One Under (14 page)

The Detective Superintendent himself was there, folded invisibly into a corner by the door. He’d called Faraday into his office only minutes earlier, wanting an assurance that his DI was coping OK with the rising administrative pressure, and Faraday had assured Barrie that he’d be the first to know if the going got rough. Barrie had nodded, said he was pleased to hear it, but both men knew that this was a critical moment in
Coppice
’s brief history. Faraday, as Senior Investigating Officer, had to carry the enquiry forward. Ignore what might become a major lead, pile all your assets on the wrong square, and the consequences - way down the line - wouldn’t bear contemplation.

Now, Faraday was reviewing the list of vehicles captured by the city’s network of CCTV cameras. Analysis of tapes from the cameras covering Portsmouth’s northern approaches between three and four on Monday morning had given the Outside Enquiry Team over a hundred addresses to visit. There was no guarantee, of course, that the car reported by Mrs Cleaver had gone anywhere near Portsmouth afterwards. But in situations like these you had to start somewhere, and every detective in the room was praying for a hit on the existing list. If not, then Faraday would doubtless extend the search parameters, widening the investigative net to other destinations along the coast.

After the CCTV actions, Faraday returned to the body in the tunnel. In the shape of young Mark Duley, they at last had a name for the victim. The man was busy on the political fringe. His views had nearly landed him in prison. Two weeks ago, on Sunday 26 June, someone had given him a beating. Whether or not that incident was linked to his death in the tunnel wasn’t at all clear, but Jerry Proctor’s team was combing through his Southsea bedsit and while there was so far nothing of forensic interest, Proctor was already talking about a rich harvest of personal stuff. Over the coming days it would be the job of the Intelligence Cell to build a picture of Mark Duley. Only that way - by getting to know the man - would
Coppice
be able to piece together the web of motivation and circumstance that had taken him into the Buriton Tunnel.

Faraday paused, glancing across at Winter to see whether the DC had anything to add, but Winter shook his head.

Minutes later, the meeting over, Faraday caught Winter before he returned to his office. Their exchange on the phone still rankled but he knew how important it was to keep the DC behind his desk. The key to
Coppice
was focus, especially now they had a name. He wanted no ambiguities here, nothing to shadow what had to become a close working relationship.

‘We ought to have a drink one night,’ Faraday suggested. ‘What do you think?’

‘Sure … ’ Winter shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

 

Back home in Gunwharf, a couple of hours later, Winter knew he had a decision to make. He circled the flat, tossing up between a can of Stella or a glass or two of Bell’s. Finally, he settled for the Scotch, poured himself three fingers, then stepped out on the balcony. It was much colder than he’d expected, the wind gusting up from the harbour, and he went back for a pullover before returning to the chill night air.

A stone’s throw from the gleaming café-bars and themed restaurants of Gunwharf lay Portsea, a nursery for the city’s harder cases, and a mile beyond that you were back in the badlands of Somerstown. Winter had no time for socialism but you just had to look at the maze of terraced streets, at the crap post-war tower blocks, at the boarded-up chippies and rusting Transits, to realise just where the money ran out. Some of these people, he thought, have given up. For them, a lavish blowout in Gunwharf would never be more than a dream, a fantasy from the pages of one of Emma Cusden’s
Heat
magazines. Others, on the other hand, saw absolutely no reason why they shouldn’t help themselves. They could smell the money. They knew what it could buy. And one of them was doubtless Karl Ewart.

According to the Child Protection file, the boy had a basement flat in Southsea. Carol Legge had been there to talk to him about Emma and the baby. Ewart’s place was a tip, she’d said, shared with some other lads. None of them seemed to have regular jobs and the afternoon she’d knocked on their door two of them were still in bed. Dormice, she’d called them, tucking the file back in her bag.

Winter sipped at the whisky. If he was serious about Alan Givens, if he thought the man really had come to grief, then there were certain investigative steps he had to take. So far, he’d freelanced the enquiry, stealing what time he could, clambering into the orchard that was Somerstown and giving Emma Cusden’s tree a proper shake. To his delight, the apples had come tumbling down, but scrumping had its limitations and from this point on he had to be realistic. Pursuing the Givens enquiry was about to become complex and the truth was that he couldn’t do it on his own.

