Authors: Graham Hurley
‘It seems he got her by the throat. There was a necklace of some kind. God knows. As I just tried to explain, Maurice is an old friend. We go back a long
way. I’m sure he meant no harm. Maybe he’d had one too many. Maybe this woman had spoken out of turn.’
‘Out of
turn
?’ Winter began to laugh. ‘What kind of relationship are we talking about here? You invite someone to dinner and they have to have permission to speak? Out of
turn
?’
‘Wrong phrase. Badly put. Maybe she wound him up. Christ knows.’
Winter nodded, seeming to accept the explanation. Then he asked what happened after the woman had gone.
‘Maurice and I had coffee.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Was he upset?’
‘Not particularly. He’s a busy man, Mr Winter. Lots on his mind. I offered to call him a cab as well but he chose to drive. Like I say, it was a tiny incident. I’m sure the lady will get over it. Frankly, I’ve no idea why you’re here.’
Winter began to ask another question, this time about previous occasions when Wishart may have dined with the same woman, but Suttle intervened. He wanted to know whether Wishart was a regular guest at the restaurant.
‘Yes.’ Lawrence stared up at him. ‘Is that some kind of crime?’
‘Not at all. Does he bring business contacts here? To your knowledge?’
‘Yes, I’m sure he does. In fact I know he does. We open for lunch during the summer. I think he finds it a convivial setting.’
‘And do you –’ Suttle smiled at him ‘– get to talk to any of these people?’
‘From time to time.
En passant …
’
‘Would you remember names? Faces?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Wishart’s a friend of yours, Mr Lawrence. He drops in here socially. He uses the place to wine and dine people he wants to impress. You’d notice them, remember them.’ Suttle paused, aware of Winter beside him. ‘So my question is this. We’re talking last year, maybe the summer, maybe lunch. Did Wishart ever turn up with a black guy? Mid-thirties? Maybe in naval uniform?’
There was a long silence. Lawrence held Suttle’s gaze, his face betraying nothing. Finally, he shook his head.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t remember anyone like that.’
Faraday was back from Shanklin by mid-afternoon. Most of the indexers had arrived by now and were bent over keyboards in the Incident Room, punching in data from the investigation’s opening days. At his desk at the other end of the room DS Pete Baker was deep in conversation with a couple of DCs who’d just stepped off the hovercraft. Their overnight bags were stacked with the others in the corner, and one of them was making notes while Baker briefed them on the details of a particular action.
Faraday watched them for a moment, aware of the sheer reach of the investigative machine under his command. On division, as a DI, you were a firefighter, tackling outbreaks of minor crime day after day, throwing a DC or two at a shoplifter, or a walk-in artist, or some scrote who made a bob or two by flogging contraband lager round the estates. Here, by contrast, you could afford to focus enormous resources – forensic, house-to-house, intelligence – on a single
event, tracking backwards through hundreds of statements and thousands of words until you’d teased out a motive, and a means, and some semblance of explanation for a man’s death. As an intellectual proposition major inquiries had never failed to fascinate Faraday. Now, as conductor of this orchestra, he found them faintly daunting. So many options. So many false leads. So many opportunities to drop the baton and lose the beat.
En route to his office, Faraday was intercepted by Dave Michaels. The DS had been talking to the enquiry teams working their way through the properties Pelly owned in Shanklin and Ventnor. Written statements would follow but already a pattern was beginning to emerge.
‘We’re talking Balkans. Bosnians mainly but Kosovans too. The blokes can’t believe it. None of them’s got a bad word to say about the man.’
‘Who?’
‘Pelly.’
Michaels settled himself in Faraday’s office. The DS was a squat, cheerful forty-two-year-old who’d swapped a promising CID career in the Met for the subtler comforts of life on the south coast. His wife, once a WPC in Balham, had long since abandoned the job to look after a brood of football-crazy kids, but nothing would keep Michaels away from serious villainy. Ending up as DS on Major Crimes, he’d once told Faraday, was as close to perfect as any man had a right to expect.
Now, he was speculating about Pelly. His tenants evidently regarded him as some kind of saint. How did that fit with his current status as prime suspect in a homicide?
‘Saint?’ Faraday was speed-reading a list of messages on his desk.
