Blood And Honey (8 page)

‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Did you take those?’

‘My son, most of them.’ Faraday sank into the chair at the desk. ‘Tell me what’s brought you here.’

Webster took a final look at the photos, then leaned forward, almost conspiratorial, and told Faraday
about a call he’d taken late yesterday afternoon. The CID intelligence cell for the island was housed in Shanklin but all IoW informants were managed by the divisional handling unit under the stewardship of a mainland-based DS. One of the thoroughbreds in his stable was a 23-year-old small-time thief and occasional drug dealer. Gary Morgan was local to the island, lived in a basement flat behind Sandown station, and had a story to tell.

‘What was he offering?’

‘Information on a bloke called Pelly. Rob Pelly. He runs a residential home for oldies in Shanklin. Been known to us for a while.’

‘Form?’

‘No convictions, nothing to speak of, anyway. But plenty of other stuff.’

‘Like?’

‘Like rumours about people smuggling, bringing asylos in, maybe gear too. He goes abroad a lot; owns far too many properties for someone legit – loads of DSS places in Shanklin and Ventnor. According to people in the know he has a bit of an attitude problem, likes a drink, throws his weight around, doesn’t care who he pisses off. You can imagine how that goes down, place like the island.’

‘So what did Morgan say?’

‘He said that this Pelly character had a huge run-in with another lad, back end of last year, something to do with one of the old dears at the home. Apparently the lad’s her grandson. He comes across a lot and often pays her a visit.’

‘Comes over from where?’

‘Here. Pompey.’

Faraday pulled a pad from a drawer. Every inquiry
worth pursuing began with a blizzard of names. Best to get them sorted.

‘Pelly runs the old folks’ home. Morgan’s the grass. This other guy … ?’

‘Chris Unwin. Apparently he drives a van for a living, delivers all kinds of stuff: Pompey, the island, London, the Midlands – you name it.’

‘And this row in the home? Where did Morgan get that from?’

‘He wouldn’t say.’

‘Was he there?’

‘The DS says not. Morgan must have a source in the home.’

‘So what happened?’

‘They were in Pelly’s office, the two of them. The door was half closed. After lunch Pelly’s often legless. This was late afternoon.’

Faraday was still waiting for the real thrust of the story, the reason that Webster had bought himself a hovercraft ticket.

‘So what happened?’ he asked again.

‘The two of them were screaming and shouting at each other. Then Pelly threatened to do him, sort him out, said he was a waste of space, deserved everything that was coming to him. At that point, someone intervened.’

‘Who?’

‘Morgan wouldn’t give a name.’

‘Do we believe him?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir. I haven’t met him yet.’

‘But you’re going to?’

‘Of course.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Half eight. Pub in Shanklin High Street.’ He paused, enjoying himself now, waiting for Faraday to put the obvious question. Faraday obliged.

‘So where’s Unwin now?’

‘Pass. No one’s seen him since October. Before that, like I say, he was in and out of the home a couple of times a month. Christmas was always extra special. His nan’s apparently off the planet but he’d bring her presents, plus flowers and booze for the staff. Never failed.’

‘And this Christmas?’

‘He never showed. Not a peep, not a phone call, card, nothing.’

Faraday sat back in his chair, struck again by what the inexplicably headless body should have told him from the start.

‘The pathologist’s report,’ he began. ‘She definitely found no injury marks?’

‘Nothing for sure. The bloke was blue all over, swollen – you know what they’re like. There was damage, obviously, but nothing that would hundred-per-cent put him in a crime scene.’

‘The head might have done that.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Faraday began to doodle a series of circles on the pad. Webster was looking at the bird shots again.

‘And Unwin’s age?’ Faraday enquired at last.

‘Late twenties, sir.’

‘Height?’

‘Around six feet.’ There was a moment’s silence, broken by Webster. ‘You’ll be wondering why I’m bothering you with all this. Only it occurs to me that my DI might be calling you lot in. Major Crimes. It’s a resource thing, I know it is.’

‘And?’

‘I was just thinking …’ He shrugged, embarrassed now. ‘… There might be times you’ll need local knowledge, someone who reads the island really well,
lived there all his life, knows the players, listens to the crack, all of that …’ He let the sentence trail off into silence.

Faraday stirred, giving nothing away.

‘And that someone … ?’

