Angels Passing (17 page)

‘You’re kidding.’ Even Winter was impressed. A squad that big and there wouldn’t be anyone left for the other thousand crimes awaiting investigation.

The phone rang and while Michaels answered it Winter mused on the direction this inquiry was taking. The thought that the entire city could be virtually stripped of cover for a scrotey little tosspot like Bradley Finch was deeply ironic. Alive, he’d already attracted more than his fair share of CID time. But that wasn’t the point and Winter knew it. The skinny little corpse on Hilsea Lines had been a declaration. There’d been a perfunctory attempt to dress murder up to look like suicide but the evidence that Finch had taken his own life went no further than a noose and a kicked-over crate with the word Schweppes on the side. The rest – the broken ribs, the swollen face, the thong – sent a very different message. Take one look at Bradley Finch dangling in the rain, and you’d have a very pressing reason not to mess with whoever had done it.

To Willard, of course, that was unacceptable. In his own dry phrase, it was a question of appropriate behaviour. There were certain things you simply didn’t do, not in a city for which Willard was responsible, and killing other people was one of them. There was a line to be drawn here. And Willard was only too willing to oblige.

Michaels had finished his phone conversation. He’d been talking to Jerry Proctor at Margate Road.

‘What have they got?’

‘They found blood in the bathroom. Spots on the splashback.’

‘Enough for a swab?’

‘Easy. They got some good lifts from the girl’s room too. Jerry’s sent them over to Netley.’

The fingerprint department at Netley would photograph the prints and then grid them for analysis on the NAAFIS computer. They’d have a result by tomorrow.

‘What else?’

‘They went through her rubbish. They found an interesting receipt.’

‘What for?’

‘Three bottles of champagne from Thresher’s – Moët. And a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream.’

‘When?’

‘Friday night. 18.56.’

Winter was doing his best to make sense of this news. ‘But the girl doesn’t drink.’

‘Exactly. That’s what you said earlier. And there’s more. They found three corks in the rubbish, all champagne, but only two bottles. No sign of the sherry either. So what happened to the third bottle of Moët?’

Winter was up to speed now.
Tearing of the rectal tissues consistent with the introduction of a foreign object
. He was gazing at Dave Michaels. Someone with an empty champagne bottle and a warped sense of humour? Someone who’d come to the house to add their own little contribution to the party?

‘That’s an assumption,’ Michaels said. ‘We’ve got nothing that puts him there, nothing solid.’

‘Yeah, but …’ Winter was frowning. There were three other guys in the house, all students. This morning he and Sullivan had seen one of them. What about the other two?

‘We’ve seen them both. Friday night all three were out. The house was empty. Until the girl came back.’

‘With chummy.’

‘Maybe.’

Winter was trying to imagine the way it might have been: Bradley Finch confronted by someone determined to teach him a lesson. The evidence was there at the post-mortem, totally beyond debate.

‘At least he was pissed,’ he murmured.

He got to his feet and went to the window, thinking of Louise and wondering whether there was anything they could trust in the statement she’d signed earlier. According to Eddie, she’d lied about not seeing Finch recently. According to the student he and Sullivan had met at Margate Road, she’d lied about Finch never turning up there. And now, with the receipt, she’d lied about her movements on Friday. How could you be halfway to the Hayling ferry and buying champagne, all at the same time?

Behind him, Michaels was heading for the door.

‘She’s barmy, that girl,’ Winter pointed out. ‘She must have known the statement would fall apart.’

Dave Michaels laughed. ‘You haven’t heard the rest of it. I had one of the surveillance guys on just before you came in. Guess where she’s been all afternoon?’

‘Pass.’

‘The bloody Odeon, up at North End. No one goes to see
Castaway
twice.’ He frowned. ‘Do they?’

It was supper time before Faraday and his son got round to their first real conversation. J-J had been asleep all afternoon, still sprawled on the sofa, and by the time he woke up he seemed to have shaken off the worst of the previous night’s drinking. Quite what pleasure you’d get from sinking three litres of strong French lager alone in a cemetery was beyond Faraday but five hours of checking on his slumbering giant had made him conclude a pact with himself. He would, at all costs, avoid a confrontation. For both their sakes, they had – somehow – to work this thing out.

