Angels Passing (39 page)

Some nights, when Doodie had stayed over, Phillimore had found himself talking to the boy about his mother. Deep down, if you pressed hard enough, he’d admit he missed her, even loved her. Deep down, God knows, it might even be true. Once, a week or so back, he’d confided to Phillimore that he wanted to buy her a really good present. Invited to explain what that present might be, Doodie had said a destroyer, a big destroyer like the ones you saw in the harbour, lots of guns and missiles and a helicopter on the back. Something she could do whatever she wanted with. Take across the sea. Take somewhere where she could get brown and be happy. On her destroyer.

‘And you know what I asked him after that?’ Phillimore had said. ‘I asked him what
he
wanted to do. And you know what the answer was? He wanted to get big and really strong. He wanted to eat loads and go to a gym. And then, when it had all worked, he wanted to find the bloke and break his legs.’

‘Who? Break whose legs?’

Phillimore hadn’t a clue. In his view, Doodie had lost his grip completely, swapping some childhood fantasy for real life. That’s why the boy needed help. That’s why he’d been happy – no,
obliged
– to offer him sanctuary.

Faraday wasn’t convinced. There was another interpretation here, infinitely more cynical, and the more Faraday thought about it, the more likely it became. Doodie wasn’t stuck in some childhood time warp at all. On the contrary, he’d discovered the kind of freedom that can only be recognised by someone who has made a clean getaway, by someone who has stepped out of society and found himself in a world ungoverned by any constraints. Not loyalty. Not respect. Not compassion. And certainly not – as Phillimore had rightly concluded – fear. Clinically, there was a word for people like Doodie. They were psychopathic, and that made Faraday very nervous indeed.

Phillimore, inevitably, had disagreed. If they were talking psychology, he’d said, then Doodie was addicted to extremes: to shoplifting, to vandalism, to housebreaking, to the spray can, to the kind of wild public adventure that had taken him to the top of the Round Tower. Anything to attract attention. Anything to get himself noticed. There was potential in that kind of behaviour, the possibility of goodness, of redemption, and it was wholly wrong to stuff him away in a box and label it ‘psychopathic’. There were too many boxes in the world and too many labels, and if the experience of Angola had taught Phillimore anything, then it had to do with the infinite potential of the human spirit. Drag a child out of a minefield, bandage up what remained of his legs, and he was still a human being, still capable of the most incredible achievements. Doodie, he’d insisted, was like one of these kids. Maimed, yes. But not beyond salvation.

The evening had ended in stalemate, a polite agreement to disagree, but half a day later the policeman in Faraday, and the parent, was only too aware of what someone like Doodie was capable of. He’d seen these kids on countless occasions with their pale, dead eyes. They looked like figures from some black and white newsreel, refugees from a long-forgotten war. Damaged, yes. But terrifying, too.

Louise Abeka was only too happy to accept the Custody Sergeant’s offer of the Duty Solicitor. Hartley Crewdson was duty that day, an experienced defence lawyer with a substantial reputation in front of the magistrates. He’d built a successful criminal practice in the north of the city, hoovering up offenders from the Paulsgrove and Leigh Park estates, and brought a sharp dress sense and a flamboyant personal style to the dowdy world of the bench. Winter had known him for years and had always sensed an unspoken kinship. Both men had a talent for interpreting the rules to their own advantage. And both men understood the distinction between means and ends.

‘She’s in the shit, Hartley.’ Winter had cornered Crewdson outside the interview room. ‘Maybe not from our point of view but certainly from hers.’

He outlined events to date. There was strong circumstantial evidence to suggest that she’d been pressured by Kenny Foster. An affair with Foster wasn’t a proposition that any woman would take lightly. If you were silly, naive, or strong-minded enough to blow him out, then you risked certain consequences. And those consequences, in Winter’s opinion, had flagged the path to Hilsea Lines.

‘She needs to be frank with us,’ he concluded. ‘You’d be amazed how nice we can be sometimes.’

The interview started twenty minutes later. Winter hadn’t a clue what Crewdson had said to his new client but the transformation was remarkable. The defensiveness, the glint of panic in the eyes, had gone. Instead, if anything, she looked relieved. Stuff to get off that magnificent chest. A chance to sort out the last chaotic month or two.