‘Yeah. According to our blokes, they say he can’t put a foot wrong. Decent place to live, OK jobs, wages paid on the nail. Christ, he’s even lent one of them his Steve Earle CDs. I know they’re crap but does that sound like extortion?’
Faraday looked up.
‘What about the paperwork?’
‘Kosher. They all check out.’
‘So how did they get here?’
‘Pelly brings them in. Just like that. Totally up front. He’s running a service. It’s like National Express. They raise the money, bung him the fare, and he takes care of the rest of it. All they need is the right story.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning they have to convince him they’re having a hard time. Do that, and they’re on the bus.’
‘Are we sure Pelly isn’t writing their lines?’
‘That was my question but the lads won’t have it. Every single interview they do, it’s the same story. Pelly’s tough as fuck. If they step out of line – don’t turn up for work, let things get out of hand – he chucks them out. No fannying around, no appeals; they’re on the street. But if they keep their noses clean, fair day’s work, no problem. One bloke was apparently a bit of a poet. Said Pelly had the soul of a peasant, the stamina of a goat and the brain of a fox. Said he belonged in the mountains. Thought the world of him.’
‘So where does that leave us?’
‘Dunno, boss. But from where I’m sitting, the guy’s halfway to being Mother Teresa. Seems he speaks a bit of Serbo-Croat: sees through the bullshit if they ever try and snow him.’
Faraday put the paperwork to one side and turned to face Michaels. He was still unclear about Pelly’s role in bringing in these refugees.
‘You’re telling me he goes over there on recruiting drives?’
‘Good as. The stuff our lads are coming up with, he has contacts with various agencies, Bosnian mainly; knows where people are having a hard time. He goes over to the Balkans, interviews them, makes some kind of case-by-case assessment, then gets them back over here.’
‘For money?’
‘Definitely. But none of them have a problem with that. Compared to most guys in the business, Pelly’s an angel. Plus he knows what’ll wash with the Immigration people over here. If they get past Pelly, they know they’ll be odds-on for a permit this end.’
‘And he registers them on arrival?’
‘Within a day. As required. Every time. He books them in at Southampton, then brings them back over here.’ Michaels nodded at the phone. ‘I checked the process out with the asylum people at Croydon this morning. Totally kosher. Turns out they’ve even heard of Pelly. The famous Mr P. The guy who spares them all the hassle of finding a hostel and trying to keep these people alive. Few more of him, and the bloke I was talking to thinks he’d be out of a job.’
Faraday brooded for a moment. Try as he might he couldn’t rid himself of the image of Pelly and his strange little family locked together as Faraday and Barber beat a retreat. What fuelled a man like Pelly? What fed the obvious anger within him? And, most important of all, what might have driven him to murder?
Michaels checked his watch and stood up. The
squad meet was booked for six o’clock. Pete Baker had put the word round the outside inquiry teams and the CSM would be making an appearance for an early update on progress at the nursing home. Rooms had been found at a modest hotel off the seafront and Michaels had sought local advice on an Indian for the post-meet wash-up.
‘The Koh-i-noor.’ He grinned. ‘All you can trough for a tenner a head.’
At the door he found DC Webster lurking in the corridor.
‘You after Mr Faraday, son?’
‘You, skip. Though the boss might be interested, too.’
‘What’s that?’ Faraday looked up from the number he was trying to dial.
‘It’s about Pelly. I got a call from the bloke we talked to at Cheetah Marine. Heard a rumour he thought he ought to pass on. Turns out it’s true.’
‘And?’
‘Pelly’s had enough. I talked to the estate agent. He’s trying to sell up.’
Cosham police station lies on the mainland, barely a mile north of the muddy creek that serves as Pompey’s moat. From Cosham, a fair-sized army of uniforms keeps a wary eye on the estates that sprawl over the lower slopes of Portsdown Hill. It was nearly five by the time Winter and Suttle made it to the front desk.
‘Sergeant Brothers at home?’ Suttle flipped his warrant card.
The clerk disappeared to check. Seconds later, he was back.
‘Over the courtyard.’ He nodded at the door. ‘He’ll meet you on the steps.’
Ivan Brothers was a sergeant in Cosham’s Traffic department, a towering, rather intense ex-motorcycle cop with a reputation for plain speaking. According to Suttle, he’d been cagey on the phone, refusing to discuss details of the case on anything but a face-to-face basis. When Winter had enquired further, demanding to know the name and circumstances that made a visit to Cosham nick so pressing, Suttle had once again told him to be patient. He didn’t want this thing to go off at half-cock. Rabbit from the hat, thought Winter, following Brothers and Suttle into the DI’s vacant office.