Rested and starving, J-J gladly signed up to roast chicken with all the trimmings, signalling to his dad not to forget the Yorkshire puddings. When he was happy, J-J sometimes had a habit of humming. Deaf, he’d been denied music and so humming some favourite tune was out of the question, but there’d been moments years back when Faraday had been astonished at how J-J occasionally stumbled across a sequence of notes that was recognisably musical. He was doing it now. Faraday picked up the tune and – without pushing too hard – arrived at a spirited version of the final movement of Beethoven’s last symphony. A couple of stiff malts had put him in the mood for something stirring. ‘Ode to Joy’, he thought. Good sign.

Oblivious of his dad’s musical efforts, J-J was reading a brochure on Corsica he’d found in the lounge. He picked it up and showed Faraday a page that featured the ancient citadel at Calvi.

‘You’ve been there?’ he signed.

‘Yep.’

‘When?’

With a surge of guilt, Faraday realised he’d never mentioned the holiday to J-J. No postcard. No lengthy email afterwards describing the afternoon he’d seen no less than three red kites riding the thermals high above the Restonica Valley.

‘September,’ he signed. ‘Just a couple of days.’

‘Who with?’

‘No one. I went by myself.’

J-J lifted an eyebrow, plainly surprised, and Faraday knew at once that he’d made a big mistake. The Macallan might do wonders for his peace of mind but it blew his judgement completely. J-J knew Marta and liked her. If he was here to stay for a while he’d doubtless meet her again. What happened when he discovered that his dad had been lying about Corsica? And why, more importantly, had he bothered with the deceit in the first place? Was he that guilty about screwing someone else’s wife?

‘You enjoyed it?’ J-J wanted to know more.

‘Hot.’ Faraday wiped his brow, then mimed eating and gave J-J the thumbs-up.

‘Good food?’

‘Excellent.’

‘Fish?’

‘On the coast, lots and lots. More stewy things and wild boar inland.’

‘Wild
boar
?’

‘Yes. Delicious taste.’

‘But not as good as the seafood?’

‘Nothing’s ever as good as the seafood.’

‘You had scallops?’

‘Scallops this big.’ Faraday shaped the air with his hands. ‘I had them so often I nearly got sick of them.’

He ducked his head and looked away, aware of just how deep a hole these needless lies were digging. J-J seemed to have sensed it, too. Things didn’t quite add up.

‘
How
many days were you there?’

‘Two. Maybe three. Two and a half.’

‘You must have been eating all the time.’

‘I was.’

‘Really?’ J-J cocked an eyebrow.

In any other context, this would have been comic, the all-knowing detective snared by his own carelessness, but at the bottom of this daft lie lay a deeply uncomfortable truth: Faraday was ashamed of what he was up to with Marta, and even more appalled about the possibility of his son finding out.

Life may have robbed J-J of a mother at a very early age but Faraday had devoted the next twenty years to making the very best of what they had left. In this, ironically, he’d been all too successful and he was now beginning to realise the price that J-J was paying. He’d gone to France with Valerie in the belief that relationships were forever. Now he was back knowing that they weren’t. Not only that, but here was his father of all people busy wrecking someone else’s marriage.

Faraday started on the batter for the Yorkshire puddings, wondering what he’d feel in J-J’s place. Maybe he should simply own up. Maybe he should set the record straight about Corsica, and Marta, and her loved ones down the road. Maybe it was time to let J-J in on the secret: that life, married or otherwise, had become a gigantic free-for-all. That nothing, sadly, was forever.

He turned to find the travel brochure discarded for a colour supplement article on the best of this year’s crop of RADA graduates. J-J was totally engrossed and it was only later, with the wreckage of the dinner strewn across the table, that he shared his big idea with Faraday. In Caen he’d been working with some of the local kids. He’d got himself involved in drama and mime. He’d liked the work. Maybe he could do something similar here. No?

