Angels Passing (23 page)

‘But you were the one who wanted to be nice to the Naylors.’ Winter was enjoying this. ‘You were the one giving me a hard time up there in Leigh Park.’

‘That’s different. That’s about respect.’

‘Respect for scum like that? You’re wasting your time, son. One sniff of all that touchy-feely crap and they’ll turn you over. I’ve seen it happen a million times.’

‘They’d just lost their son.’

‘Yeah, and good fucking riddance. They never saw him. He was never there. The only one who cared a light was his nan, and she’s off the planet. What kind of family’s that?’

Sullivan frowned. Stella slowed him down. He had a point to make here, an important point, but every time he crept up on it Winter appeared from the shadows and whisked it away.

‘It’s the system.’ He was staring at his hands. ‘The job’s hard enough as it is but the system makes it impossible.’

‘What system’s that, then?’

‘The way we do things, the way we have to do them. I know I’m young and all that but you listen to the older blokes and it’s the same with them. Everyone’s watching their backs now. Put a step wrong, get out of line with all that Best Practice garbage, and you’re in deep shit. You’re right about the scrotes. Up our way, I could give you a list of little twats we’d be better off slapping. They cause us endless grief. But you can’t do it, can you? We’ve got bloody forms instead of justice. When I’m not a social worker, I’m a fucking clerk.’

Winter mimed applause. He was impressed.

‘So what happens,’ he asked, ‘to that nice career of yours?’

‘Fuck knows. My mates on the outside thought I was crazy in the first place and maybe they’re right. Most people won’t be seen dead with a copper. Even when we’re out there doing it, trying to screw some kind of result, you just get blanked. The other day we were trying to sort out a young lad. That involved going to a school but they didn’t want to know. Most organisations hate the bloody Filth, won’t have us anywhere near them. That makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘Never. Start thinking about it, you’re dead in the water. The system’s like everything else. It’s there to be ignored. You get results in spite of the system. Play by the rules and you might as well jack it in.’

‘So how does that work, then? Like tonight? The old slapper across the road?’ Sullivan nodded at the door, aggressive now.

‘Well, you start with the obvious. The old tart’s winding us up.’

‘Of course she is. Anyone can programme the date on a video. They were probably at it before we arrived. No wonder she’d just had a shower.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘No, of course I can’t. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He says he was with her. She says they were screwing all night. And, surprise surprise, there’s even a video to prove it. It’s all bollocks. You know it and I know it and she bloody knows it too. But without evidence, we’re fucked.’

‘No, we’re not. Not if we’re smart.’

‘Oh yeah? So how does that work?’

‘Good question.’ Winter beamed at him. ‘One for the road?’

An hour and a half later, near midnight, Winter insisted on dropping Sullivan off at the town station. The last train was due any minute and he could get a taxi at the other end.

Sullivan was watching a couple of teenage girls trying to cadge a freebie from a cab driver. He’d eaten better curries but at least the world was back in focus. He glanced across at Winter.

‘You’re all right really, aren’t you?’

‘You’re pissed, son.’

‘No, really, you’re a good bloke. You do your best to wind people up but underneath it all, you’re OK.’ He nodded. ‘You know something? People warned me about you. Watch your back, they said. Still, it’s down to me, isn’t it?’

‘What’s down to you?’

‘Fuck knows.’ He burped softly in the darkness of the car. ‘Listen, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to say.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘I’m really sorry about your missus. That was out of order.’ He turned to Winter and extended a hand.

Winter studied him a moment, then accepted the handshake. Since Joannie’s death, he’d spent a long time sitting in empty rooms, cooking for one, shopping for one, saving all his laundry for a single load at the weekend, and the beauty of this job,
Bisley
, was the way it had put the smile back on his face, returning him to a world he loved.

He nodded towards the station entrance.

‘You’re going to miss the train.’

‘No, really, I mean it.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ Winter leaned across and opened the door. ‘But you want to be careful, son. All this touchy-feely crap.’

