Turnstone (13 page)

‘How did you know?’

‘You can tell. I talk to them all. I don’t make a great thing about it. If they don’t want to chat, that’s cool. But this guy did. And he wasn’t happy.’

‘Any idea why not?’

‘No. We talked about sailing mainly. He’d done his arm in and he was going to miss out on the Fastnet. But he wasn’t really concentrating on what he was saying. He was miles away most of the time. Totally wound up.’

‘Where did you take him?’

‘Port Solent. You want to know where exactly?’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘I could take you there but no way have I got the address.’

Faraday drove Decker to Port Solent. The most expensive houses lay to the north of the yacht basin, a minute’s drive from the entry roundabout. At the end of a cul-de-sac, Faraday found himself looking at a spacious executive house with an adjoining double garage.

He glanced over at Decker.

‘Here?’

‘Yep, and the boat was right behind the house, tied up like. You could see the mast.’

‘Boat?’

‘The boat he’d been crewing on. The boat that was doing the Fastnet. He told me the name but it’s gone.’

‘Marenka?

‘Dunno. Could have been.’

‘Wait here.’

Faraday got out of the car. A narrow walk-through led him down beside the garage. Beyond it lay an empty wooden pontoon which served as a private mooring. Faraday peered up at the house, looking for signs of life, but no one answered when he knocked on the big patio door. He turned and looked out at the view. Beyond the forest of masts, he could see the row of tinted office windows above the Mexican restaurant where the marina’s management were headquartered. Nelly Tseng, he thought, and her ever lengthening list of trashed motors.

Back beside his car, Faraday at last checked in his notebook, flicking through the scribbled entries he’d made earlier in the hospital ward in Plymouth. Charlie Oomes,
Marenka’s
owner/skipper, had a house here. Seven, Muscovy Drive.

Faraday looked up. The big brass seven beside the hardwood door broadened the smile on his face. So what was the boat doing back in Port Solent on Friday? When, according to Oomes, they’d never left Cowes?

He bent to the open car window. Decker appeared to be asleep, so he reached in and gave him a shake.

‘Name of the road?’ he queried.

Decker opened one eye.

‘Muscovy Drive,’ he confirmed, ‘and I gave the geezer a card in case he wanted a ride back later.’

Back at the police station, early evening, Faraday found Cathy Lamb sitting alone at a table in the social club. Within seconds, it was obvious that she was drunk. As best she could, she told him the bad news about Nelly Tseng – that she was about to lodge a formal complaint with the Chief Constable – and then insisted on buying him a double Scotch to celebrate.

‘Leave it to the Chief,’ she kept saying. ‘His problem, not ours.’

Faraday explained the latest developments in the Maloney case. He needed to be sure that his memory of the conversation with Oomes at the hospital was correct.

‘He definitely said the boat never left Cowes last week. Isn’t that right?’

Cathy was staring into the middle distance, her eyes glassy.

‘She’s a probationer,’ she said at last. ‘From Fareham nick.’

Faraday remembered the girl at Pete Lamb’s bedside. A probationer was a recent recruit to the force.

‘You’re pissed love,’ he said. ‘I’m asking you about Charlie Oomes.’

Cathy did her best to concentrate.

‘He said they were in Cowes all week. Yeah.’ She nodded. ‘That’s definitely what he said.’

Faraday watched her take another long swallow from her glass.

‘Get a grip, Cathy,’ he said softly. ‘This is important.’

‘Got a grip, sir.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Surprise me.’ She peered at him and then nodded. ‘He definitely said they never left Cowes.’

‘Then he was lying.’

‘Or the taxi bloke got it wrong.’

‘Sure, but he seemed pretty certain. And anyway, we can check when we do the house-to-house.’