Faraday warmed at once to the idea. He’d spent most of the day trying to figure out what to do with the boy. J-J’s previous flirtation with paid employment hadn’t been a success. He wasn’t the least bit work-shy, or timid when it came to making friends, but people had sniggered behind his back and played the odd trick, and one day it had gone too far and he’d walked out, vowing never to return.

Voluntary work, however, might be less hazardous. God knows, there were some tough kids in the city, but Faraday had the feeling that kids who were truly on the edge often felt a kinship with rare birds like J-J. Was it fanciful, this notion? Or might this strange, eager, sullen, newly shorn twenty-three-year-old of his find a perch that truly suited him? Faraday didn’t know but there was no alternative to finding out.

‘Great idea,’ he signed back. ‘I’ll make some enquiries.’

It fell to Winter and Sullivan to drive down to the Thresher’s branch in Clarendon Road and check out the receipt from Margate Road. Business was slow for a Sunday night and they were in luck with one of the two assistants behind the counter. Yes, she’d been on duty on Friday evening. And yes, three bottles of Moët rang a bell.

Winter produced the receipt. It was grease-smeared from Louise Abeka’s waste sack and the woman flattened it on the counter before peering at the date and time.

‘18.56,’ she confirmed. ‘That sounds about right.’

She’d been busy that night. Fridays were always hectic but it was rare to sell Moët in threes.

‘You remember the customer?’

‘Very well.’

‘You can describe her?’

‘Her?’ She was frowning. ‘It was a bloke. Scruffy guy, thin. Leather jacket, black T-shirt. Real mumbler, too. I remember saying to Debs, bet he’s on drugs.’

Winter took her through it again, making absolutely sure she was certain of the facts, then stepped into a tiny storeroom at the back to write out a formal statement.

Returning to the incident room half an hour later, it was Sullivan who voiced the obvious question. Finch, according to more or less everybody, was skint. So how come he can suddenly afford fifty quid’s worth of Moët plus a bottle of Bristol Cream?

Dave Michaels, feet up in his office, had the answer.

‘He’s a tea leaf,’ he pointed out. ‘Guy nicks stuff. Sells stuff. Tabs. Weed. Property. Whatever. It’s the end of his working week. He’s celebrating. Just like everyone else.’

Winter wasn’t convinced. The way he heard it, Finch was disaster on legs. Put him in the movies, he’d be Frank Spencer. He couldn’t do anything right. Ask him to cross a street and he’d be under a bus in seconds.

‘The bloke was inadequate,’ he said. ‘Fifty quid would be a fortune.’

‘So where did he get it?’

‘Good question.’

Michaels eased his legs off the desk. Willard had appeared at the door. He’d been going through the informant reports again and he wanted a word. Winter began to back out of the office but Willard told him to stay.

‘Shut the door,’ he said.

Willard had the reports in a folder. He tossed them onto the desk. There was bugger all in there but that, in itself, was significant.

‘You’re right, boss.’ Michaels had opened the file. ‘No one’s talking.’

‘Yeah, and you know why? Because the word’s obviously out. Everyone seems to know Bradley Finch, everyone seems to know what a little shit he was, but Friday night’s suddenly a no-no. Everyone’s blanking it. No one laid eyes on him. Not in a pub. Not at some party or other. He just disappeared. Any other night of the week you could find me half a dozen grasses who’d know exactly what he was up to, but all of a sudden everyone’s really shy. So what does that suggest?’

‘It means the message got through, boss,’ Winter said thoughtfully, ‘just like the man intended.’

Twelve

MONDAY
, 12
FEBRUARY
,
09.00

The mortuary at St Mary’s Hospital was a gloomy, Victorian red-brick building that always reminded Dawn Ellis of a Unitarian chapel she’d once been obliged to attend as a kid. It was battered, depressing and constantly featured in the facilities listed for demolition by the hospital trust management team.

