One Under (25 page)

‘She’s my daughter.’

‘Is she in?’

‘Yeah, she’s upstairs with the baby. Is that your car out there?’

‘No, I walked.’

‘OK. You’d better come in.’

She stepped aside, checking along the street before shutting the door and yelling Donna’s name up the stairs. Winter found himself in the adjoining lounge that ran the depth of the house. He’d never had a taste for squirly carpets or oversized aubergine sofas but the room was spotless. On the mantelpiece, flanking the repro carriage clock, was a line of tiny silver trophies. Winter peered at them. The most recent date was 2002.

The woman was back, asking him if he wanted tea.

‘Yours, are they?’ Winter was still looking at the trophies.

‘No, love, they were Roman’s. He played regular in one of the local darts team. He was always good at darts, my hubby.’

Winter said yes to tea, then sank into the sofa. The widescreen TV was tuned to
Casualty
but the sound was off and Winter had to guess at the plot. A bunch of medics hurrying a trolley through a pair of swing doors made him think of Suttle again, and he was still fighting the temptation to give Critical Care a ring when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

‘Donna?’ He looked up.

She was standing in the open doorway. The baby couldn’t have been more than a couple of months old. She held him on her shoulder, patting him gently on the back.

‘What’s this about? Mum says you’re the Old Bill.’

‘Mum’s right. Paul Winter’s the name. Good to meet you, Donna.’

She hesitated a moment, uncertain what to do next, then the baby nuzzled the side of her neck, gurgling with delight. Winter stepped towards it, hand outstretched.

‘He’ll spew next. I’d keep your distance, if I were you.’

She was right. Mum appeared with a length of kitchen roll, mopped up the damage, then took the baby. She’d bring Winter’s tea when she’d got the cake in the oven. Winter watched the door shut behind her, then turned back to Donna. She was barely out of adolescence - slim, freckled, nice eyes. Like her mum, she wore slippers on her bare feet.

‘You live here, do you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s his name then? The baby?’

‘Justin.’ She reached down for the remote control and switched the TV off. ‘D’you mind telling me what this is about? Only I’m supposed to be getting myself ready to go out.’

‘Of course. You want to sit down?’

She shook her head, then changed her mind and perched herself on the edge of the armchair next to the sofa.

Winter explained about Mark Duley. Donna might know that he’d been found dead. There was a criminal investigation into the circumstances and Donna’s name had surfaced in connection with the history workshop Duley had been running. Winter had simply come to check the facts.

‘About Mr Duley?’ Donna seemed to relax.

‘Yeah.’

‘He was terrific. In fact he was brilliant. Me, I’ve always been crap at all that history stuff but Mark made it really interesting. He was cool too. We liked him. We all used to chat loads afterwards. Real shame he … You know … ’

‘How long had you been doing the workshop?’

‘All year. Since September last.’

‘Was this to do with college or something?’

‘No, I never bothered with college.’

‘Why then? Why were you doing it?’

‘Because … ’ She began to pick at a nail. ‘Why do you want to know all this?’

‘Because I’m nosy, Donna. You get a case like this, and you want to know everything about everybody.’

‘But how can all this stuff help? Why aren’t you talking to someone else in the class?’

‘Maybe I am.’

‘Yeah? Like who?’

The door opened. Winter’s tea had arrived. Donna’s mum, sensing the atmosphere, asked her daughter if everything was OK. Donna was about to shake her head but Winter got there first.

‘I’m interested to know why your daughter was going to the history workshop, Mrs Werbinski.’

‘Oh?’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Tell him, Don. Go on. You should be proud of yourself.’

‘I just fancied it.’ Donna shrugged.

‘No, you didn’t. Tell him about your dad.’

‘Yeah? But what’s that got to do with him?’ She nodded at Winter.

‘Doesn’t matter, Don. There’s no harm in it.’ She turned back to Winter. ‘My Roman passed away a couple of years back. He was Polish, like me. He always told Donna that your birthplace is precious. You should get to know as much as you can about it, and you know why? Because one day it might be too late. I don’t know whether Don took any notice of her dad at the time but when this workshop thing happened I told Don all about it. So off she goes because I’m always on at her, and then what happens? She loves it. Not just that, but it turns out that this Mr Duley can teach her Spanish. Donna’s got her heart set on the travel business. She wants to work local first, then maybe be a rep when the little one’s a bit older. Doing the Spanish would have helped no end. Except the poor man’s dead.’