He thought about it a moment longer, leaning on the rail, knowing in his heart that he had to have an ally. Finally, he drained the Scotch and went back inside. He found the number in his address book. It took an age to answer.

Winter sank onto the sofa, suddenly wondering if this was such a great idea.

‘It’s me, boss,’ he said. ‘Paul Winter. That drink you mentioned … OK if I come round now?’

 

Winter had been to the Bargemaster’s House only once before, years back. His wife, Joannie, was in hospital, dying of cancer. He’d visited her on the ward most evenings and did his best to cope with the silence of the bungalow back home but this particular night Winter had lost his bearings completely. He had very few personal friends. Scotch could only blunt the pain. And so, very late, he’d driven down from Bedhampton and knocked at Faraday’s door.

Like a handful of other detectives with his length of service, he knew that Faraday had been faced with exactly this situation years earlier. His own wife, whose name Winter could never remember, had died of breast cancer when their nipper was only a baby. On division, with Faraday behind the DI’s desk, the two men had an arm’s-length relationship. But away from the Job, Winter told himself that Faraday would understand.

And so it had proved. At the time Faraday had been besotted with a woman called Ruth. Seeing Winter at the door, the state of him, she’d made her excuses and left. Winter, already pissed, had tried to camouflage the real reason for his visit behind small talk about stuff at work but Faraday hadn’t been fooled. After the second glass of Bell’s he’d told his boss about Joannie, about the bastard consultant who’d drawn a line through her life, about the sheer depth of his rage and bewilderment. Faraday had listened, sympathised, fetched another bottle. And hours later, when he phoned for a cab, Winter had felt a whole lot better.

Now, he knocked once again at the door. Nothing much had changed, he thought, except the garden. The sight of all those tomatoes, oddly enough, reminded him again of Joannie.

‘Come in.’

Faraday stepped back, closed the door, then led Winter through to the big living room at the back of the house. The last of the daylight was draining from the wide grey spaces of Langstone Harbour. It looked even chillier, Winter thought, than his own view.

Faraday had disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned he was carrying a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses.

‘Yes?’ He tipped a glass in Winter’s direction.

Winter nodded. Turning back from the view, he noticed a magazine open on the sofa.
Model Aircraft Monthly
.

‘I thought your game was birdwatching?’

‘It is. My son bought me a subscription for Christmas. Tell you the truth, I’ve only just started reading them.’

‘You going to take it up?’ Winter was flicking through the magazine. ‘Flying one of these things? Radio controls? All that?’

‘It’s a possibility. You can’t watch birds all your life and not wonder how it’s done.’

He poured a couple of glasses of red and settled in the chair across from the sofa. This was no-man’s-land, neither work nor something less formal, and neither man knew quite where the conversation might go next.

‘Cab again?’ Faraday nodded out towards the road.

‘Yeah. Five rides in any one day and you get a discount.’ Winter stretched himself on the sofa. ‘That’s a joke, by the way.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Faraday studied his glass for a moment. ‘Must be strange being back in harness.’

‘It is. Definitely. But then everything’s a bit odd, you know, when you’ve had to think too hard about the alternative.’

‘I bet.’

Faraday nodded. The last time he’d seen Winter before he fell into the hands of the surgeons was back last year. He’d been living with a startling-looking woman in his bungalow in Bedhampton, and Faraday - on a pastoral visit - had been impressed by his cheerfulness.

He mentioned it now. He thought the woman’s name might have been Maddox.

‘Spot on, boss. Lady played a blinder. Without her I’m not sure I’d have made it through. She was the one who found a bloke who’d sort me out but it was weeks and weeks before he could find me a slot and waiting for the phone to ring I wasn’t the best company. You know something about dying you never suss when you’re well? It’s such a
business
, it just drains you, completely knackering. Me, I’d bought all the bollocks about bunches of flowers and net curtains at the window, and half a dozen angels waiting on the lawn outside, but when you get down to it it’s not like that at all. Ask me what I remember and it’s the bottom of a plastic bucket. It was grey if you’re interested. Often with yellow bits floating around in it. Cheers. Here’s to Maddox.’ He shot Faraday a grin and raised his glass.