Ellis found Jake, the senior technician, bent over a collection of pot plants in the post-mortem theatre. He’d already prepared the body of Helen Bassam for the pathologist, and she lay naked on one of the stainless steel tables. Her head was propped on a stained wooden block and the hose he’d used to wash her down lay dripping in a nearby sink. Beside the sink, neatly laid out, were a set of surgical instruments. The scalpel, in particular, looked enormous.

Jake was apologising for the late start. The pathologist was stuck in traffic after an accident on the motorway and the technician was taking the opportunity to give his plants a good seeing-to with Baby Bio. Health and Safety regulations required seventeen changes of air an hour in the theatre and in his view the plants thrived on it. He put them in here at the start of every weekend and he was certain they knew when Friday was coming round.

Ellis was looking at the body of the girl. She was still beautiful – long legs, lovely little breasts – and despite her injuries, Ellis could see the woman that she might one day have become. As it was though, she was waxy and lifeless, a doll that had suffered damage in transit and was now being returned to the makers. The back of her skull was caved in, a tangle of hair thickly matted with blood and bone chips, and there was an odd look to her torso, a dip as if someone had pushed too hard on her chest. Her arms lay beside her body, palms turned outwards, but Ellis could see a jagged splinter of bone, fiercely white, protruding through the flesh at her elbow, and more evidence of multiple fractures in both legs. Jake had done his best to tidy her up but gravity and God knows what else had scrawled a terrible message on her young body. Anyone who ever contemplated jumping off a twenty-three-storey building should be in this chill, white room, thought Ellis. One look at Helen Bassam and you’d be back in the lift within seconds.

Jake had finished with the Baby Bio. He wanted to show her something on the body. Ellis stood beside him while he eased the girl’s wrecked legs open. On the inside of each thigh, way up towards the top, was a message handwritten in blue ink. According to Jake, the ink was indelible.

Ellis bent to make sure she’d got the message right, one word on each thigh.

‘
Pour vous?
’ she queried.

Jake had been talking to someone who spoke French.

‘It means “For you,”’ he said, ‘but apparently she got it wrong. Situation like that…’ he nodded at her open thighs ‘… you’d use
toi
.’ He looked at Ellis. ‘
Toi?
’

Ellis nodded. She could see the open drawer in Helen’s bedroom, the little French dictionary amongst the jumble of make-up and CDs. She must have done this for her private tutor, Ellis thought. She must have picked up the two words,
pour vous
, and got busy with the indelible felt-tip. The phrase was an invitation, maybe even a command. More mutilation.

‘You’re staying for the PM?’

Ellis shook her head. She wanted the legs closed again. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She nodded down at the body on the table.

‘We need full tox,’ she said.

‘No problem.’

Jake returned to his plants and scribbled himself a note for the pathologist. Tests for drugs and alcohol normally took between four and eight weeks to come back. Was Ellis asking for fast-track?

Ellis was still beside the girl. With her lids back, she had the loveliest green eyes.

‘Definitely,’ she murmured. ‘Quick as you can.’

Faraday was a couple of minutes late for the meeting with Willard. The Detective Superintendent had phoned first thing, wanting him to drive over to the Major Crimes suite for nine o’clock, but they’d been having problems with a serial flasher targeting young women in ground-floor flats, and the guy had chosen last night to tap on more lit windows before dropping his pants. Already short-staffed, Faraday had struggled to find two DCs with the time to start sorting it out, and he was still wondering how they’d cope with last week’s backlog when he stepped into Willard’s office.

Willard was at his computer, authorising applications from the Intelligence Cell for access to billing on yet another mobile phone. These forms he then emailed to the Telephone Intelligence Unit at headquarters. Standing there watching, Faraday was amazed that a Detective Superintendent should be saddled with all this clerical work. The man was on £57K a year. Didn’t that kind of rank buy you the services of a clerk down the corridor?

‘You have to be joking.’ Willard had just blacked half the form by mistake. ‘You know how many unallocated actions I’m looking at this morning? Seventy-one. And you know how many blokes I’ve got on the sharp end? Ten. This is one job we can’t afford to get wrong and we’re already playing catch-up. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

He typed a final line of text, clicked on the mouse and shot a murderous look at the printer. Moments later, the form began to emerge.

