Angels Passing (38 page)

‘Were you the father of her child?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know who was?’

‘I could give you a list of names but I won’t.’

‘Was one of them an Afghan? A man called Niamat Tabibi?’

‘No. They were all Helen’s age.’

‘And she told you about them?’

‘In great and glorious detail, Mr Faraday. It was part of the game she was playing. She wanted me to know there were others. She wanted me to know she was wanted. Whether or not all of it was true I have no idea, but if you’re serious about looking for a father then one of those names would be the lad you were after. She was truly desperate. She’d do anything to send a message.’

‘To you?’

‘To me. To Niamat. To her father. To whoever would spare the time to listen. The message got through, of course. But I expect all the pathologist had was a form.’

Faraday gazed at him, then folded his pocketbook and put it to one side. He believed every word this man was saying.

‘There’s another child we’re trying to find. Younger.’

Phillimore nodded.

‘Doodie. Jane said you’d mentioned him.’

‘You know Doodie?’

‘Very well. Helen brought him round.’

‘Here?’

‘Indeed. He’s been staying, off and on. I have a couple of spare rooms upstairs. Under the circumstances, it’s the least I can do.’

Faraday gazed at him, and then began to laugh. Six days of looking high and low, six days of phone calls and Misper registers, circulating the name and description to every beat car in the city. And here was young Doodie, tucked up with a priest.

‘
Staying
here? Was that wise? Given you and the …’ he shrugged ‘… Dean?’

‘Wise is an interesting word, Mr Faraday. And so is sanctuary.’

‘Is that what you were offering?’

‘Indeed. Plus food and shelter. Or maybe they’re the same thing.’

‘So where is he? Doodie?’

‘I’ve no idea. He was here a couple of nights back. He comes and goes. It’s an informal arrangement.’

‘He has a key?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you talk to him?’

‘As much as I can.’

‘Has he mentioned Helen at all? Thursday night? The night she died?’

‘Not really. I asked him about it, of course I did, but he just changes the subject.’

‘Were they together that night?’

‘He says not.’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘I don’t know. He’s a funny lad. He’ll talk all the time, tell you anything you think you want to know, but most of it’s a smokescreen. If you think Helen was damaged, you ought to meet Doodie.’

‘I’d love to,’ Faraday said drily. ‘Maybe you could arrange it.’

Winter was asleep when the phone beside his bed rang. He rolled over and fumbled for it in the dark. It was Dave Michaels.

‘You’re gonna love this,’ Michaels began. ‘We’ve got a problem with Terry Harris.’

‘What’s that, then?’

‘He’s dead.’

Twenty-four

FRIDAY
, 16
FEBRUARY
,
08.00

When Dave Michaels made the obvious point – that someone had saved them all a great deal of time and money – Willard finally lost it. It was ten past eight in the morning. Three members of the management team had already soured the atmosphere at the Major Crimes suite by turning up late. Now they all paid the price.

‘That is totally out of order,’ Willard said softly. ‘We’re here to put the lid on serious crime. We do that by sorting out decent investigations. What happened to Finch was unacceptable, and so is this. Either we understand that and start behaving like grown-ups or some of us pack it in. Understood?’

Heads nodded around the table. The fire at 62. Aboukir Road had clearly been deliberately set. The neighbours on both sides of the property reported a strong smell of petrol as they evacuated their own properties and a preliminary investigation by the Fire Brigade believed the seat of the blaze lay just inside the front door. Terry Harris, sleeping alone in the upstairs bedroom, had made it as far as the landing before being overcome by smoke. By the time the rescue crew fought their way through the blaze, he was dead.

‘What about his wife and the nipper?’

It was the DI in charge of forensics. Willard looked to Dave Michaels for an answer.

‘They never went back after the hotel, sir. She’s moved in with her mum-in-law in Paulsgrove.’

‘You mean Harris’s mum?’

‘Yes, sir. Apparently they’re very close. It’s her husband she can’t stand.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Dawn Ellis. It’s not statemented but she talked to the woman at the Travel Inn and she’s put two and two together.’

Willard nodded and scribbled himself a note. Then he looked up again.

‘So what time did all this happen?’

‘The treble nine was logged at 01.13.’ It was Sammy Rollins, the Deputy SIO. ‘The bloke at number sixty raised the alarm.’

‘Anyone see anything before?’

‘Not so far. Uniforms are still doing the house-to-house.’

Willard was looking at Brian Imber. He wanted to know about word on the street.

‘We’ve heard nothing, sir. Nothing to suggest anything like this.’

‘What about the association chart on Harris? What does that tell us?’

‘Not a lot. The obvious suspects would be friends of Finch’s but there’s a problem there because he hadn’t got any friends.’

‘What about the lad from Brennan’s? The one Winter interviewed?’

‘Highly unlikely. He’s got no previous and from what Paul’s saying, they weren’t that close anyway. They had a drink a week or two back but you don’t burn someone’s house down on the strength of a couple of lagers.’

‘The girl? Louise Abeka?’

‘I suppose it’s possible if they really were an item but it doesn’t feel right to me. For starters, she’s in London.’