‘You want to start when you met Finch?’ Winter gave her an encouraging smile.

Louise thought about the question. She was under caution, the tape decks were running and the clock was on.

‘It was like I told you the first time,’ she said at last. ‘It was the summer. He kept coming into the café. We met there.’

‘And?’

‘We talked a lot. He got to know when we weren’t too busy. When Mr Galea wasn’t there, we’d have tea.’

‘Who was buying?’

‘Me, always me. I didn’t care.’

‘You liked him?’

‘I felt sorry for him.’

Winter glanced at Sullivan and grinned. Sympathy for this stray who’d wandered in from the cold. Exactly the way Winter had called it.

Louise went on. She and Bradley had started going to the beach together on her days off, and on one occasion they’d taken the hovercraft to the Isle of Wight. Then, round October time, Bradley had suggested a trip to London. She’d said yes because she didn’t go to London very often and she’d just got a cheque through from her father in Lagos. They’d seen a favourite band of Bradley’s in Shepherd’s Bush and it had gone on longer than they’d expected. The last train back was at a quarter to midnight and they hadn’t bothered.

Winter stirred.

‘So what did you do?’

‘We found a place, a cheap place.’

‘And stayed?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded.

‘Together? One bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that was the first time?’

‘Yes.’

There was a long silence. Sullivan was praying that Winter wouldn’t push it any further. Louise Abeka was class. You didn’t ask a girl like this how it had been.

‘So how was it?’

‘It was fine. Like I said, not too expensive.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘No?’

Crewdson shot Winter a look. Winter put the question a different way.

‘Regular boyfriend? After that?’

‘Yes.’ She looked down at her hands.

‘At his place?’

‘He didn’t have a place.’

‘He moved in with you?’

‘Not really. He often stayed over but he had other places too.’

‘Like where?’

‘He’d never tell me. Apart from his nan’s place.’

‘You think he went with other women?’

‘I don’t know. He said not. He …’ She frowned. ‘It was so hard with Bradley because he was like a little boy sometimes. So obvious.’

‘Obvious how?’

‘His lies. He lied all the time.’

‘And you didn’t mind that?’

‘Not really. I knew when he was doing it. I knew every time. Like he’d tell me sometimes he had a son, a little boy, but I knew that wasn’t true. He had no one.’

‘He had a mum,’ Sullivan pointed out. ‘We met her.’

‘No one who loved him, though.’

‘You loved him?’ Winter again.

Louise was still looking at Sullivan. Then she ducked her head, refusing to answer the question.

Winter pushed the story onwards. Christmas came. Louise and Finch swapped presents. She gave him a ring and he gave her a necklace of shells he’d picked up from a beach in Dorset. Nicked, thought Winter, as she described the Christmas dinner she’d tried to conjure from a microwave and a couple of battered saucepans. Then, in the New Year, the phone calls started.

‘From?’

‘His friend. Foster.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Me.’ She glanced at Crewdson and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and patted her arm, telling her to carry on. ‘Bradley had some pictures of me. I thought he’d been fooling with the camera. I didn’t realise there was film inside.’

‘What sort of pictures?’

‘Photos. Of me.’ She shrugged. ‘Naked.’

‘And he showed them to Foster?’

‘He must have. He said he hadn’t but he must have done. Some of the things Foster said on the phone he could only have known …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I was really angry with Bradley. I shouted. He could be so stupid.’

Winter scribbled a note to himself. She was right. Bradley Finch had been a very silly boy. Sharing those pictures with Kenny Foster had probably cost him his life.

‘So Foster kept phoning you?’

‘Yes, until I changed phones.’

Sullivan leaned forward. He wanted the numbers of her mobiles and Winter nodded in approval, remembering the crossed-out mobes in Louise’s address book.

Louise said she couldn’t remember them. By now it was late January, barely a fortnight ago, and Foster was beginning to pay her occasional visits.

‘I just wouldn’t answer the door,’ she said hopelessly. ‘I hid from him upstairs.’

‘What about the boys downstairs?’

‘They were never in. They never met him.’

‘Did he threaten you at all? Foster?’

