Authors: Graham Hurley
‘My pleasure,’ he said, grinning.
Tuesday, 2 March 2004
Faraday wanted to be sure. And more than that, before they moved to pull Unwin in, he wanted to plot exactly how they could extract the maximum value from this sudden windfall.
He’d convened an impromptu conference in the squad room used by the DCs. Dave Michaels was jubilant, Brian Imber less so, DS Pete Baker bemused. How come they’d spent two weeks attaching the wrong name to the body at the foot of the cliff? How come they’d fallen for a pattern of circumstantial evidence that had proved – in the end – so worthless?
A street map of Ryde lay on the table between them. The Ryde Haven Hotel was on one of the roads that climbed the hill from the seafront. A second call to the receptionist had established that both Mrs Unwin and her son were in their respective rooms. Faraday had dispatched Tracy Barber and Darren Webster, plus two other DCs, and they were covering both exits from the hotel. If mother and son left the hotel, they were to be detained.
Imber, ever the pragmatist, was unconvinced.
‘We’re going to arrest them?’
‘Unwin, certainly. Unless he agrees to come down voluntarily.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Suspicion of murder.’
‘That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?’
Dave Michaels broke in.
‘The boss is right,’ he said. ‘We’ve been looking up the wrong alley. This is the first real break we’ve had. What if the guy declines our little invitation? Says he wants a night in with
Eastenders
? He’s been tight with Pelly. We’ve got the cabbie’s word on that. He’s gone AWOL since Pelly binned the boat. Since Pelly got rid of the Volvo. Since Pelly got out the emulsion and painted every bloody thing that moved. And why didn’t he ring in when his mum told him we were looking for him? She must have mentioned it. You really think all that’s a coincidence?’
Imber had had enough of coincidence. It was coincidence, he pointed out, that had suggested a link between Pelly and the body at the bottom of the cliff. And it was coincidence, for that matter, that had put Unwin’s name in the frame. Wasn’t it about time that
Congress
started dealing in fact?
Faraday wasn’t having it. In every investigation there came a point when you had to bite the bullet. Unwin, he was convinced, was key to whatever had happened back in October. No one had a clue where he’d been. No one knew why he’d so suddenly disappeared. Now, thanks to the sudden death of his precious nan, he was just round the corner. The man was there for the taking. Was Imber seriously suggesting they pass up this invitation?
‘Disappearing isn’t a crime,’ Imber pointed out.
‘Of course it isn’t. But playing this by the book would be criminal. And I mean that.’
Michaels threw his head back and laughed. He loved the word ‘criminal’.
‘Sean Castle.’ Imber was looking thoughtful. ‘That night he chartered his boat to Pelly … what did he
have to say about whoever took the Tidemaster to sea?’
‘He said it was a young guy, tall.’ It was Faraday. ‘He didn’t get a proper look but a description like that would definitely fit Unwin.’
‘Or a thousand other blokes.’
‘Sure. But who else have we turned up that might have had any connection to Pelly? The man’s a loner, Brian. He doesn’t have friends. He’s not that type. Unwin was as close as anyone got to him. If you were Pelly and you suddenly had a big problem, something you couldn’t sort on your own, who else would you rope in?’
Imber nodded. It made sense, he agreed.
‘So we’re sticking with Pelly?’ he asked. ‘We’re really saying he killed someone? And that someone turned up at the bottom of the cliff? Four months later?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK.’ He leaned back. ‘So who was that someone?’
Faraday himself went to the hotel, taking Dave Michaels with him. Tracy Barber and Darren Webster were parked up across the road. Faraday paused beside the unmarked Fiesta, bent to the window. He knew he owed them both.
‘Nice one.’ He smiled.
The Ryde Haven was a substantial Edwardian building disfigured by fire escapes and an ugly neon sign that promised en suite and TV in every room. A UPVC conservatory at the front served as an extension to the lounge bar and Faraday lingered a moment on the steps, wondering how full the hotel might be. Dave Michaels stepped past him and opened the door.
‘This way, guvnor.’
The girl behind the tiny reception desk was plainly expecting them. The Unwins were up on the third floor, Rooms 32 and 33. She’d sent a pint of Carling up to Room 33 maybe an hour ago but hadn’t heard a peep since.