Faraday responded, wondering what else Winter needed to get off his chest.

‘Is she still around?’

‘Gone. Bless her.’

‘Do you miss her?’

‘Yeah. Big time. You cope though, don’t you, situations like that?’

Faraday nodded, turning his head slightly to look out of the window. You do, he thought. You do.

Winter, to the best of Faraday’s recollection, had flown back to the UK last summer. Someone had told him that the bungalow in Bedhampton had been on the market within weeks. By the time he’d been posted to Major Crimes, Winter was living in Gunwharf.

‘Did the move help? Getting out of the old place?’

‘Definitely. The moment I stepped back inside, it just felt wrong. It was like turning the clock back, like finding out the last month or whatever had never happened. I hadn’t been to America. I hadn’t had the operation. None of that stuff. No kidding, within a couple of hours I was getting the headaches again. Same bloody armchair. Same wonky door on the fridge. Same aggro from the neighbours about the state of the fence. In the end it got so bad I was looking up flights to Phoenix in case the bloke had left a bit inside. I’m not sure you can get a warranty with brain operations but I thought it was worth a try.’

Faraday laughed this time. Only Winter could turn the last year or so into a joke. He thought of the house again, the neat little bungalow on the slopes of Portsdown Hill.

‘Easy sale?’

‘Piece of piss. The agency put it on at two nine nine. Complete joke. Young bloke and his missus came along with a couple of babies, refugees from Wecock Farm. They’d had enough of living in a war zone and offered me two sixty. Two seven five, I said, and it was theirs. The agent gave me a right bollocking. Thought I’d lost my mind.’ His fingers strayed to his hairline where the surgeon had made the first incision. ‘Funny that.’

Wecock Farm was a newish housing estate up towards Waterlooville. Things had got so bad lately that some of the bus drivers were threatening strike action if they got another rock through the windscreen.

‘And Gunwharf?’ Faraday enquired.

‘A steal. Belonged to a friend of a friend. No way was I getting it for two seven five or anything like, not with those kinds of views, but money feels different after you’ve been through what I went through and it turned out there were ways and means.’ He grinned again. ‘Undercroft parking? Video entryphones? Uniformed security to keep the inbreds out? Six months of that and you start wondering how you ever coped before. Yeah … ’ He nodded. ‘Definite result.’

Faraday studied him a moment, then reached for the bottle.
Money feels different
, he thought. What exactly did that mean?

‘You phoned,’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Yeah.’ Winter extended his glass. ‘I thought we ought to talk.’

‘About what?’

‘About a bloke called Givens.’

‘Who?’

‘Givens. Alan Givens. He was on that Misper list of Tracy’s. I’ve been making some enquiries. Like you do.’

He offered Faraday the bones of the story. The guy had a regular job, kept his nose clean, never got in anyone’s hair. He lived alone, appeared to have fuck-all in the way of friends. Then, one day, he disappeared.

‘It happens all the time,’ Faraday pointed out. ‘It’s the way we live.’

‘Sure. You want to hear the rest of it?’

Winter told him about the state of the bank account, the series of withdrawals, the blizzard of season tickets that had dropped through Emma Cusden’s front door.

‘How do you know all this?’

‘I’m a detective. It’s in the job description.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I went round. Asked questions.’

‘You went round to Givens’ place?’

‘Yes. I thought he might be a runner for the tunnel.’

‘And that’s where you got the bank details?’

‘Last month’s statement, yeah.’

‘And this woman? Emma?’

‘She’s a girl, a tot, off the planet. The guy we should be looking at is the boyfriend.’

Winter told Faraday about Karl Ewart. The boy, he said, was on a nicking. Card theft at the very least. Possibly a great deal more.

‘Like what?’

‘Like homicide. Givens is a guy who’s just lost seven grand from his account. It’s nearly two months since he went missing yet no one’s heard a dickie, least of all the bank.’