Sixteen

TUESDAY
, 13
FEBRUARY
,
09.00

The fact that Willard insisted on driving out to take a look for himself was viewed with some misgivings within the MIR. Normally, the Detective Superintendent took a great deal of pride in running his team from the cool seclusion of his office. He trusted his lieutenants implicitly and believed in delegating the necessary authority. There was nothing to gain by dirtying his own hands. But on this occasion, as soon as Dave Michaels took the call from the force controllers at Tango One, Willard was in his car and away.
Bisley
wasn’t going entirely to plan. It was time to make his presence felt.

The burned-out remains of the vehicle lay in a chalk pit dug into the side of a hill seven miles inland. Willard stood on the lip of the pit, gazing down. From time to time, gusts of wind funnelled up from the floor of the pit, bringing with them the sharp, bitter tang of charred upholstery and melted plastics. The Fire Service investigator had already poked around the cooling body shell and pronounced the job well done. Some form of accelerant had been used, probably petrol, and the tank must have been at least a third full to have torched the car so effectively. A SOCO team from Cosham was also hard at work and the preliminary report from the DS confirmed that the vehicle had been stripped of plates and all other identification. Plus the numbers on the engine block and chassis had been cut away to the full depth of the metal. Definitely a professional job.

Willard scrambled down the path, zipping up his Berghaus against the bitter wind. Sammy Rollins, his deputy SIO, was waiting by the Fiat. There was a handful of farms and cottages within a couple of miles’ radius of the chalk pit and uniforms had begun knocking on doors. The fire itself had been reported at one in the morning but so far nobody had seen any vehicles in the area immediately beforehand. Soon, the SOCO team would be turning their attention to the flint-strewn track that accessed the quarry. It had been raining before midnight and there was an outside chance of wheel marks in the chalky mud.

‘What d’you think?’

Sammy Rollins was watching one of the SOCO officers at work on the blackened body shell.

‘I’m no expert,’ he said, ‘but I suppose it could be ours.’

Willard nodded. He’d organised for a mechanic from the main Fiat dealership to come up and pronounce judgement. A formal statement would be enough to establish make and model, but his own mind was made up.

‘At least we know they mean it,’ he said tersely.

The tax reference on the envelope seized at Bradley Finch’s nan’s place took Winter and Sullivan to Fawcett Road. The reference belonged to a second-hand store called Oddz ’n’ Sodz and it was gone half past nine before the ‘Closed’ sign came off the shop’s front door. Winter and Sullivan had been parked opposite for nearly an hour, waiting for someone to turn up. Must be a rear entrance, Winter thought, buttoning his coat.

Fawcett Road straddled the no man’s land between Portsmouth and Southsea, a busy rat run for taxis and delivery vehicles. Battered shops on both sides sold everything from second-hand books to cut-price German lager, and the thoroughfare had recently attracted the attention of a Customs and Excise task force interested in the whereabouts of millions of quid’s worth of contraband fags.

Winter crossed the road and intercepted a tall, skinny youth as he emerged from the shop with a trolley piled high with bric-a-brac. Winter showed the youth his warrant card, introduced Sullivan, and suggested they step aside. The youth wanted to know why.

‘One or two things to discuss,’ Winter said, nudging him in through the door.

The interior of the shop smelt soiled and damp. In the gloom, Winter could make out a jumble of broken-backed chairs, leatherette sofas, 1930s wardrobes with their doors hanging off and standard lamps with the kind of electric flex that belonged in a museum. Half close your eyes and you could have been inspecting Blitz damage the morning after a major raid.

‘Got an office or anything? Somewhere a bit cosier?’

The youth shook his head. He was wearing a collarless shirt and a pair of torn jeans. His trainers looked as old as the furniture and a savage grade one had reduced his hair to a blue shadow against the whiteness of his scalp.

‘What is it then?’

Winter produced a photo of Bradley Finch. He wanted to know the youth’s name.

‘Troy,’ the youth said.

‘Troy what?’

‘Troy guessing.’

The youth looked to Sullivan for a smile but picked the wrong bloke. Three ibuprofen and a gallon of black coffee had failed to soften the after-effects of last night and he’d felt murderous since dawn. Now he stepped very close to the youth and repeated Winter’s question.

‘Troy Smith.’ The youth took a tiny step backwards. ‘That do yer?’

Winter showed him the photo again. He was investigating a murder. The victim’s name was Bradley Finch. He wanted to know whether Smith had had any dealings with Mr Finch.

