Blood And Honey (55 page)

It was a week before Terry Alcott drove down to Portsmouth for a hastily summoned conference on
Congress
. Willard, as puzzled by this sudden visitation as everyone else, convened a meeting in his office. At the ACC’s insistence only Faraday attended from the
Congress
squad.

Alcott, unusually, was late. When he finally appeared he had a guest in tow.

‘Robin Philpott.’ Alcott did the introductions.

Philpott accepted a seat beside Faraday. He was a pale man in a nicely tailored suit, close to middle age, with thinning hair and carefully buffed nails. The contents of his briefcase, Faraday noticed, barely extended beyond a single file. He put the file on the table in front of him. On the front cover, a single word.
Congress
.

Willard took Alcott through the closing stages of the case. After exhumation of the skull Pelly and Lajla had both been arrested on suspicion of murder. DNA tests had matched the head to the body from the foot of the cliff, and further samples had been requested from the appropriate authorities in the Republika Srpska. Lajla had volunteered not only the name of her village but the address of Branko’s house. She knew it well, she said, because she had once lived there.

In a formal interview Lajla had repeated what she’d told Faraday and Barber in the cafe´. Branko had
fought and fought to come over and see her. When he’d finally arrived, he’d given her money, lots of money, insisted she take it. He’d come into her flat, sat in her armchair, tried to explain. He’d had a lot to drink, she said. He was laughing one minute, very nervous the next. He wanted to say sorry. He wanted her to understand. He needed to know that she’d forgiven him.

Lajla had been polite – she’d listened, she’d nodded. Then she’d sent her daughter away to the shops and, when the man had become sleepy with the drink, she’d taken a kitchen knife, stepped across to the back of the armchair, pulled his head back and cut his throat. There’d been a lot of blood and she’d panicked and gone running for Rob. Branko was dead. Rob had cut through the rest of his neck with a saw and wrapped up the body in black polythene. Then he’d started to clean everything up.

While he was still lifting the carpet, old Mary Unwin had come in. Lajla said she did that sometimes – just wandered around. Lajla had taken her back to her own room, told her it was nothing, just a game, and until Tracy Barber had started asking questions it seemed that the old lady had believed her.

Back in the flat Branko’s head had gone into a big Tesco bag. Lajla had sealed the bag and wrapped it in another one, and then hidden the package under an old wooden box in the garden. At first she’d planned to add the package to all the rubbish collected by the dustmen every week. Then, without telling Rob, she decided to bury it in the flower bed. She’d done it one afternoon while Rob was out and afterwards she’d planted tulip bulbs on top. That way, she said, she could see it from her window. That way, she’d try and make a kind of peace.

As for Pelly, said Willard, the man had opted for virtual silence. He admitted disposing of the body, smiled at the suggestion that his sudden financial windfalls might have come from the dead man’s bank accounts, but had given very little else away. Challenged to explain his wife’s actions, he’d simply shaken his head. Only later, after the tape machines had been switched off and he was en route back to the cells, did he volunteer an opinion. ‘You blokes –’ he’d said wearily ‘– haven’t got a clue.’

Now Willard handed over the meeting to Alcott. Already, the Major Crime Team were busy on a domestic killing in Petersfield. After two results – the New Forest and now
Congress
– squad morale was sky high.

Alcott was pleased to hear it. Then he turned to the stranger at the table. Philpott, he said, was from Six. And he had a couple of things to say.

Faraday and Willard exchanged glances. MI
6
handled foreign intelligence.

Philpott began with a mild word of caution. What they were about to hear would be by no means welcome. They might even resent this intrusion and, if that were to be the case, he wanted them to know that he entirely understood. They lived in an ever more complex world. And they were therefore obliged, on occasions, to make difficult decisions.

Willard scented trouble. In situations like these he was famously territorial. My turf. My team. My responsibility to get a result in court.

‘Who are we talking about?’ he growled. ‘Who are “They”?’

‘HMG.’

‘And what’s your point?’

Alcott laid a restraining hand on Willard’s arm.

‘Easy,’ he said. ‘Hear him out.’

Philpott opened his file, flipped through a page or two, found what he was looking for, then closed it again.