Winter nodded. So far, so good. Now, he thought. Before Mum disappears again.

‘Is there a Mickey Kearns in the class?’ he enquired.

‘Mickey?’ Mum was hooting with laughter. ‘You have to be joking.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He wouldn’t go near a teacher if you paid him. He hated school. Every minute of it. Not that it’s spoiled his chances, mind. Doing OK, our Mickey. Let’s just hope Donna sees some of it.’

‘Mum … ’ Donna didn’t want this to go on.

‘No, but it’s true, isn’t it, love? Mickey’s doing OK, better than OK. You seen that motor he’s driving? Big black thing? Most kids round here are pushed to afford a bike. Not Mickey.’

‘Mum … just shut it, eh?’

‘Don, you’ve got to stand up for yourself. The gentleman’s interested. You’re bettering yourself. Just like Mickey. You’re trying to get out of this shithole. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

In the kitchen the baby had started crying. Donna was out of the door in seconds.

Winter sipped at his tea, enjoying the conversation.

‘Mickey’s baby?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Shame it didn’t last but then nothing does these days, does it? They still see each other, like, just for a drink sometimes, and I think he bungs her a few quid though she never says anything.’

‘So how do I get to find the lad?’

‘No idea. He’s all over the place.’

‘You don’t have an address? Mobile number?’

‘No. Donna’s probably got his mobile. Ask her.’

‘I will.’ He smiled. ‘Do you happen to know whether Mickey ever met Mark Duley?’

‘Yeah, he did. Definitely.’

‘When?’

‘Months ago. In fact it was here, in this room. Mickey was after someone who spoke Spanish, something to do with some business phone calls he was making, and Don told him about their teacher, this Mr Duley. He came round like, skinny bloke, nothing to him - nice though, real live wire.’

‘And he helped Mickey out?’

‘Must have done.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos him and Mickey went off together somewhere, West Indies, I think - the Caribbean, somewhere like that. Got on like a house on fire, Don said.’

‘What were they doing there?’

‘Dunno. You’d have to ask Mickey. He hasn’t been around for a bit. Don might know where to find him.’

‘Was this recent though? This trip of theirs?’

‘Oh yeah, yeah. Where are we now? July? Must have been the month before last, round May time. They didn’t hang around at all, just a couple of days, quick in and out, according to Don. She got a postcard from Mickey. Showing off he was. Wrote it in bloody Spanish.’ She hooted with laughter again, then reached for Winter’s empty cup.

‘You want another one, love? Only I made a pot.’

Winter shook his head, aware of the low murmur of Donna’s voice next door. She must be on the phone, he thought. Moments later, Donna reappeared from the kitchen. She had the baby on her shoulder again, swaddled in a blanket this time.

‘I need to talk to Mickey Kearns.’ Winter gave the baby a tickle under his chin. ‘Your mum says you’ve got a number.’

‘She’s wrong.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. I had it once but God knows where it is now. Plus he’s always changing phones.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Dunno.’ She shrugged. ‘You’d have to ask him.’

‘So where does Mickey live?’

‘With his mum.’ She named the road.

‘You’re sure about that? Only we had blokes round there last night and there wasn’t any sign of him.’

‘So?’

‘So something tells me he’s dossing somewhere else.’ Winter smiled at her. ‘Do us a favour, Donna. Are you going to help me with Mickey Kearns or not?’

‘I can’t,’ she said woodenly. ‘Because I don’t know anything.’

Winter held her gaze until she turned her head away. Her face had begun to redden. Guilt, thought Winter. Or anger.

‘Listen, love. This is a murder enquiry. Someone killed Mark Duley and we’re going to find out who. This kind of attitude can put you in court.’

‘Attitude?’ She was rocking the baby now. ‘What’s that about?’

‘Obstructing the course of justice. Sweet phrase. Think about it, eh?’

‘I gave you an address.’