‘No, not me. Bradley. He’d give me messages and tell me to pass them on.’

‘What kind of messages?’

‘He’d say how he wanted me for himself and if that happened he said I’d never go with Bradley again, and Bradley would know it. He scared me, that man. He really did.’

‘And Bradley? How did he react to all this?’

‘He kept saying it was just a joke. Everything was a joke to Bradley. He could be really childish. He just didn’t understand.’

‘A
joke?
Are you kidding?’

Winter was back in Foster’s basement flat hearing the woman’s voice next door; back in Captain Beefy watching Foster servicing Simone. He hadn’t been wrong. Foster really was a dog. Show him a woman like Louise Abeka and you’d start a war.

‘So what happened on Friday night?’

This time Louise shook her head. Even now, even after all this, there was something holding her back. Given what he knew of Foster, Winter wasn’t surprised. Self-preservation was a very good reason for suddenly going no comment.

‘You need to talk this through with your lawyer, love,’ Winter murmured. ‘I suggest a little break.’

He reached for the tape deck, announced the time and switched it off. Minutes later he found Hartley Crewdson down the corridor beside the coffee machine.

‘I suspect we’re talking witness protection,’ the lawyer said. ‘Is there somewhere quiet we can discuss this?’

Winter found an empty interview room. He shut the door. Louise was prepared to go on but only on the absolute assurance that she’d never set eyes on Foster again.

‘No can do,’ Winter said. ‘She’ll have to give evidence.’

‘Of course she will. That’s what I told her.’

‘We can talk to the judge about a screen. She need never actually see the guy.’

Crewdson shook his head.

‘She won’t do it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. She’s terrified of him.’

‘So how much does she know?’

Crewdson looked at him and then smiled and shook his head again. Even if he knew himself, there was no way he was letting on. There were lines in the sand here that even Winter shouldn’t ignore.

Winter glanced at his watch and then frowned.

‘Give me ten minutes,’ he said.

Outside, in the car park, Winter used his mobile to contact Dave Michaels. He outlined the problem and asked how Willard would view an undertaking not to produce her as a witness in court.

‘He won’t do it,’ he said at once. ‘I know he won’t. Witness protection, yes. Screens, by all means as long as the judge agrees. But if she’s got something to say then she definitely appears in court.’

‘That’s what I told Crewdson.’

‘And?’

‘She definitely won’t do it.’

‘So what happens next?’

‘I don’t know.’ Winter glanced at his watch. ‘The PACE clock’s still ticking. I’ll bell you later.’

Winter returned to the interview room. Louise was looking glumly at her coffee while Sullivan chatted to Crewdson about a recent Nicholas Cage movie. The moment Winter sat down, he started the tape machines again and announced the time.

Crewdson stared at him.

‘You’ve talked to someone?’ Winter nodded. ‘And?’

‘Witness protection, no problem. Screens, no problem. But she has to stand up in court. Assuming, of course …’ he gestured at the space between them ‘… your client has something material to say.’ He paused, looking from one face to the other. ‘You want us to leave you to it for a bit?’

Winter stopped the tape machines again and ushered Sullivan into the corridor. Moments later, they were back. Hartley Crewdson, for once, was looking apologetic.

‘No can do, I’m afraid.’

‘Your client’s told you what she knows?’

‘Broadly speaking, yes. In Miss Abeka’s own interests, I’m afraid it’s no comment from here on in.’

‘And that’s final?’

It was Louise who nodded.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It is.’

There was a long silence. Winter looked at his watch, started the tape again and then announced the interview suspended.

‘Suspended?’ Crewdson was frowning.

‘We arrested your client at 12.04,’ Winter said. ‘I’m afraid she’ll be with us for a while yet.’

Back out in the car park, Sullivan unlocked the Escort and got in. As they were nosing out into the rush hour traffic, Winter turned to him.

‘Mick Harris has a mobe, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve got the number?’

Sullivan stared across at him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Why?’

Twenty-five

FRIDAY
, l6
FEBRUARY
,
17.00

Faraday sat in Hartigan’s office, wondering what exactly lay behind the peremptory summons. The moment the door opened and Hartigan stepped in, he understood.

‘Simon Pannell,’ Hartigan waved at his guest, ‘from the
News
.’