‘Mr Pelly has led a colourful life. Some of the people he deals with are of interest to us. Not simply that but we need them.’

‘Like who? Who do we need?’

‘Serbs chiefly, but some Bosnians too. Pelly has excellent contacts on both sides. Without him, to be frank, our job would be a great deal harder.’

‘You’re telling me he’s a spook?’

‘I’m telling you he gives us a great deal of help. We’ve been dealing with Mr Pelly for a number of years and we’ve always given him … ah … a degree of latitude. I know you don’t expect me to go into details but it wouldn’t, I’m afraid, be in our interests to pursue any kind of prosecution against him.’ His hand found the file. ‘The CPS will not be proceeding on this case.’

Willard stared at him. He couldn’t believe it. Not here. Not in his own office.

‘What about her? Lajla?’

‘I understand Mr Pelly has plans to emigrate. Under the circumstances, we believe that might be an appropriate outcome. Naturally we regret what happened to the unfortuanate Mr Branko but the quarrel, to be frank, was never ours.’

‘She killed him,’ Willard pointed out. ‘Murder’s an offence.’

‘Indeed.’

Philpott was looking at Alcott. Clearly he believed the meeting was over.

Faraday sat back, understanding at last why Pelly had been so unmoved as the inquiry had tightened
around him. He knew, Faraday thought. He knew from the start that we were wasting our time. He knew he had immunity. He knew that
Congress
wouldn’t end in a court of law but here, around a table like this, listening to a stranger from London explaining the political facts of life.

Willard had got to his feet, his coffee untouched.

‘This,’ he grunted, ‘is a fucking outrage.’

Two days later Faraday made time to drive up to Bedhampton and pay Paul Winter a visit. Word about the DC’s state of health had spread to every squad office in the city. Reactions were mixed but there was general agreement that no bloke in his middle forties deserved to wake up and find himself on the end of a virtual death sentence.

Faraday himself had been the fall guy in a number of Winter’s wilder investigative scams. As a divisional DI he’d spent three uncomfortable years trying to explain the judicial rules of gravity to someone who plainly never listened, and on a number of occasions he’d been close to referring Winter to the Professional Standards Department for a spot of serious career advice. At the same time, though, Faraday had a sneaking regard for Winter. Here was someone who had an absolute determination to nail the bad guys. And if – in a complex world – that meant bending the odd rule, then so be it.

Winter’s bungalow lay in a cul-de-sac on the lower slopes of Portsdown Hill. Faraday had never been here before but knew that Winter’s wife had treasured the place. When Joannie had been losing her own battle against cancer it was to Faraday that Winter had briefly turned. They’d spent a night talking about it, sunk a great deal of Scotch, and never once mentioned
the evening again. Maybe now, thought Faraday, was the moment to revive that sudden intimacy.

Winter answered the door in his pyjamas. Faraday had phoned ahead to check it was OK to drop by, and Winter seemed pleased to see him. The bungalow, to Faraday’s surprise, smelled of joss sticks. In the lounge at the back he found the reason why.

‘Maddox.’ Winter introduced a tall, striking-looking woman in her mid-twenties. Bony, slightly angular face. Eyes the colour of emeralds.

Maddox had been down the road for a cake. Faraday felt strangely touched.

He sat down, made himself at home. Winter wanted to get the medicals over and done with. He had a brain tumour. They were going to do something about it. He had a consultation booked with a London neurosurgeon later in the month but in the meantime he and Maddox and a bagful of painkillers were off to Ethiopia. Christ knows what they’d find there but it was Maddox’s idea and Winter was in no position to argue.

Maddox was back with a pot of tea. She sat cross-legged beside Winter’s chair, her head propped on his knee, smiling to herself as Winter shared the bare bones of Operation
Plover
with Faraday. A local businessman had topped a Nigerian naval officer. Had he not been such an arrogant bastard, he might have got away with it. As it was, the man had dug himself a huge hole and then fallen in.

Maddox grinned up at Winter. She objected to the word ‘hole’. Faraday gazed at them both, bewildered. He’d never heard of
Plover
.

‘You’ve arrested this guy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Got the evidence?’

‘You’re looking at her.’

‘I am?’ Faraday wondered quite what was coming next.