‘So …’ he finally spun the chair round towards Faraday ‘… tell me about the girl.’

‘Girl?’

‘Off the flats. That little squad you’ve put together. Pressing, is it? Or something that might wait?’

Faraday understood at once where this conversation was leading. Willard was on the scrounge. Doubtless he’d already been on to Operational Support, begging for extra bodies, and now he wanted hard intelligence for the moment headquarters came back and told him the cupboard was bare. Nonsense, he’d say. Take Faraday’s lot, for instance.

‘We’ve put a lot of work in,’ Faraday began, ‘and thank Christ we did.’

He told Willard about the girl going off the rails, and about the company she’d begun to keep. Her father had come forward, voluntarily, with worries about drug abuse. He’d been giving his daughter a generous allowance and he’d started to wonder where it had all gone.

‘Are we talking Class “A” stuff?’

‘It’s possible. I’ve asked for tox on the body.’

‘When’s the PM?’

‘This morning.’

Faraday paused, and then began to tell him about Doodie. The kid, he said, was just ten. At least one witness put him in the flats around the time the girl went off the roof.

‘And what does the boy say?’

‘I don’t know. We still can’t find him.’

‘You’re telling me he hasn’t turned up? Where have you looked?’

Faraday listed the lines of enquiry. The boy’s mother hadn’t been in touch since Faraday’s visit to her flat but that wasn’t a surprise. He had a call in to the woman who ran the Persistent Young Offenders project and if she couldn’t help then he’d organise a ring round the other agencies. One way or another, they’d lay hands on the child.

Willard was interested now.

‘You don’t think something’s happened to him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about mates? Every kid’s got mates.’

Faraday mentioned his exchange with Trudy Gallagher’s mother. Trudy had been big mates with Helen Bassam. Helen seemed to know Doodie. Odds-on, therefore, that the mother might have remembered the name.

‘But no joy,’ Faraday concluded. ‘Name didn’t ring a bell.’

Willard was leaning forward now. ‘This is Misty Gallagher?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know who she’s screwing?’

Faraday shook his head, alarmed at the weight of Willard’s sudden interest. Stealing bodies from Faraday’s divisional team was one thing but this was quite another. Show Willard a decent job, something really intriguing, and he’d nick it for Major Crimes.

‘Who’s that then?’ he said stonily.

‘Bazza McKenzie. She’s been sorting him out for months. He’s just bought her a place in Gunwharf, little love nest with one of those nice harbour views.’

Willard’s phone began to ring and he pounced on it. Barry McKenzie was a major drugs dealer who was trying to stitch up the entire city. One of his many legit enterprises was the Café Blanc, which explained a great deal about Misty Gallagher sprawled across the window on Saturday night, just like she owned the place. Given the association with Bazza, she probably did.

Willard barked down the phone and then hung up. He scribbled something on a pad and spun round again. Faraday had never seen him so cheerful.

‘Scenes of Crime.’ He was beaming, ‘We put a POLSA team back onto Hilsea Lines at first light. I wanted them to extend the search north. You know where I mean? Over the top and down towards the creek?’

Faraday nodded. He could picture it now. Flocks of dunlin pecking around on the mudflats.

‘And?’

‘They just found it. Exactly where I thought.’

Willard explained about the missing bottle of Moët from Margate Road. A PC on the POLSA team had retrieved it from the undergrowth at the foot of the ramparts. If Willard had got it right, they were looking at a forensic bonanza: DNA from Finch’s arse plus prints.

He stood up. He had a ton of calls to make. On his way out, Faraday should put his head round Brian Imber’s door. Brian was running the Intelligence Cell. He’d been putting together all kinds of stuff on McKenzie and some of it might be useful for locating Doodie.

‘And hey, what did I tell you?’ Willard’s gesture took in every corner of his empire. ‘Good fun, eh?’

Brian Imber was a DS from the Crime Squad up at Havant. Faraday had known him for years and liked him a great deal. He was a squat, combative, fit-looking fifty-three-year-old who lived on the seafront at Hayling Island and still ran three fast miles twice a week. He’d come to the job late after eight years in the merchant marine and had quickly developed an obsessive interest in the link between drug abuse and the ever-soaring crime rate.