‘Oh yeah, when?’ Cathy frowned. ‘Are we talking major inquiry here? Incident room? The whole caboodle? Only if we’re not, you just might get shitty about the overtime. Like last week. And the week before. Or had you—’

She broke off, staring across the room at a woman who’d just come in. She was small and pretty. She was wearing a thin blue cotton zip-up jacket over a white blouse, and when she turned her head, scanning the bar, Faraday recognised the face at Pete Lamb’s bedside.

Finally, she made her way towards the table. Faraday’s arm went out, steadying Cathy as she tried to get up. The girl was right beside them now, and looking up, Faraday could see how nervous she was.

‘Can I have a private word?’

Faraday rose at once to leave them, but Cathy beat him to it. Lungeing across the table, she caught the lapels of the jacket in both hands then pulled the girl’s face hard towards her own forehead. Faraday caught the briefest scent of perfume before the girl twisted her body, sparing her face, catching the force of the headbutt on her shoulder. Glasses crashed to the floor with the table. The bar went quiet, then erupted with roars of applause. By now, the young probationer was wriggling free from Cathy’s crushing bear hug and running for the door. She was faster than Cathy, and probably a good deal fitter, but Cathy had been saving herself for this one moment for the best part of a day and no way was she going to let her rival go.

The double doors at the end of the bar crashed open. Faraday, in hot pursuit now, heard the clatter of footsteps on the concrete stairs beyond. The social club was on the fourth floor. Obscenities echoed around the stairwell as the women spiralled downwards. Cathy was back in her native Paulsgrove, all self-control gone.

‘Fucking slag,’ she was screaming, ‘fucking whore.’

The route to the street took them out through the car park. At last, on the apron of tarmac at the front of the police station, Cathy finally caught up, trapping the younger woman against the brickwork.

‘This is going to hurt,’ she gasped, ‘and afterwards you’re never going to see my husband again.’

She went for the girl’s face again, the heel of her hand this time, but the girl ducked and suddenly they were down on the tarmac, bodies intertwined, struggling for advantage, the classic playground brawl. Faces had appeared at windows immediately above them. Passers-by had paused to watch. A bus lingered at the stop across the road.

Faraday did his best to separate them and then stepped aside as a burly uniformed sergeant ran down from the front office. He stared at the two women, still flailing at each other, then glanced at Faraday for guidance.

‘Cathy’s not too well,’ he said wearily. ‘Leave it to me.’

He put the young probationer from Fareham in a taxi, and drove Cathy home. She was crying, humiliated and angry with herself, and when Faraday pulled up outside her house he could see in her face that it was the last place she wanted to be.

‘Come back with me, Cath,’ Faraday suggested. ‘You can kip in the spare room.’

She looked at him a moment, grateful as well as surprised, then shook her head.

‘You must think I’m a head-case,’ she said.

Without waiting for an answer, she got out of the car and began to walk unsteadily towards the front door. When Faraday wound down the window and tried to call her back, she waved him away.

It was dusk by the time he got home. There were no lights on in the house and until he went upstairs he assumed that J-J was still out. Then, passing his son’s bedroom, he saw the envelope pinned to the door. The envelope had his name on. Faraday ripped it open. The note was as brutal as it was brief. J-J had made a mistake coming home. He should have stayed in France, which was why he’d taken the afternoon ferry back to Caen. He’d be in touch soon. Love, J-J.

Love J-J?

Faraday read the note again, making sure he hadn’t got it wrong. Angry now, he pushed the door open, finding the bed stripped to the mattress and both rucksacks gone. He stared at the discarded sheets, at the single sock the boy had never had time to pack, then his brain began to work again. Why this sudden decision? And where had J-J got the money from?

Another door gave on to the study they’d shared together. He stepped through it, standing in the gloom, staring up at the empty shelf. All nine volumes of
Birds of the Western Palearctic
were missing, doubtless flogged for a song to some second-hand shop. Just enough to pay for the ferry fare. Just enough to make good his escape.