‘Yeah. The guy’s name is Wishart. And you know what he said when we arrested him? He told me to get a life.’ His hand found Maddox’s bare shoulder, then he peered up at Faraday. ‘Nice, eh? Under the circumstances?’

At the weekend, Faraday at last had a couple of days to himself. He spent Saturday morning cleaning the house, sorting his laundry, catching up with the post and a couple of dozen emails. Eadie Sykes, he learned, had been offered backing for her latest movie project and would be staying on in Australia for at least a couple of months. This, it seemed, would be good news for J-J, who was still occupying Eadie’s top-floor apartment overlooking the beach on South Parade.

To celebrate, Faraday took his son to lunch. They walked to a pub on the harbourside in Old Portsmouth. J-J was as voluble as ever, his hands a blur of sign as he briefed Faraday on his career plans. For the time being he was still working for Ambrym, Eadie’s company, but a production house in London had seen some of his editing show reel and had been impressed enough to offer him a six-month contract. They’d just won a Channel
5
commission,
Beyond the Beyond
, a documentary series billed as a major inquiry into spiritualism.

‘Spooky or what?’ J-J signed.

Faraday nodded, happy to be back in the giddy enthusiasm of his son’s world, thinking quite suddenly of the Corey family.

He phoned Karen Corey the following morning. He
was, she said, lucky to find her in. It was her turn to take Madge to the temple but she had a bit of a cold and her mum had gone instead.

Faraday told her he had a bit of free time. He’d love to get out in the country, get some decent air in his lungs, maybe climb a hill or two. Did she fancy coming along?

Karen said she’d love to but there was something she’d been meaning to say to him. All the fuss and bother about Harry had made her feel guilty. Not just because she’d bothered Faraday when he was obviously busy but because he’d probably concluded that they were all crackers, the whole family, every last one of them.

Faraday told her not to worry. He’d been happy to read the letters, happier still to offer what little advice he could. He was just sorry there was so little they could do.

‘He’s in a home,’ she said. ‘In Southsea.’

‘Who?’

‘Bob. Harry’s oppo.’ She paused. ‘Sundays, they always take him out along the seafront. I just wondered …’

Faraday was propped against the chest of drawers on which he kept the phone, gazing out at the harbour through the big French doors.

‘You want me to meet Bob?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Why?’

‘I just … I don’t know. A favour, maybe? Just to prove he really exists? That we’re not all bonkers?’

Faraday smiled to himself. Another war, he thought. Another ever-lengthening shadow.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Give me a time.’

They met on the seafront in Old Portsmouth an hour and a half later. Karen was wrapped up against the bitter wind, offering a cold cheek when Faraday bent to kiss her. Bob and his carer would be along any minute, she said. They kept to the same schedule every Sunday, the old man tottering the half-mile from the distant muddle of the funfair to the Square Tower, which overlooked the harbour entrance. After that, she promised, they could climb whichever hill Faraday fancied.

Faraday warmed to the prospect, eyeing the procession of strollers out for an afternoon in the bright, chilly sunshine. Within minutes Karen had spotted Bob and his carer.

‘There he is.’ She pointed to a bent figure beside a plump woman pushing a wheelchair.

Faraday watched them as they approached. Bob must have been in his eighties – thin, stooped, flat cap, glasses, one arm thrust into a cheap windcheater, one arm half out. He shuffled towards them across the paving stones, his head down, determined to make it to the end of the promenade. For a second or two Faraday tried to imagine him in the dock, answering to a jury for a moment of long-ago madness. The image, he decided, was bizarre.

The carer had answered Karen’s wave. She steered the old man in Faraday’s direction, stopped beside them. The old man struggled with the windcheater in his confusion, finally stiffening his body and knotting his big-knuckled hands in the small of his back. He might have been on parade, thought Faraday, answering to the sergeant’s bark.

‘Bob?’ Karen was shouting. ‘This is a friend of mine. Joe.’

‘Joe?’ He turned his head towards the voice. His
nose was running and a thread of saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

‘Joe Faraday, Bob. He’s a friend of Madge’s. He said he wanted to meet you.’

‘Friend of who?’

‘Madge. Madge Corey. You remember Madge?’