‘Is me –’ Webster smiled at Faraday ‘– sir.’

Sunday, 22 February 2004

Faraday happened on the invitation entirely by chance. Half past eight on a leaden Sunday morning, it was beginning to rain again. Consulting the BBC weather map on his laptop, he gazed at the long curl of an incoming front. By lunchtime, without a great deal of enthusiasm, he planned to be walking south on the coastal path that skirted the Purbeck Hills. Given the depth of the ugly, grey swirl of cloud, he’d be lucky to have dried out by dusk.

Abandoning the laptop, he was wondering whether he might tempt J-J to the movies when he noticed the unopened envelope poking out of the nest of mail in the shoebox beside his desk. Pompey postmark. Awkward, backward-sloping handwriting. His name misspelled, one too many ‘r’s. The letter had been addressed to the Highland Road police station and one of the reasons it had taken a while to make its way through the system was the lack of rank on the envelope. ‘Mr Farraday’, it read, ‘Detective’.

Inside the envelope, he found a single sheet of blue-lined paper. His eye went at once to the foot of the page: Gwen Corey, a name he didn’t recognise. Returning downstairs, he plugged in the kettle for another pot of tea. Then he read the letter.

The tone was apologetic. Gwen Corey was sorry to be writing to him out of the blue like this. She hoped
he didn’t mind the intrusion but her mum’s best friend had recently passed away and Gwen had been put in charge of a party to mark her going. The party was today. The deceased’s name was Grace Randall and she’d evidently left a list of invitations she wanted sent. One of these invitations had Mr Farraday’s name on it. Not only that but a little note beside it had instructed Gwen to make sure he came. ‘You’ll like him,’ Grace Randall had written. ‘How often do you meet a gentleman these days?’

Grace Randall? Faraday circled the kitchen, trying to sort through the ever-lengthening list of names thrown up by the drumbeat of recent inquiries. It had to be a job he’d done, had to be. A woman in her seventies, or older. Someone on whom Faraday had evidently left a bit of an impression. He tried to visualise the files in the bottom drawer of his desk at work: inquiries that had made it to court, jobs that the CPS had thrown out, still-open cases that awaited further attention. Then, for no reason at all, he had it. Grace Randall. 131 Chuzzlewit House.

Faraday had met her on day one of an inquiry that had very nearly killed him. A young teenage girl had thrown herself off the top of Grace Randall’s block of council flats and Grace herself had unwittingly provided one of the keys that had finally unlocked the case. Faraday could see her now, a thin, game, wheezy figure bent over a Zimmer frame, embroidered nightdress, pink slippers, little silver bells on the toes. She seemed to exist on a diet of ham sandwiches and Asda sherry. A big gas cylinder she hauled round the flat on a trolley forced oxygen into her heaving lungs, and her proudest possession – in a living room crowded with souvenirs – was the view from the window.

Up on the twenty-third floor, the view was sensational: the muddle of houses around the ancient bulk of the cathedral in Old Portsmouth, the dull green spaces of the Common, the sturdy sentry box of Southsea Castle, the tiny bathtub ships out on the tideway. Grace, it turned out, had spent her twenties and thirties as a singer on the big transatlantic liners out of neighbouring Southampton and had a treasured display of black and white photos on her drinks cabinet to prove it. That first time they’d met, Grace Randall been playing Puccini. ‘Come here, young man,’ she’d gasped, beckoning him towards the view, bent on explaining how the grand old Cunarders had slipped away to America, hogging the deep water over by Ryde Pier.

Faraday had returned to the flat a number of times, slowly piecing together the jigsaw to which Grace Randall held some of the parts, but until now it had never occurred to him that he’d been anything but a passing irritation in her life. Gentleman? He was intrigued, as well as flattered.

A little later, mid-morning, an email arrived from J-J. He’d got two complimentary tickets for a photographic exhibition in Chichester. His mate had called off and he could use a lift. How did Faraday fancy a couple of hours with some amazingly cool black and whites? Faraday, by now deep in the Sunday papers, declined. ‘Previous engagement,’ he tapped back. ‘Sorry.’

The Church of the Holy Spirit’s hall lay in the heart of Southsea, an area of terraced streets, second-hand furniture shops, Chinese takeaways and smoky street-corner pubs. Faraday at last found a parking space and did his best to avoid the worst of the rain. By the time
he pushed into the hall through the big double doors, it was already late afternoon and he was soaking wet.