‘You did, Donna, you did. And it’s useless.’ He produced his wallet and slipped a card into a fold of the baby’s blanket. ‘Obstructing the course of justice carries a decent sentence these days. Prison’s no place for young mums. Give me a bell when you’ve had a bit of a think, eh?’

He glanced across at Mrs Werbinksi, thanked her for the tea and made his way out of the room. At the front door, aware of Donna behind him, he hesitated a moment, giving her a chance to restart the conversation. When nothing happened, he opened the door.

‘Nice to meet you, love.’ Winter stepped into the gathering darkness. ‘Give Mickey our best.’

 

Faraday spent the evening at his PC, composing a long e-mail to Gabrielle. He’d attended a French conversation class years ago and maintained a basic feel for the language. France had always intrigued him, and the more he saw of it, the more fascinated he became. How could a country so physically close be so fundamentally different? How come the French had ended up with a thirty-five-hour week and the best food in Europe? Why did they seem to cherish the good things in life so much? He thought of Gabrielle in Thailand, with her urchin grin and her ceaseless curiosity, and when he looked again at the photos she’d sent it occurred to him that this might be a conversation worth having.

Hours later, with the big Collins dictionary open on his lap, he was still trying to put some of his thoughts into half-decent French when his mobile began to trill.

Caller ID said it was Winter. Curious, Faraday lifted the mobile to his ear.

‘Paul?’ Nothing. ‘Paul? Is that you?’ Silence.

 

Winter changed his mind, pocketing his mobile. He was still in Buckland, walking south towards the short cut that would take him to the top of Commercial Road. Three calls to taxi firms had failed to raise a cab. This time of night, on a Saturday, he probably had no chance. He quickened his step, telling himself that he was seeing things, that the big black 4×4 that had passed him a minute or so ago was just some tosser with nothing better to do, that he’d been going that slowly because of the speed bumps, that he was as brainless as everyone else on this estate. Whatever.

Winter tried not to brood on the mistakes he knew he’d made. Trusting his luck in Buckland, no backup, was madness. The girl, Donna, might turn out to be genuine enough, a New Labour advert for self-betterment, but she knew exactly what Mickey Kearns was up to, even though she seemingly hadn’t shared this knowledge with her mum. Either way, she’d probably been on the phone from the kitchen to summon help. I’ve got the Filth next door, asking a load of questions. Come and give us a hand.

Up ahead lay the turn that would take Winter into the short cut to the roundabout. Out amongst the traffic, there wouldn’t be a problem. He’d walk up through the busy shopping precinct. There was always a line of cabs waiting at the station. This rate, he’d be home by half nine. Sweet.

He thought about calling Faraday again, apologising for the earlier false alarm. He’d make a joke of it, put it down to loss of bottle, tell him he was getting paranoid in his old age, but in the end he didn’t bother. Faraday had better things to do on a Saturday night than listen to some fat old bastard dribbling on about a bunch of inbreds.

The short cut led into what little remained of the old Commercial Road. This had once been Pompey’s backbone, a busy stretch of cobblestones feeding traffic north towards the mainland, but the city had long moved on, leaving this little cul-de-sac empty and silent in the gathering dusk. Winter eyed the big shadowed Georgian houses set back from the road. Charles Dickens had been born in one of them and the place now served as a museum. Dickens, as far as Winter knew, had left the city as a babe-in-arms. Wise man.

Ahead, Winter could see the loom of the big orange street lights beyond the tiny cut at the end of the cul-de-sac. He crossed the road, aware for the first time of footsteps behind him. Someone else, he thought. Heading out on a Saturday night.

Seconds later, no warning, a chokehold closed round his throat. Then came the black plastic bag over his head, pulled down tight. He tried to struggle, kicking out, flailing with his arms, outraged at the liberties these tossers were taking, but they were far too strong for him.

Somebody kicked his legs away, then he was being dragged backwards, struggling for air, his heels clump-clumping across the cobbles. The sharpness of the kerbstone on his ankles took him by surprise and he roared with pain. Dimly he thought he caught the rumble of an approaching motor. Next came a squeal of brakes. Someone mentioned his name. Someone else laughed. He tried to struggle again but the fight had gone out of him. Then, as the darkness thickened, everything seemed to slip away.