That was back in the late eighties. Imber had gone into print, producing paper after paper to support his conviction that everything – street offences, robbery, fraud – linked back in some way or other to drugs. It was unusual for a working detective to go to lengths like these and in a stroke of organisational genius, headquarters had given him his head. The past couple of years, Brian Imber had headed the Intelligence Cell in the Havant-based Crime Squad, a hand-picked team of detectives charged with tackling cross-divisional villainy.

Just now, he was sharing the office next to Dave Michaels with two of his DCs from Havant. As intelligence began to flood in on the Bradley Finch inquiry, it was their job to sieve it for those little tiny nuggets that would establish time lines and a firm list of what Willard liked to term ‘persons of interest’.

Seeing Faraday at the door, Imber got to his feet and pumped his outstretched hand. He’d heard the rumour that Faraday was joining Willard’s little army. How was he getting on?

Faraday put him straight at once. He was still divisional DI down at Highland Road. Just like always. Willard was snatching bodies as fast as he could and it was Faraday’s job to fight him off. Just like always.

‘So how’s it going?’ Faraday asked.

‘Slow. But then these things always are, aren’t they? Once we get some serious billing, we can ping a few mobe sites and see what these buggers have been up to.’

Faraday was looking at a stack of the forms that Imber had been passing through to Willard for submission to the TIU. No one knew better than Imber that mobile telephony had transformed crime investigation. For a hefty fee, the phone companies could trace the geographical source for specific calls from mobile phones. In cities like Portsmouth, with lots of cell sites, they could sometimes be accurate to a hundred metres. As a device for breaking alibis, the new technology was invaluable.

Imber was talking about the first of the provisional suspect lists. Problem with a scrote like Bradley Finch was the sheer range of his social contacts. There wasn’t anyone bent in the city that he hadn’t pissed off in one way or another.

‘Was he dealing?’

‘Low level, yes, but he was pond life. He’d pick up tabs here, speed there, knock on a few doors, cash them in. Fifty years ago, he’d have been a tramp or a rag-and-bone man. Might have saved his life.’

‘So who wanted him dead?’

‘Good question, my friend. People we’re talking to at the moment don’t understand it. OK, he was a pain in the arse, but you don’t knock someone off for that, do you? Establish a motive and we’re halfway there.’

Faraday was thinking about the champagne bottle. Pain in the arse was about right, though it was news to Imber that the bottle had been found.

‘That’s a bonus,’ he agreed. ‘Definite gold star. What’s with you, then?’

Faraday explained about Helen Bassam. There was a whisper that she’d been doing drugs.

‘But that makes her normal, doesn’t it?’ Imber’s dry laugh signalled anything but mirth. His implacable determination to get the upper hand in the drugs war was rooted in an incident that had affected one of his own kids, though no one was quite sure about the details.

Faraday mentioned Doodie. His real name was Gavin Prentice. He’d been on to the Child Protection Unit, read the file, but all that intelligence hadn’t taken him an inch closer to finding the kid. Even the local beat officers, who’d only known him by his real name, hadn’t a clue where he’d gone.

‘So how can he just disappear?’

‘Easily, Joe. OK, ten’s young, but kids these days are on a different planet. And that’s because they want to be. They’ve lost interest in the real world. We’ve explained the rules and they’ve had a bit of a think and then buggered off.’

‘And drugs?’

‘Definitely. Uppers. Downers. Anything they can get down their tiny throats. Heavy gear, too, if they’ve got the money. There are kids of twelve doing smack and cocaine. And men twice their age, blokes who should know better, selling it. Sort that lot out and we’d all be sitting on some big fucking beach, getting pissed all day.’

Faraday smiled. Imber, who had a legendary thirst, was one of the few serving policemen who’d dared to call for the legalisation of drugs. Not just cannabis, but all drugs. It wasn’t the chemicals that upset him; it was the low life who made a fortune flogging the stuff.