The music engulfed him at once, a soupy wave of nostalgia. At the far end of the hall, up on the stage, a nine-piece band was belting out Glenn Miller numbers in front of a huge poster of the
Queen Mary
. Balloons hung in nets from the ceiling and pinboards on each side of the band featured more shots of the great Cunarder. Long rows of tables piled with food and drink lined each side of the hall and the space in between was a slow blur of couples dancing.

Faraday watched them from the doorway, aware of his anorak dripping onto the scuffed parquet floor. Gwen’s invitation hadn’t mentioned anything about fancy dress. How come he’d stepped into a 1940s time warp?

A woman in a striking green dress made her way towards him through the sway of dancing couples. A mass of frizzy grey curls framed a wide smile.

‘Mr Faraday?’ She had a broad Pompey accent.

‘How did you know?’

‘I’ve lived here all my life. Spot a copper a mile off.’ She extended a hand. ‘Gwen Corey. It’s nice of you to come.’

‘Joe.’ Faraday was looking for somewhere to hang his coat. ‘I’m afraid I’m underdressed.’

‘No problem. You need a drink. Come with me.’

She led him by the hand, back across the dance floor, acknowledging a series of fluttery waves. Most of the guests were in their sixties, some of them older, and they were plainly having the time of their lives. A makeshift bar beside the stage offered everything from spirits to a wooden barrel of real ale.

‘Or we’ve got cocktails if you’d prefer it.’ Gwen beckoned the elderly barman. ‘Charlie was in the First
Class lounge on the
Elizabeth
. The real thing. And a great friend of Grace’s.’

Charlie capped the introduction with a shy little nod. His velvet waistcoat had definitely seen better days but Faraday guessed it was probably original. He settled for a pint from the barrel, much to Charlie’s disappointment.

‘You sure I can’t fix you something stronger, sir?’

‘’Fraid not. Beer’s fine.’

The end of
American Patrol
sparked a cheer from the dance floor. Faraday, glass in hand, followed Gwen to a nearby table. She might have known him for years, a warmth all the more welcome for being so natural.

‘This is my mum.’ Gwen was bent over a frail-looking woman forking her way through a tiny helping of cocktail sausages and Russian salad. ‘Her name’s Madge.’

Faraday extended a hand.

‘Madge … I’m Joe.’

The woman peered up at him and smiled. The eyes were milky with cataracts but she had the complexion of someone half her age. Faraday began to say something inconsequential about the music and the fancy dress then became aware of a voice in his ear.

‘My mum’s been dying to meet you. She’s the one who knows all about you and Grace.’

Faraday looked round, but Gwen was already stepping back onto the dance floor as the band picked up a new beat. She gave him a little wave, then began to jitterbug with a man in white trousers and a striped blazer.

Faraday sank into an empty chair, Madge beside him. He felt like a stranger inexplicably made welcome at someone else’s hearth. There had to be a subplot
here, an explanation for these open arms, but he hadn’t a clue what it might be. He reached for his glass and took a long pull at the beer. Then came the gentlest of pressures on his other hand. It was Madge. She beckoned him closer.

‘Gracie thought the world of you.’ She was beaming now. ‘She used to phone me up after you’d gone. Just think what an impression you made.’

She nodded, part encouragement, part applause, the way you might be proud of a favourite son, and over the next hour or so, whenever the music permitted, Faraday began to tease out Madge’s story.

She and Grace had been childhood friends – same school, same church. Before the war, for a couple of summer seasons, Grace had gone to sea with the Cunard line. She’d been a skivvy first, then a waitress, and had finally caught the purser’s eye. She had a good voice, lovely figure, nice temperament, and one evening at an American family’s insistence she’d been given her chance onstage in one of the cocktail bars.

Then came the war and she was back in Southsea just like everyone else, scared out of her wits one moment, bored stiff the next. After the worst of the Blitz, the news had got slowly better. Soon you got to see Canadians and Yanks in the streets. Grace had found herself a GI from West Virginia, nicest manners, generous to a fault, but he went off to the west somewhere, Dorset, Devon, and that was the last anyone ever saw of him. Then the invasion happened, all those thousands of boats, and before you knew it Gracie was back on the liners, the
Queen Mary
this time, singing for her supper.