo from the Speke Arms, Chris Unwin alongside Ainsley Lister.
‘The bloke on the right.’ He touched the grinning face. ‘Ever seen him before?’
Maddox spent a moment or two looking at the photo. Then she shook her head.
‘Never,’ she said. ‘Why?’
Winter explained about the body on the Isle of Wight. If Wishart had meant what he’d said about a contract hit, then Chris Unwin might well have been the target. Maddox’s gaze returned to the photo. Then she looked up at Winter.
‘Strange,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Because all of that came up last night. In fact that’s what set Maurice off. I’d had a go about last weekend, what happened up here, how horrible he’d been. When that made no difference, I reminded him about what he’d told me before Christmas. He frightens me, he really does, and I was honest enough to say so.’
‘And?’
‘He just laughed. Told me it was nothing. Little game, that’s all.’
‘He denied it?’
‘Not at all. To Maurice, getting rid of someone’s no big deal. He admits it, even boasts about it. He says it’s just business. Needs must. Means and ends. His words, not mine.’
‘And you?’
‘I told him I couldn’t cope with all this stuff. In fact it was worse than that. I’d had a bit to drink by then and I gave him a choice. Either he left me alone, got out of my life, or I’d take it further.’
‘Take what further?’
‘The stuff about the contract, having this person killed.’
‘And how would you do that?’
‘By telling you.’ She reached for his hand. ‘That’s when he threatened to kill me, too.’
Friday, 27 February 2004
Faraday sent a Scenes of Crime team into the Boniface Nursing Home in the early afternoon. He attended with the warrant himself, all too aware of Pelly’s likely reaction, but the proprietor’s absence spared him a confrontation at the front door. Instead, Faraday found himself trying to explain the situation to Lajla.
‘We have to conduct a search.’ He indicated the activity behind him. ‘It may take some time.’
‘How long?’
‘Two days? Maybe three?’
Lajla was staring at the vehicles occupying the half-crescent of gravel that served as a parking area at the front of the house. The DS in charge at Shanklin had decided on a forensic team of five. As well as a Crime Scene Manager and a couple of investigators, he’d attached a scientist and a photographer. Already, they were pulling on their grey one-piece suits.
‘What are you looking for?’ Lajla’s voice was low.
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that. For the time being we’ll be limiting the search to you and your husband’s private accommodation. Do you have a garage at the back? Some kind of workshop?’
‘A garage, yes.’ Lajla was transfixed by the sight of an Alsatian emerging from the back of a van. Faraday had asked for an initial drugs sweep in case Gary
Morgan had been right about Pelly importing narcotics from France.
‘And a workshop? Outhouse?’
‘Yes. Come.’
Faraday followed her round the corner of the building. Twin ribbons of concrete led to a double garage. Beyond, adjoining the garden, was a low timber-framed building that reminded Faraday of a miniature cricket pavilion. The single door had recently been repainted and the padlock looked new.
‘What’s in here?’
Lajla’s bare arms were goose-pimpled with cold.
‘All kinds of things. Old furniture. Boxes. Tools for the garden’. She shrugged. ‘You know.’
‘And you always keep it locked?’
‘Of course.’ Her eyes flicked left and Faraday turned in time to see the Crime Scene Manager approaching with one of the investigators. The CSM needed to be clear about the search parameters. Cleaned-up crime scenes were never less than challenging.
Faraday explained about the garage and the outhouse. Then he turned back to Lajla. She was shivering with cold.
‘How many cars do you have?’
‘Me?’
‘You and your husband, between you.’
‘Just one.’
‘And he’s out in it at the moment? Mr Pelly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it a new car?’ It was the Crime Scene Manager.
‘New? I don’t understand. Nothing we have is new.’
‘What about the boat?’
‘The boat?’ Lajla was beginning to panic. Faraday and the CSM exchanged glances. Then Faraday pressed the point.
‘We searched your husband’s boat yesterday. I understand it was brand new.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Lajla nodded. ‘I forget.’
‘So what about the car? Is that new as well?’
‘No. It’s old, an old car.’
‘How long have you had it?’
‘I don’t know. It’s hard. I can’t remember. You must ask my husband.’
‘But have you changed it recently? You must be able to remember that, surely.’
‘No.’ She looked from face to face to face, hunted, miserable. ‘We had another car. Now we have this one. It’s bigger, better. Rob goes to the cash and carry.’
‘But when did you get it? Before Christmas?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long before Christmas?’
‘Please.’ She took a tiny backwards step. ‘My English isn’t so good.’
At Faraday’s prompting they went indoors. An entrance at the side of the house led to a corridor Faraday recognised from his previous visit. Once again, he found himself in Lajla’s sitting room.
‘You share all this with your husband?’ Faraday nodded towards the adjoining bedroom.
‘No.’ Lajla shook her head. ‘Rob has his own rooms. Fida and I, we live here.’
‘Where are they, your husband’s rooms?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘May we see them?’
‘Of course but …’ Her head went down. ‘He locks them.’
‘They’re locked now?’
‘I think so.’
They all went upstairs. The narrow corridor at the top was poorly lit. Faraday tried the first of three
doors, then the rest. Lajla was right. They were all locked. In the gloom the three men blocked Lajla’s retreat to the head of the stairs, the unvoiced question hanging between them. What kind of a marriage allowed for a set-up like this? Separate accommodation, everything of Pelly’s locked?