Faraday thanked her for her help and headed for the stairs. Room 33 lay at the end of a low-ceilinged corridor at the top of the house. Faraday could hear the blare of a television from the top of the stairs. Passing room 32, he told Michaels to wait. If Mrs Unwin emerged, hang on to her.
Outside Room 33 Faraday paused. From the TV came the wail of a police siren, then a series of shots. Faraday knocked on the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again, tried the handle, but it was locked. Finally, at the third knock, the volume dipped on the TV and he heard the pad of footsteps. Moments later the door opened. Unwin was taller than Faraday had expected from the photo. Jeans, T-shirt, mop of blond hair, silver earring. Beyond him, propped on the bed against a nest of pillows, was his mother.
‘Detective Inspector Faraday.’ Faraday offered his warrant card. ‘Your name, sir?’
Unwin stared at him a moment. His mother was up on one elbow. She looked startled. She wanted to know what was going on. Faraday glanced back towards Michaels, gestured him into the room.
Unwin was backing towards the television, barefoot on the pink carpet.
‘Turn it off, please.’ Faraday nodded at the TV.
‘Mum?’
Mrs Unwin had the remote. Silence flooded the room. By now she’d recognised Faraday. She looked at him for a long moment. Since they’d met at the Lewisham Health Centre, she’d coloured her hair.
‘What is this?’ she said again.
‘It’s nothing, Mum.’ Unwin appeared to have recovered his wits. ‘I can explain.’
‘Explain what?’
He had no answer. Faraday asked him again for his name. When he confirmed that he was Chris Unwin, Faraday asked whether he was prepared to return with him to the police station. Unwin shook his head.
‘No fucking way.’
His mother was sitting on the edge of the bed now, staring up at her son.
‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘Why doesn’t someone tell me?’
Unwin was eyeing the door. Faraday heard Michaels shifting position behind him. A bolt for the stairs, thought Faraday, might solve a lot of problems. Finally, Unwin decided against it.
‘I don’t have to come,’ he said. ‘You can’t make me.’
Faraday knew already that his instincts hadn’t let him down. In these situations it wasn’t difficult to recognise guilt. Unwin had a great deal he didn’t want to talk about, least of all in front of his mother.
Faraday stepped towards him. Unwin stiffened, a frightened man expecting the worst.
‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you. Do you understand?’
‘Murder? What do you mean, murder?’ Unwin’s mother was on her feet. ‘This is outrageous. You can’t just barge in like this. Murder? What are you talking about?’
Michaels stepped past Faraday. Unwin offered no resistance to the handcuffs. Mrs Unwin watched her departing son, unable to believe her eyes. One moment she’d been drifting off on the bed. Now this.
‘You might like to come down as well, Mrs Unwin.’
‘Are you arresting me too?’
‘No, but your son might need –’ Faraday offered her a wintry smile ‘– a little support.’
Back at the police station Faraday had already settled on an interview strategy. He wanted Dave Michaels and Tracy Barber in with Unwin. It would be at least an hour before they could sort out a brief for him, longer if Unwin insisted on shipping over a Pompey solicitor, but that would still leave time for a worthwhile session before PACE rules returned Unwin to his cell.
His mother, meanwhile, was still sitting on one of the benches downstairs beside the front desk. Prudence argued for a WPC to keep an eye on her but in Faraday’s judgement that wouldn’t be necessary. Mrs Unwin, like any mother would be, was appalled at this bombshell. The last thing she’d do was a runner.
‘Let’s get her in.’ Faraday was still with Tracy Barber. ‘See what she’s got to say before we start with the lad.’
Half an hour on her own had quietened Mrs Unwin. The shock and outrage appeared to have gone. Instead, she was wary, watchful. When Faraday appeared at the front desk and suggested they have a chat, she got to her feet and nodded.
‘Why not?’ she said.
Faraday and Barber accompanied her to the interview suite. One of the rooms was being readied for her son. Faraday opened the next door and let her pass. She stepped into the small, bare room and looked around. There were four chairs tucked beneath the single table. Cassette machines were racked against the
wall. Rain drummed at the barred window. She shivered, her face pale under the neon light.
‘This is horrible,’ she said softly. ‘Where’s Chrissie?’
Faraday told her he was awaiting interview. He’d elected for the duty solicitor and they’d get under way as soon as the booking-in process was complete.