The youth peered at the photo.

‘I sees him in the paper,’ he said. ‘That exact same photo.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘I just did, mush. I says I knows who he is.’

‘That’s because I told you. I’m asking you something else. I’m asking you when you saw him last.’

‘I never.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Who says?’

Winter ignored the question. A nod to Sullivan was enough to send him wading through the furniture towards a door at the back. The youth had produced a cigarette but abandoned it in some haste.

He caught up with Sullivan and tried to pull him back. Sullivan spun round. In this sort of mood, the situation was non-negotiable.

‘Get your fucking hands off me,’ he said, ‘or you’ll be looking at an assault charge.’

The youth started giving him a mouthful but stopped the moment he heard the clunk of the door being locked. Turning round, he was in time to see Winter restoring the ‘Closed’ sign.

‘What the fuck’s going on? Mind telling me, do yer?’

Sullivan had found the little kitchen at the back. There was a single tap over the sink and a new-looking Hewlett-Packard computer perched on the wooden draining board. A desk against the adjoining wall was covered with more electronic equipment: printers, scanners and what looked like a brand-new copier, still cocooned in its protective bubble wrap. Sullivan felt the kettle. It was still warm.

‘What’s this lot then?’

‘Gear.’

‘I can see that. Where did it come from?’

‘Bought it.’

‘Got the paperwork, have you?’

‘With my accountant.’

‘Fat fucking chance.’ It was Winter. He was watching Sullivan filling the kettle. ‘Two, with milk, please.’ He shot a look at Smith. ‘Got any bickies?’

The youth ignored the question. He wanted to make a phone call. He had rights here. They weren’t dealing with some tosspot off the streets.

Winter eyed him coldly.

‘Phones are for grown-ups,’ he said. ‘Don’t get ideas above your station, son.’

‘You fuck off.’

‘No, my friend. You fuck off. And while you’re about it, do me a favour, eh?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Have yourself a wash in the morning. You smell like a bloody sewer.’

He gave the youth a push and Sullivan stepped aside as he fell amongst a pile of cardboard boxes in the corner. Winter was down beside him in a flash, his mouth close to the youth’s ear.

‘In a moment, when we’ve had tea, my mate and I are going to go right through this place. We’re going to clear everything out onto the pavement and then we’re going to lift every floorboard, take out every panel, give the place a proper going-over. And when we’ve found it, don’t even dream about bail.’

‘Found what?’

‘You think I’m stupid? Is that what you think?’

Winter got to his feet, washed his hands in the sink and then wiped them dry on the long black mohair coat hanging behind the door. In the pocket of the coat he found a cheque book and three credit cards, all in different names.

‘Whose are these then? Found them, did you? Pick them up in the street?’

‘Fuck off. What do you want?’

‘That’s better.’

Winter leaned back against the sink, waiting for the tea. He wanted to know about Bradley Finch. He wanted to know what Smith had bought off him, Friday last.

‘I wasn’t here.’

‘You’re lying. We know you were here.’

‘Yeah? How come?’

‘A little bird told us.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be that fuck-wit Finch, would it? Because he’s dead.’

‘Absolutely right. So why don’t you tell us what you fenced for him. Before this gets unpleasant.’

‘I never fenced nothing. I bought it. Legit. Cash. Fifty quid over the top too, little cunt.’

‘Lovely. So what was it?’

Sullivan was pouring hot water into a couple of mugs. The youth on the floor looked resigned.

‘Video camera,’ he said at last. ‘Brand-new digital thing. Top of the range, according to fuck-face.’

‘Where did he get it?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘You didn’t ask?’

‘What do you think I am? Stupid?’

Winter let the comment pass. The tea tasted foul.

‘Where is it now? This camera?’

‘Sold it on.’

‘Who to?’

‘Can’t remember.’

Oh, yeah?

Winter gazed at his tea for a second or two, then poured it down the sink. Sullivan did the same. Winter had his mobile out. He tapped in a number, waited for a moment or two, then smiled.

‘Customs and Excise? Get me Harry, please, and tell him it’s urgent.’

The youth had got to his feet. The expression on his face told Winter everything he wanted to know. He pocketed the mobile and turned to Sullivan.