Faraday gazed at the empty shelf a moment longer, then went downstairs again. He still had J-J’s note. He read it one last time and then tore it into tiny pieces. If this was what the boy wanted, if this was the best he could do after all those years together, then so be it.

Thirteen

For once, Faraday ignored the overnight prisoner list. It was five past nine in the morning. Half a dozen officers, uniformed and CID, had gathered in the empty social club for the daily update, but Faraday wasn’t interested in warehouse burglaries and a particularly violent affray outside a Southsea nightclub.

‘Port Solent,’ he said. ‘Muscovy Drive.’

Cathy Lamb sat beside him, listening to his brief account of yesterday’s developments in what Faraday now termed ‘the Maloney inquiry’. A pair of sunglasses hid the worst of the swelling around her right eye, and the scratch marks down her cheek weren’t as bad as she’d first feared. Even the smell of the social club – cigarettes and stale beer – made her want to gag.

‘House to house,’ Faraday ended. ‘Any address with line of sight to number seven. That’s front
and
back. We’re interested in comings and goings on Friday afternoon, and we’re especially interested in a yacht that was allegedly tied up round the back. OK?’

He was looking at Dawn Ellis. She and Cathy were to handle the house-to-house inquiries, while Paul Winter held the fort back in the CID room, getting to grips with the mountain of other crimes that were still awaiting attention.

Winter stirred. Ignoring Faraday, he looked across at Cathy Lamb.

‘No disrespect, skip.’ He touched his face. ‘But wouldn’t
you
be better off back here?’

Cathy shook her head and began to answer but Faraday stepped in.

‘I want Cathy on the ground,’ he told Winter. ‘She’s up to speed on the Maloney case and Dawn has a line to the management up there. It’ll do them good to see us buckling down to a bit of serious coppering.’

Winter stared at him. He normally had no trouble hiding his real feelings, but this time something in Faraday’s tone of voice had really got to him.

‘Tell me,’ he began. ‘This Maloney business. Is it a private party, or can anyone come?’

Faraday ignored the gibe. He wanted Cathy and Dawn Ellis at Port Solent as soon as possible. The quicker they started knocking on doors, the quicker they might turn up something worthwhile. He gathered his papers and stuffed them back in his file, then looked at the watching faces.

‘OK?’ he said.

Winter cornered Cathy by the staff notice board as she was on her way out of the building. Dawn Ellis was already warming up the unmarked Escort outside.

‘Something I never mentioned back there,’ he said. ‘Your friend Vikki Duvall.’

‘You mean Elaine?’

‘Yeah. She’s operating out of Port Solent now and she’s not a million miles from Muscovy Drive. Look for a house with yellow curtains.’

‘I thought she was still in London.’

Winter shook his head.

‘She made a packet there but got sick of the Arabs. Port Solent’s ideal. Good class of punter and nice place to live, too. She’s driving a Megane convertible, by the way. You might look for that, too.’

Cathy filed the information away. Through the window she could see Dawn looking at her. She knew Winter too well not to ask the obvious question.

‘Is this a freebie? Or are there strings attached?’

Winter looked briefly hurt, then shook his head.

‘It’s for you, skip.’ He sighed. ‘I’d have mentioned it earlier but the pillock never listens.’

Back in his office, Faraday lifted the phone and dialled the number of the local intelligence officer. The LIO manned a desk in the CID room. Faraday gave him three names to run through the Police National Computer: Charlie Oomes, Derek Bissett and Ian Hartson. He wanted details of any criminal records they might possess, plus any other information. Waiting for a response, he found himself looking at Bibi, Bevan’s secretary. Kate Symonds, the journalist from
Coastlines
, was downstairs at the front desk demanding five minutes of his time.

‘
Demanding
?’

‘That’s right.’ Bibi rolled her eyes. ‘And she seems to think you’ll thank her for it.’

The LIO had finished accessing the national computer. His inquiries had drawn a blank on all three of the entries he’d typed in, but two of the names had triggered a personal memory.