Pannell was a youngish man, tall and bulky with a slight squint. He produced a biro and a small ring-binder pad and accepted a chair at the conference table opposite Faraday.

‘Simon’s masterminding a series of drug-related features.’ Hartigan slipped his jacket off and sat down, glancing at Faraday. ‘I thought it might be helpful if we were both here.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Hartigan turned to Pannell.

‘Joe’s been heading the Helen Bassam inquiry. If anyone can give you what you’re after, then Joe’s the man. He’s also been looking for a rather remarkable ten-year-old. Right, Joe?’

Faraday nodded, saying nothing. Pannell was consulting his notes.

‘Gavin Prentice?’ He looked up. ‘AKA Doodie? Lives rough? Doesn’t go to school?’

Faraday was staring at Hartigan. Where had all this stuff come from?

‘Joe’s drawn a blank on Doodie so far,’ Hartigan said smoothly, ‘which I think speaks volumes about life on the street. You’re right, Simon. This child is feral. And he may well be into serious drug abuse.’

‘What kind of drugs?’

‘Off the record? Heroin. Almost certainly.’ Faraday raised an eyebrow.

‘We can’t evidence that, sir.’

‘No, we can’t, Joe, but the girl Helen was using heroin and it’s a reasonable inference that the boy might have been into it too. They were certainly together the night she died.’

‘A ten-year-old on smack?’ The reporter was looking at Faraday.

‘I doubt it.’ Faraday shook his head.

‘But if this girl Helen was using heroin, then surely—’

‘But she wasn’t, Mr Pannell.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said she wasn’t using heroin.’

Pannell looked to Hartigan to clear up this sudden confusion. Hartigan had edged himself forward on the chair, his face a picture. First astonishment. Then alarm.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said she wasn’t using heroin.’ Faraday offered a regretful smile. ‘Sir.’

‘Then what did the tox give us?’

‘The night she died she’d stolen some tablets from a woman called Grace Randall. They were morphine sulphate. It’s a painkiller. It’s easy to confuse it with heroin on tox analysis but she wasn’t using smack.’

The biro was motionless. The reporter was looking at Hartigan.

‘Superintendent?’

Hartigan hesitated for a long moment, weighing the balance of advantage. Then he forced a smile.

‘Joe’s right,’ he said silkily. ‘Although in these cases it’s important that we explore every avenue. The outcome, of course, is the same. Heroin is diamorphine. The girl was off her head.’

‘But my editor mentioned smack before. In connection with the girl.’

‘Then I’m afraid he was wrong. It was morphine sulphate. Like Joe says, it’s a tricky judgement call, even for a forensic analyst, but a case like this is where we come in. The law hates ambiguity, Simon, and it’s our job to present the clearest possible evidence. Right, Joe?’

Before Faraday could reply, there was a knock on the door and Hartigan’s management assistant appeared.

Hartigan waved her away.

‘No interruptions, Annabelle.’

‘But Mr Hartigan—’

‘I said no interruptions.’

Annabelle retreated, closing the door behind her. The reporter wanted to know how many of these tablets the girl had swallowed before making it onto the roof.

‘The tox gives us thirty micrograms,’ Faraday said. ‘And she’d been drinking as well.’

‘Drinking what?’

‘Impossible to say. Alcohol, certainly, and lots of it.’

Pannell made a note, then looked up again.

‘So what makes a girl like that end up on a tower block, smashed out of her head?’

‘It’s an indictment, Simon,’ Hartigan said at once, ‘of the gravest possible kind.’

‘An indictment of what?’

‘Of society. Of the mess we’ve made for ourselves. And that’s the point, really. Unless we can get on top of all this, unless we can nip these problems in the bud, then there’ll be more Helen Bassams. And that, of course, carries certain cost implications.’ He paused, waiting for Pannell to write it all down. Instead, the reporter glanced across at Faraday.

‘You agree?’

‘Up to a point, yes. Mr Hartigan’s right. Society’s all over the place. Families are falling apart. But we’re policemen, not sociologists. It’s our business to deal in the small print, in individual cases. We’re there to connect particular sets of dots. Whether they form a larger pattern is down to someone else.’