Dave Michaels reminded them that the girl was due down after lunch. He was sending Winter and Sullivan to arrest her at Waterloo.

‘I’m with Brian. I just don’t think she’d come back down here. Not unless she absolutely had to.’

Willard drew a line through a name on his pad, then looked up.

‘So where does that leave us? If we’re not talking revenge where do we go next?’

‘Pre-emption, boss.’ Michaels again. ‘Someone who wanted to shut Harris’s mouth. I’ve been talking to Winter about Kenny Foster. He’s saying the bloke’s off his head. If he wouldn’t think twice about putting a rope round Finch’s neck, setting fire to Harris would be a stroll in the park.’

‘So why would he do it?’

‘Dunno. Maybe he’s worried about Harris grassing him up. He knows the bloke’s nicked for burglary and maybe he thinks he’s going to cop a plea. He knows Harris much better than we do and even we think he’s a greasy little shithead.’

Willard nodded and scribbled himself a note.

‘Anyone talked to Foster yet?’

‘First on the list this morning, boss. Yates and Ellis are down at the garage now.’

Faraday was reluctant to declare his own son a Misper but by nine o’clock, setting off for work, he was seriously worried. Not only had J-J failed to show at Highland Road yesterday morning but there’d been no sign of him since.

Faraday had got back from Phillimore’s at around ten last night. There was still half a slice of cold toast on the kitchen table and J-J’s bedroom was the usual shambles but there was no sign of the boy himself. Neither was there a note of any kind. J-J was as disorganised and chaotic as he’d ever been but he was normally careful to let his father know what he was up to. For obvious reasons, Faraday had always kept him on a tight leash, insisting that J-J keep him briefed on his movements, and old habits died hard.

From his desk at Highland Road, he called Anghared Davies. Gordon Franks picked up the phone.

‘I’m looking for my son,’ Faraday said.

‘Join the gang. Where is he?’

Franks had last seen him yesterday afternoon. He had been offered the use of a minibus all day today and J-J had offered to help him out on an expedition to the New Forest. They’d agreed to meet at eight. It was now 9.25.

‘I thought he must have overslept. I’d have rung but there’s no point, is there? He’d never hear the phone.’

Faraday was thinking about Phillimore, last night.

‘This Doodie …’ he began. ‘Is he around at all?’

‘Haven’t seen him for days.’

‘You know J-J was with him in the cinema?’

‘The ABC?’ Franks’s voice quickened. ‘When?’

Faraday explained about breaking in on Wednesday. Doodie seemed to have some kind of doss in there, not that he’d be silly enough to use it again.

‘You’re right. The kid’s really cluey. Never makes the same mistake twice.’

‘So where is he now? And where’s my bloody son?’

‘Pass. If I had some ideas you’d be the first to know.’ It didn’t help that Franks sounded worried.

‘You think we’ve got a problem?’

‘I think J-J might have. If he’s with Doodie.’

J-J had never been inside a house in Old Portsmouth before. Two decades in the city had given him a working knowledge of Southsea and the eastern suburbs but never this little enclave of cobbled streets and swinging tavern signs, of mullioned windows and thick oak doors.

He settled himself in a chair beside the bookcase, gazing out at the cathedral, wondering vaguely where Doodie had got to. They’d taken a cab from near the ABC where they’d stayed overnight and Doodie had let himself in with his own key. Did this fabulous place, with its shadowed nooks and crannies, belong to a relative? A friend? Some grand species of social worker? J-J simply didn’t know.

He sat back, leafing through an old copy of the
National Geographic
. Seconds later, Doodie was at his elbow. He’d found a bottle of wine from somewhere and a corkscrew but he didn’t have the strength to pull the cork. J-J gazed at the bottle. It was half past ten in the morning. Did the Persistent Young Offender project stretch to getting pissed this early?

He gave Doodie a look and shook his head, using his fingers to signal the letter ‘T’. There was an electric kettle downstairs in the kitchen, he’d seen it, and there’d be milk in the fridge. They could have a cuppa instead. Doodie ignored him, taking his hand and wrapping it round the neck of the bottle. His other hand, at Doodie’s insistence, found the corkscrew. Then, suddenly, the boy was gone – only to reappear seconds later with two glasses.

They were crystal, truly beautiful, and J-J watched the boy place them on the small occasional table with infinite care. The gesture, with its elaborate delicacy, made J-J laugh. He knew from Gordon Franks that Doodie couldn’t care less about other people’s possessions. He’d trash a car, or someone’s front garden, as casually as other kids would kick a ball. Yet here he was, auditioning for the part of a waiter in the drama of his dreams.

J-J beamed at him for a moment, then put the bottle between his knees, tightened his grip on the corkscrew and began to pull.

Bev Yates and Dawn Ellis waited nearly an hour before Kenny Foster turned up at his garage. An Aqua cab bumped down the rough path from the main road and Foster stepped out of the back. He was carrying a Jaguar sports bag and stood watching them for the best part of a minute until Yates and Ellis got out of their car.

‘You people make me laugh,’ he said. ‘Deep cover, is it?’ Yates looked him up and down. He and Foster had met a couple of times before and on neither occasion had Yates paid the slightest attention to Foster’s attempts at intimidation.