Brothers stamped his authority on the meeting at once. He was due home to take his wife shopping at six. This time of night, he’d be leaving at half five. Suttle therefore had thirty minutes to make his case. He plainly hated CID.
‘Victor Lakemfa.’ Suttle was reading the name from his pocketbook. ‘October twenty-first last year.’
‘That’s right. Hit and run. File is still open.’
‘We’re talking that little road on the back of Portsdown Hill. Yeah?’
‘Correct. Crooked Walk Lane.’
‘You put out a press appeal the following day. Witnesses. Anyone who might have been in the area around half eight, nine. The
News
carried a report. Lakemfa was a Commander in the Nigerian navy, over here on a course at
Dryad
.’ Suttle folded his pocketbook shut and laid it on the conference table. ‘That’s pretty much all I know.’
Winter eyed the pocketbook. Mention of the Nigerian navy had aroused his interest. HMS
Dryad
was a naval shore establishment tucked away beside the village of Southwick. The command and control courses it offered attracted officers from countries all
over the world. Wishart, Winter thought. And all those visits to Lagos.
Brothers was being difficult. Road deaths sparked an exhaustive investigation, a procedure as complex and painstaking as anything CID could muster. As lead officer on this particular job, it had been Brothers’s responsibility to drive the inquiry forward. To date, unusually, they’d made virtually no progress. Divulging details of the case required clearance from the Traffic Inspector, who was acting as SIO.
‘Where is he?’ It was Winter.
‘On leave. In Florida.’
‘And when’s he back?’
‘Week after next.’
‘What about his deputy?’
‘Flu. Probably back Monday.’
‘Can’t wait that long, skip. Not with the ACC breathing down our necks.’
‘That would be Mr … ?’
‘Alcott. DC Suttle mention
Plover
at all? How your lad Lakemfa might tie in? Only Mr Alcott’s giving
Plover
top priority.’
Brothers stole a look at his watch, then asked Winter to shut the office door.
‘So what’s
Plover
?’
Winter was back at the table, shedding his car coat, savouring this small moment of triumph.
‘Can’t say, I’m afraid. Not without the say-so from my guvnor.’ He beamed at Brothers. ‘You want to tell us about Lakemfa? Only time’s moving on.’
Brothers conceded the point with a weary sigh. Lakemfa, he said, was a thirty-four-year-old commander in the Nigerian navy. He’d already spent six months on one
Dryad
course and had returned last year for another. He lived in a rented flat in Port Solent
and travelled to
Dryad
most days by bike, returning in the evening. The route he favoured took him to a narrow country lane that wound up the rear face of Portsdown Hill. Traffic was normally limited to the odd tractor or locals taking the short cut back to Southwick. On the night of 21 October a woman returning home found a body sprawled beside a bike near the top of the lane. There was blood still seeping from his nose and ears.
‘Lakemfa?’ Suttle was making notes.
‘Correct. He was wearing proper riding kit, Lycra stuff, high-vis vest, helmet, the lot. We found ID in his day sack, temporary
Dryad
gate pass.’
Damage to the rear wheel of the bike suggested a hit and run but there were no skid marks on the road, and no witnesses. Forensic tests on the bike recovered microscopic flakes of black paint which may or may not have been evidentially material but exhaustive inquiries in the area failed to flush out a vehicle.
‘I take it Lakemfa was dead.’
‘Very. The PM showed skull fractures, probably from impact with the road.’
‘Even wearing a helmet?’
‘Sure. It happens.’
‘But you’re saying he wasn’t run over?’
‘No. We set up an incident room down the corridor there, ran a paper-based inquiry, blitzed it for a week or so, team of five. The guy’s nationality was a bit of a drama because it turned out he was quite highly placed back home. Had the ear of the President. Tipped for stardom.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘We went through the intel boys, put it in the hands of ILET.’
Winter nodded. The International Liaison Enquiry
Team were stabled at the force intelligence HQ, a featureless office block on an industrial estate off the M27. They had a direct feed to Special Branch and links into all the major embassies. On a case like this their involvement made perfect sense.