‘The man Bissett, sir,’ he said. ‘What kind of age is he?’

‘Mid-forties, I’d say, but I’d be guessing.’

‘Do you happen to know what he does for a living?’

‘No, why?’

‘We had a guy up at HQ at Kidlington. Same name. He bailed out early and joined a bloke called Charlie Oomes. Oomes ran an IT company. We bought a couple of systems from him.’

Faraday reached for a pad. The officer on the Intelligence Desk had come to Portsmouth North from the Thames Valley force.

‘Tell me more about Bissett,’ Faraday said. ‘What did he do before he went?’

‘He was an inspector, I think. Worked in one of the service departments.’

‘Which one?’

‘IT,’ the LIO replied. ‘Just a thought.’

Cathy Lamb had a minute or two alone in the car before she crossed the road to tackle Elaine Pope. Dawn Ellis was already busy in the next cul-de-sac, working slowly outwards, house by house from seven Muscovy Drive.

Swivelling the rear-view mirror, Cathy examined her face. She’d spent half the night boxing up Pete’s possessions, surprised at how much they seemed to have accumulated over the years. She’d made a separate pile of his clothes, bundling them into black plastic dustbin liners, and before she’d driven to work she’d left them in the doorway of the Sue Ryder shop in Fareham High Street with a note telling them to help themselves. Later in the day, she intended to phone the Fareham nick and leave a message for Pete. Her ex-husband had always been keen on secondhand shops.

Ex
-husband?

She gazed at herself in the mirror. It was easy to be strong in this kind of mood, easy to parcel up eleven years of marriage, give the house a good Hoovering and tell yourself that things could only get better, but she was too wise, and too level-headed, not to believe that the going was bound to get tough. There’d be times, lonely times, when she’d miss him. There’d be evenings when she’d want to sit him down, pour him a drink and generally make a fuss of him. That’s what so much of their marriage had been about, snatched little moments in two busy lives when they could shut the door on the world and just be themselves. But those days, those moments had gone. They hadn’t been enough for him and in consequence he’d looked elsewhere. As with so much in her life, it was simple logic. The marriage was over.

Strangely heartened, Cathy readjusted the mirror and got out of the car. Elaine’s scarlet Megane was parked on the apron of hard standing behind the house with the yellow curtains, just the way Winter had described. From the front of the property, as far as Cathy could judge, she’d have near-perfect line of sight to the waterside frontage of Charlie Oomes’s place, less than a hundred metres away.

She crossed the road and followed the path to the front door. She’d known Elaine Pope since she was a kid. They’d lived within streets of each other in Paulsgrove, gone to the same scuzzy school, and in their separate ways they’d both battled out of the estate to make a better life for themselves. As far as Cathy had been concerned, that was definitely going to be the police force, but with Elaine Pope the options had been infinitely wider.

In an awkward, skinny kind of way she’d always had good looks, but the moment she hit adolescence it became obvious that she was going to be a stunner. Of five kids, she was the only one to have been fathered by the Swedish sailor with whom her mum had fallen in love. People on the estate had called him Blondie but he’d only stayed long enough to make Elaine’s mum pregnant, and the day after she broke the news he’d disappeared back to sea. As far as Cathy knew, no one had seen him since, but the calling card he’d left behind – young Elaine – had inherited both his temper and his startling looks. Blonde, long-legged, and far too passionate for her own good, it was small wonder she’d earned enough to buy a pad like this.

When she answered the door, she was still wearing a dressing-gown. Cathy hadn’t seen her for nearly three years, but London had done nothing to tarnish her looks. The same flawless complexion. The same perfect mouth. The same habit of theatrically widening those cornflower-blue eyes when she was taken by surprise.

‘Cathy? Cathy Lamb?’

They talked in a big upstairs sitting room while Elaine rustled up toast and coffee. They both knew that there was business to be done but for the time being, like any women anywhere, they simply compared notes. Good times. Funny times. Bad times. A marriage as familiar as an old sweater, wrapped in a bin liner and left in a shop doorway that very morning.