‘I think Mr Smith is with us at last,’ he murmured. ‘Shall we leave him a chit for the camera?’

Try as he might, Faraday found it impossible to concentrate. He sat at his desk, going through the duty rosters for the next three weeks, trying to coax some kind of order from the usual chaos. The managerial treadmill had become the essence of his job, he knew that, and most days he coped with it like any other hamster in any other cage, but this morning was different. He felt excited the way you feel when you wake up in a foreign country with no clear recollection of how you got there. And he felt, as well, a little bit lost.

He glanced at his watch. At ten, he and Cathy Lamb were going to take a preliminary look at the arrangements for CID cover over Easter. At eleven-thirty he was due for a meet with a couple of nightclub owners wanting to twist his arm over an inquiry he was running into the activities of local bouncers. After lunch Hartigan was demanding a face-to-face to discuss the progress Faraday was making on the ‘Investigating Burglary’ PID. After that, he could make a start on catching up with yesterday’s tally of petty crime, the minor cuts and grazes that never seemed to scab.

He returned briefly to the duty roster. If he moved this name to here, or this name to there, would it really make any difference? If he threw the whole pack in the air, all the available bodies, would it really matter in which order they hit the floor? The lines that boxed the eight-hour shifts began to blur and he felt himself wandering off again. It was something the Afghan had said, Niamat Tabibi.
Life is more complicated than you think
. Deliberately or otherwise, the lad had hit the spot.
Life is more complicated than you think
. Exactly.

Faraday eyed the phone. Every inquiry trailed its quota of loose ends and Helen Bassam’s death was no exception. He’d done the Afghan’s bidding. Mouth swabs had gone off for DNA matching with foetal tissues from the mortuary. He still owed a duty of care to Mrs Bassam, if only to assure her that things were still happening, but that was something he should pass on down the line – to Dawn Ellis, or more appropriately to the Family Liaison Officer from Cosham who’d yesterday added Jane Bassam to her bursting caseload. That’s the way the system worked. That was the sensible division of labour that kept Faraday shackled to his desk. Get yourself promoted to DI on a patch as busy as this one, and your days on the sharp end were over.

Faraday at last picked up the phone. Cathy Lamb didn’t even have the chance to argue.

‘I’m out for a bit. We’ll pick up on the Easter stuff later.’ He paused. ‘And remind me to have a word about that bloody husband of yours.’

Winter was back at the MIR before he had a chance to take a proper look at the video camera. It was a Sony TRV 15E, small and neat, with a brushed metal finish and a little video screen that folded out from the body of the camera. There were seven automatic programmes, a wide-screen option, plus a light that warned you when the battery was low.

‘How does it work then?’ Winter passed it to Sullivan.

Sullivan examined it for a moment or two, turning it over in his hand, and then switched it on. He knew enough about gear like this to recognise the latest model.

‘Seven hundred quid? Are you kidding?’

‘There or thereabouts. Bloke next door to my mum and dad’s just got one similar. Bought it to video his missus’ amateur dramatics. Here.’

The serial number was underneath the camera, a line of tiny digits that Winter’s eyes failed to resolve.

‘9264570982123.’ Sullivan read them out for him.

Winter fired up the computer on his desk and typed in his password. Another couple of keystrokes took him into the Automatic Crime Recording system, the file that tallied reported crimes all over the county. Under ‘Make’ he entered ‘Sony’ followed – at Sullivan’s prompting – by the camera’s model designation. Seconds later, he found himself scrolling through a list of missing Sony TRVs. If Sullivan was right about this gear being brand-new on the market, Hampshire burglars had been remarkably busy.

‘Serial number?’

Winter typed it in. The list shrank to a single entry. On 14 January, the camera on the desk had been stolen during a break-in at a house near Compton. The house belonged to a Captain and Mrs Wreke, and they’d also reported the theft of hi-fi equipment, two televisions, a video recorder, an answering machine, cash, cheque books and credit cards plus – more worryingly – a brand-new Purdy shotgun. The house had been done while they were away skiing in Val d’Isère, and the break-in had been phoned in by the woman who came in daily to feed the cats. SOC had found nothing in the way of forensics and the incident had been added to the ever-growing list of inquiries awaiting further developments.