Faraday stepped aside, letting Lajla hurry past them. There was a row of black and white photos, nicely framed, hanging on the wall between two of the doors. Faraday paused, inspecting the first of them. It was a view of a valley. In the foreground, beyond the fire-blackened ruins of a farmhouse, an orchard of fruit trees was frothing with blossom. A track wound past the orchard and down to an ancient bridge over a sizeable stream. The centre of the bridge’s arch had collapsed, and the water bubbled and pleated around the fallen stones. In the distance appeared the swell of the encircling mountains, black against an ominous sky. It was a curiously wistful shot, Faraday thought; paradise smudged by the hand of man.
The CSM and the investigator were waiting for Faraday at the foot of the stairs. Of Lajla, there was no sign. Faraday detailed the areas he wanted searched. The CSM nodded, scribbling himself a note, then indicated the still-open door to Lajla’s apartment.
‘Someone’s been in there with the paintbrush.’ He glanced back at Faraday. ‘You notice that?’
Faraday nodded.
‘I did.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And the carpet’s brand new, too.’
Winter had collected DC Suttle at the
News
building at the top of the city. Now they were heading north up the motorway towards Petersfield. Winter wanted to know what had prompted Suttle to spend an hour or
so leafing through back numbers of the city’s daily paper when they had a ready-made fall guy for Wishart’s ever-open chequebook.
‘Unwin? I just don’t buy it. You were there last night. The guy’s a wide boy. Say it’s true about the asylos. Say he’s bringing them in by the vanful. What’s that got to do with Wishart? The man’s a suit. He owns companies, does deals. Unwin isn’t in his league, unless he tried to flog him the wrong French wardrobe. And you wouldn’t take out a contract for that, would you? No matter how much you hated the fucking colour.’
In spite of himself, Winter laughed. There were days when Jimmy Suttle reminded Winter of his own CID apprenticeship. When the lad bothered to concentrate, he had the makings of a reasonable detective.
‘OK,’ Winter conceded. ‘Let’s pretend you’re right. Let’s just say it’s one big coincidence. Who else do we put in the frame? Got a name, have you?’
‘Yeah, matter of fact.’
‘Like who?’
‘Not saying, not yet.’
‘
What?
’ Winter began to laugh. The parallels were even closer than he’d thought. ‘We on the same side here? Same job? Same pay grade?’
Suttle didn’t respond. He’d helped himself to one of Winter’s Werther’s Originals and he sucked on the sweet as the Waterlooville exit sped past. A mile or so later he turned in his seat, favouring Winter with the widest of grins.
‘All that bollocks yesterday morning,’ he began. ‘In the Coroner’s office.’
‘What about it?’
‘We were looking in the wrong area.’ He reached for the bag again. ‘Turns out it wasn’t Pompey at all.’
The restaurant at Petersfield was closed. Winter eyed the
Fermé
sign on the door and rang the owner on his mobile. Within a minute Tony Lawrence had appeared on the pavement, a lanky sallow-faced individual who clearly resented this abrupt intrusion in his well-ordered day.
‘I thought you said two o’clock?’
‘Got delayed. My apologies. You mind if we talk inside?’
With some reluctance, Lawrence led the way into the restaurant. The dozen or so tables were already laid for dinner. Behind the tiny bar a door led to an office. There was only room for a desk and a couple of chairs. Suttle stayed on his feet, inches from a calendar advertising wines from the Médoc. He’d no idea what an apple-cheeked blonde with an enormous chest had to do with
appellation contrôlée
but he wasn’t complaining.
Winter wanted to know about two of last night’s guests. They’d been sitting at the table in the window, a middle-aged man and a younger woman.
‘Maurice Wishart.’ Lawrence cut him short. ‘Is that what this is about?’
‘You know Wishart?’
‘Very well. Have done for years.’
‘He’s a friend?’
‘I like to think so.’
‘And the woman he was with last night? You know her too?’
‘Not really.’ Lawrence frowned. ‘Why?’
Winter ignored the question. He’d had a formal complaint about a scene in the restaurant last night. The woman was alleging that Wishart had threatened to kill her.
‘Maurice lost it.’ Lawrence was dismissive. ‘It happens sometimes.’
‘Do you know why he lost it?’
‘Haven’t a clue. Domestic tiff? Some kind of argument? I run a restaurant, Mr Winter, not a therapy group.’
‘I understood you had to intervene.’
‘That’s true. I called a taxi for the young lady.’
‘Were there other guests?’
‘Yes. We had half a dozen covers last night. Naturally, we try and avoid giving offence. In this case there wasn’t a problem. Maurice flared up, went too far, behaved like a prat. I had a call from him this morning. Mea culpa. Full apology.’ He offered Winter a chilly smile. ‘Case closed.’
‘Did he hit her?’
‘I think he tried, yes.’
‘You think … ?’
‘One of the waitresses came to find me. That’s when I stepped in.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She said that Maurice …’ He shrugged. ‘Listen, Mr Winter, it was nothing, absolutely nothing. It warrants neither your time nor mine.’
‘Maurice what?’
Lawrence shook his head, refusing to go any further. At length Winter produced a pocketbook. He wanted a name and contact details for the waitress. He might also want to interview guests who were in a position to supply witness statements. Lawrence looked at him a moment longer, not bothering to hide his irritation.