‘How long will all this take?’
‘That depends. If we’re satisfied with what your son has to say, he could be out of here by tomorrow.’
‘You’ll keep him in? Tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘We don’t know, Mrs Unwin. That’s why we’ve had to bring him down here. Murder’s a serious offence. Interviews take time.’
‘But he wouldn’t have killed anyone, not Chrissie; he’s not like that. He’s never been violent, never. It’s just not in his nature.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right.’
Mrs Unwin gazed at Faraday a moment, not believing what she saw in his face.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ she said at last. ‘You really think he’s done it.’
‘Done what?’
‘Murdered someone.’ She shook her head, still bewildered, then let Imber pull out a chair for her. ‘This is surreal,’ she said finally. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
The formal interview began minutes later. Faraday established that she was free to leave at any time, then read her the formal caution. Anything she said could be used as evidence in a court of law.
‘Against Chrissie?’
‘In proceedings, yes.’
‘Then why should I talk to you?’
‘Because we’re trying to get to the truth, Mrs Unwin. Somebody died. We have to find out how and why. Your son may be able to help us. So may you.’
Mention of a body appeared to surprise Mrs Unwin.
‘Who is this person?’
‘We don’t know. That’s another reason we have to talk to your son. To tell you the truth, we thought it might be him.’
‘Really?’ The thought startled her. ‘And you had this … corpse?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why didn’t you get me down? Show me?’
‘It hadn’t got a head. And the rest of it, to be frank, wasn’t much to go on. Put a body in the sea for four months and there’s not a lot left.’
‘How ghastly.’
‘Yes.’ Faraday glanced at Tracy Barber, gestured for her to take over. Upstairs they’d discussed a strategy. In essence it boiled down to a single question.
‘Mrs Unwin, you saw Mr Faraday and myself last week. Up in London. You remember?’
‘Yes. At the health centre, yes.’
‘And you told us then that you’d no idea where your son—’
‘My stepson.’
‘– your stepson had got to. In fact you hadn’t seen him for months.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You had no address for him, no mobile number, nothing. Not even a postcard.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then your mother, Mrs Mary Unwin, dies. That happened on Saturday night.’
‘Correct …’ Her answers were beginning to slow.
She’s sensed where these questions are heading, Faraday thought, and she knows she’s in trouble.
Barber hadn’t taken her eyes off the face across the table. She leaned forward, puzzled.
‘So how come your son gets to find out about his nan’s death?’ she asked. ‘When no one has a clue where he is?’
There was a long silence. Someone was whistling out of tune in the corridor. Then came the distant bang of a cell door. Mrs Unwin physically flinched.
‘Chrissie phoned up,’ she said.
‘Just like that.’
‘Yes.’
‘Out of the blue.’
‘Yes.’
‘The day after his nan had died.’
‘Yes.’
‘So where was he?’
Another silence, longer this time. Mrs Unwin was studying her hands.
‘You’ll talk to him, obviously; that’s why he’s here.’ She nodded to herself. ‘And you’ll compare notes as well, won’t you? That’s how these things work. It’s obvious.’
She looked up, desperate for support, for some way out of this nightmare. Tracy Barber said nothing. Silence, except for the soft whirring of the cassette tapes.
Finally, Mrs Unwin sighed. She hadn’t told them the whole truth back there in the health centre. Chrissie had gone away in October. He’d left the place he had in Southsea and jumped in his van and gone abroad. She hadn’t known why and yes of course it had bothered her but after a while she’d stopped thinking about it.
‘And then what?’
‘He got in touch.’
‘When?’
‘Before Christmas. He was living in France. He wouldn’t tell me where but he said he was fine, OK, no problems. He’d got himself a little job, he said. He’d even found a girl he liked.’
‘So why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Because he made me promise I wouldn’t. Not just you, everyone. He didn’t want anyone to know where he’d gone. He said it was nobody’s business what he was up to. He was adamant. Like I said, he made me promise.’
‘Didn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘Of course it did.’
‘Weren’t you worried?’
‘I was out of my mind, especially with Christmas coming on. Then …’ She shook her head. ‘It was hopeless. What could I do? He sounded OK. He said everything was – you know – cool. So in the end I left it at that.’ She tugged at a loose thread. ‘Then you two turned up.’