‘And Helen Bassam?’

‘We simply don’t know. We have suspicions, of course. We know a certain amount about her background, about the people she mixed with, but this is pretty personal stuff.’

‘My editor gave me the impression this was going to be the full brief.’ Pannell was looking at Hartigan.

‘It is, Simon, it is. What Joe’s saying is that it’s tough being an attractive fourteen-year-old these days. Someone like Helen, the situation she was in, I’m not sure what anyone would do. Eh, Joe?’

Faraday felt the trap closing around him. On the one hand, a professional journalist paid to ferret out certain kinds of truth; on the other, a publicity-obsessed senior policeman with one eye on the next interview board.

‘Helen Bassam certainly had problems,’ Faraday conceded, ‘but in my view that’s not what this is about. Mr Hartigan’s right. Society’s a mess. In our job, we sweep up afterwards; in yours, there’s money to be made. If bad news sells newspapers, you’re all going to be very rich.’

Pannell put his biro down. Hartigan was looking visibly angry. Another knock at the door.

‘Come,’ Hartigan barked.

It was Annabelle again. This time, she was looking at Faraday.

‘It’s Cathy Lamb,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I think it’s really urgent.’

‘What do you think she could tell us?’ Willard was back at his desk in his office.

Michaels and Winter sat at the conference table, Winter consulting notes he’d made during the first interview with Louise Abeka.

‘I think she knows most of what happened on the Friday night, sir.’

‘And that would be enough to put Foster away?’

‘Definitely.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because he’s holding the full deck. Number one, he’s got loads of motive. He fancies the girl. Plus Finch’s pissed him off big time. We can evidence that on both counts. Number two, he’s got the track record. This is a bloke who settles every debt in blood. And number three, he’s got the opportunity.’

‘Except he wasn’t there.’

‘The alibi’s bollocks. They could have knocked the video up any time. A child can fiddle around with dates and times.’

‘Yeah, but can we prove it?’ Willard was tapping the end of his pencil on the desk. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

‘The girl can,’ Michaels pointed out. ‘If she’d only bloody talk to us.’

‘And you’re saying she won’t?’

‘That’s right, sir.’ Winter gestured at his pad. ‘She’ll take it up to last week. Then it’s the big no-no. I don’t know what he said to her but there’s no way she’ll go anywhere near him. We can buy her a new life, a new name, whatever, but it won’t solve the problem if we need her in court.’

‘Of course we need her in court. That’s where this thing begins and ends.’ He paused. ‘How much do we know about her background? She’s a student, isn’t she?’

‘That’s right, sir. Third year at the university. That’s why she stayed here after what happened. She had a big exam on Monday, then she went off to London. Now I gather she’s trying to negotiate some kind of deal on the rest of the course. She wants to go back to Nigeria and teach.’

‘Hmm.’ The pencil again, tap-tap. ‘OK, here’s what we do. Re-interview her. Give her an opportunity to talk about last week and suggest that she might be up on a Perverting the Course of Justice charge if she doesn’t. That might shift the logjam.’

Winter glanced at Michaels. Perverting the Course of Justice could carry life imprisonment. Nigeria might be further away than Louise Abeka thought.

There was the patter of running feet in the yard outside, and then the sound of car doors slamming. Willard was on his feet, peering into the gathering dusk. The first of the sirens began to wail as a squad car accelerated towards the road, then another.

‘Fucking cavalry,’ he muttered, sinking into his chair again.

Faraday was in the third car, wedged in the back between two uniforms. In his bleakest moments, he’d never once thought it would come to this. Cathy Lamb had taken a call from Mrs Randall at Chuzzlewit House. The little boy was back, the one who’d come with Helen. This time he had someone else with him – a tall man, very quiet, no hair. They’d taken her key and a bottle or two from her cupboard. And she thought they’d gone up to the roof.

It was barely a mile from Fratton police station to the flats. The squad cars squealed to a halt in the parking lot outside the main entrance and Faraday fought the temptation to lean over the lap of the man next to him, craning his neck upwards to steal a glimpse of the roof. There’d be plenty of time for that. He knew there would.