‘We’re cutting to the chase here,’ he said briskly, ‘because it’s fucking cold. Where were you last night?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Who do you think, dickhead? Me.’

‘You, pal? And why would that be?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Just do yourself a favour. Where were you?’

‘Isle of Wight. Ventnor. Pier Approach Hotel. Room 209. Give them a ring, pal, and ask for a barmaid called Nathalie. Nice French lady. Sweetest fuck imaginable.’

Yates was writing down the details. Then he glanced at his watch.

‘You’ve got a phone number?’

‘On the receipt.’ Foster put his holdall down and dug in the pocket of his denim jacket. ‘Here.’

Yates glanced at the receipt, then nodded at the garage.

‘Stick around. I’ll be a couple of minutes.’

He returned to the car and phoned the hotel on his mobile. The receptionist had been on first thing this morning and confirmed that Foster had checked out around seven. Asked whether she knew for certain that he’d stayed the night, she started to laugh.

‘How’s your French?’ she said. Yates pocketed the mobile. Foster emerged from the garage.

‘You haven’t answered my question, pal. Why the questions?’

‘Bloke died last night in a house fire.’ He looked at Foster. ‘Terry Harris?’

‘Wee Terry?’ Foster whistled softly. ‘My, my.’

Waterloo station was busy when Winter and Sullivan stepped off the Portsmouth train. They’d briefed the student to invent a story that kept Louise on the concourse for a couple of minutes. Maybe he should get her to check through the bag, make sure he’d remembered everything. Anything to give them a chance to approach her from the blind side. The last thing they wanted was the aggravation of a chase.

Louise was already waiting outside the Burger King. Sullivan spotted her first. She was wearing the same black puff a jacket but she had a yellow scarf wound round her neck and she’d dug her chin deep into the folds. She looked cold and apprehensive, her hands thrust into the pockets of the jacket, and she stamped her feet from time to time as she searched the crowd for the student’s face.

Winter and Sullivan disappeared behind the W. H. Smith bookshop, leaving the student to approach her from the other direction. By the time they arrested her on suspicion of conspiracy to murder, the student was on his hands and knees, the contents of the bag strewn across the concourse.

‘Twat,’ Winter said.

The student sensibly disappeared. Winter allowed Louise to put a call through to her uncle at the embassy. When she discovered that he’d already left for lunch, she began to cry. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was go back to Portsmouth. Couldn’t they talk here?

‘Trust us, love.’ Winter took the mobile and gave her arm a little squeeze. ‘We’re detectives.’ They took the next train back to Portsmouth.

Mick Harris turned up at Kingston Crescent police station just after one o’clock. Dave Michaels came down to talk to him. Harris demanded to know what they were doing about his twin brother. It was fucking obvious that someone had been round with a couple of gallons of unleaded and he wanted to know who. Michaels assured him the matter was under investigation. As a matter of interest, where had he been last night?

Harris took the question personally.

‘You’re putting me in the frame? My own fucking brother?’

‘No, my friend. I’m asking you where you were.’

‘At home. In bed.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yeah. You gonna do me for that? Only you guys are starting to get me seriously pissed off.’

Michaels reached for a pen and pad.

‘How do you spell pissed off?’ he asked.

By mid-afternoon Faraday was convinced that something serious had happened to J-J. At lunch time he’d driven home, searched the house room by room and even checked the garage. Finding no sign of him, Faraday had gone through his bedroom, turning everything upside down, looking for his cheque book and credit cards. They, too, had gone. His passport was still in the side pocket of his rucksack – some small consolation – but the little cache of French francs he’d been saving for emergencies had also disappeared. That and whatever credit he had on the cards wouldn’t get him very far but that wasn’t the point. By now the image of Doodie had begun to preoccupy Faraday, not least because of Phillimore’s input when they’d settled down and talked last night.

At first the priest had been guarded about the boy. It really wasn’t his business to do Faraday’s work for him and there were confidences that he, Phillimore, was obliged to respect. Nonetheless, it was incontestable that Doodie had severed the mooring rope that ties the individual to society. His father had become a stranger. His mother had given up. His teachers had begged for his exclusion. And so there was no one – no agency, no individual, not even the saintly Anghared – whom Doodie regarded as anything but a traitor. The child was on the run behind enemy lines. He trusted nobody. Five years earlier, in Phillimore’s opinion, he might have been diagnosed autistic. In five years’ time he would in all probability be behind bars. But for now he was one of those rare creatures who simply didn’t know the meaning of either restraint or fear.

Faraday had pressed him to explain further. Fear of what, he’d asked, and Phillimore had stepped across with the bottle, emptying the last of the Medoc into Faraday’s glass. Fear of consequences, he’d said. Fear of authority. Fear even of gravity. Doodie’s tale of going off the Round Tower was probably true, not simply because he had courage and lots of it, but because he just didn’t care any more. Kids like Doodie were shown the game of life and there were a million people more than eager to spell out the rules. But then it dawned on Doodie that he didn’t have to play this game, didn’t want to play it, and at that point he stepped into a different world, utterly removed, utterly surreal.