The uniforms pushed out of the squad car. To Faraday’s alarm, there were already two fire engines parked round the corner, their engines running. If it’s true that Doodie’s up there on the roof, he thought, then this circus will give him exactly the audience he’s always craved. Little tiny men in uniforms. Fire engines. Squad cars. And soon, presumably, ambulances. All because of Gavin Prentice. If you were looking for a rationale for years and years of vile behaviour, for breaking every rule and making umpteen lives a misery, then this was surely it. Add a couple of TV crews, and the tiny figure up there on the roof would soon be looking for an agent.

He peered upwards, feeling the first spots of rain on his face. It was nearly dark by now and it was difficult to be certain but he thought he detected movement against the blackness of the sky. Let it not be J-J, he prayed. Please God let, it not be J-J.

There was a touch on his arm and he turned to find himself looking at Cathy Lamb.

‘What happened?’ he muttered.

She went through it again. Grace Randall, number 131, had put a call through Faraday’s private line. Intercepted by the switchboard, it had come to Cathy’s desk. The old lady had explained about the little boy, the wicked one, and Cathy had begun to put two and two together.

‘You’re saying she mentioned someone else,’ Faraday said quickly.

‘She did. Some deaf guy.’

‘How did she know?’

‘She said he kept using his hands. She called it cat’s cradle.’

Cat’s cradle. J-J. Faraday made for the main entrance, Cathy calling after him. The incident was already in the hands of a uniformed Inspector. More senior officers were on their way. Access to the roof was tightly controlled. Faraday fumbled in his pocket for his warrant card.

The main entrance was chocked open, two PCs standing guard. One of them recognised Faraday and waved him through. Both lifts were way up the building so Faraday made for the stairs, taking them two at a time until his legs began to jelly. By the tenth floor, he was gasping for breath. He slowed, checked the lift again, then headed upwards. There were little knots of residents standing in the corridors, peering down at the activity below. Forcing himself up yet another flight of stairs, he felt his breath rasping in his chest. Floor 20. Floor 21. The numbers began to blur. At last, dizzy with the effort, he made it to the twenty-third floor, sweat pouring from his face. One day, he promised himself he’d get fit. One day, he’d be in the kind of shape to deal with a crisis like this. One day.

As Cathy had warned, access to the roof was controlled. There was a Sergeant and another PC on the stairs. The Sergeant peered at Faraday’s ID, uncertain what to do.

‘Who’s out there?’ Faraday sucked air into his burning lungs.

‘A kid and someone older, sir.’

‘How much older?’

‘It’s dark. I’m guessing. Twenty?’

‘Tall?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Have you tried to talk to him? Has anyone?’

The sergeant nodded. Both he and the PC had done their best to get them down but neither would play ball. He was now awaiting instructions from his Inspector.

‘Down?’ Faraday felt a deep, deep chill.

‘They’re up on the parapet on the retaining wall, sir.’ He glanced at the PC and motioned him aside. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

Faraday climbed the last flight of stairs to the roof. The door was open, the night air suddenly cold on his face. Lines of washing criss-crossed the roof space, flapping in the wind. Absurdly, he wondered why no one was getting all this stuff in. The rain was getting heavier by the minute.

He began to circle the roof, peering upwards. The retaining wall was eight, maybe nine feet tall. He’d scaled it before, exactly a week ago, using the metal grille that permitted a view of the city on all four sides. It hadn’t been easy for him. How come a ten-year-old had managed it?

He didn’t know, didn’t care. All that mattered was J-J. He’d covered two sides of the square now, finding nothing, then suddenly he saw the figures outlined against the pale remains of the dusk. J-J was unmistakable – tall, thin, gawky. He had both arms stretched wide, the way you’d walk a tightrope, and every time the wind blew and the washing flapped he’d sway from side to side, fighting for his balance. Beside him, running up and down the parapet, was another figure, infinitely smaller. Doodie, Faraday thought. He’d turned real life into the drama he craved and now he was the superstar of his dreams.

Faraday closed the distance between them, moving slowly. He was aware of figures behind him, of bursts of conversation from police radios, but his world had narrowed to the figures on the parapet above. There was no way he could reach Doodie without climbing the walls. If he was to get between the kid and J-J, between Doodie and this unfolding disaster, then he had to be up there on the parapet with them.