‘Shit.’ Elaine shook her head. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It was my own bloody fault. He must have been up to it for months, years probably. Fancy being that blind in my job.’

‘Your face OK?’

‘Fine. You should see hers.’

Elaine laughed her rich Pompey laugh. Three years in Holland Park hadn’t quite eradicated her Paulsgrove accent and at moments like these it came muscling back.

‘Men are lunatics.’ She ground out her third cigarette. ‘Fuck ’em all. What you doing?’

Cathy had gone to the window and seemed to be studying the view.

‘There’s a couple of questions I need to ask,’ she said, ‘about Friday afternoon.’

Faraday had left Kate Symonds waiting downstairs for more than half an hour while he talked to the Royal Ocean Racing Club people in London. As organisers of the Fastnet, they’d returned to their St James headquarters, and now they were sorting out documents for the official inquiry. Faraday wanted names and home addresses for Oomes, Bissett and Hartson, prior to arranging interviews, and when they faxed the information down he was surprised to find that it included next-of-kin. Charlie Oomes’s main residence was on the Thames, west of Maidenhead.

The information filed away, he finally went downstairs to meet Kate Symonds at the front desk. When she insisted on somewhere private for them to talk, he swiped her into the station through the locked side door and took her up to the empty social club, settling her at a table by the window. She said no to his offer of coffee and told him at once why she’d come. In her view, Bevan had been offensive to the point of professional suicide during their last meeting. Answering the summons to return to the office was only one of the reasons she’d felt obliged to leave.

‘Professional suicide? Bit strong, isn’t it?’

‘You were there, Mr Faraday. I’m not making this up. Describing someone you’ve nearly killed by mistake as scum isn’t great PR.’

‘Scum?’ Faraday looked puzzled. ‘I don’t recall that.’

Symonds dug in her bag and passed over a long white envelope. Faraday could feel the shape of the audio cassette inside.

‘That’s a copy.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve still got the original.’

Faraday was thinking fast. An expression of outrage would be wasted on this woman. She was too ambitious, too driven to think of anything but her next precious headline. Whatever Faraday said would simply become part of the story.

‘Are you taping this as well by any chance?’ he inquired.

‘No.’ She pulled open her jacket. ‘Search me if you want.’

‘OK.’ Faraday nodded towards the door. ‘Then I suggest we widen the discussion. Mr Bevan’s office is along the corridor there.’

‘I’d prefer not.’

‘Why? It’s his call, not mine.’

Symonds leaned forward over the table. Faraday didn’t move. In certain lights, he thought, she might almost be attractive.

‘We’re in a competitive business,’ she said softly. ‘It would be nice to steal the odd advantage.’

‘Steal is a good word.’

‘Just a phone call from time to time.’ She ignored the sarcasm. ‘And maybe the odd meeting.’

Faraday tried to hide his smile. The irony was too obvious.

‘You’re asking me to become a grass?’

‘No, I’m asking you to compare notes.’

‘That’s what the briefing was supposed to be about.’

‘Hardly, Inspector. I came in good faith. All I got was abuse.’

Faraday said nothing. Then he picked up the envelope again, weighing it in his hand. Bevan was in deep enough trouble with the media already. The after-shocks of the Harrison shooting were still rumbling on and quite soon he’d have to deal with the results of Pete Lamb’s blood test. Add the possible consequences of last night’s punch-up – two policewomen brawling in public – and Kate Symonds might just’ be right. There comes a point in any man’s career where the liabilities can tip the balance against him. Given Bevan’s already volatile relationship with HQ, it might be wise to spare the world the contents of the audio tape.

Faraday got to his feet, pocketing the tape. Symonds reached for her bag.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Faraday grunted.

‘Is that a yes?’

Faraday smiled for the first time, shepherding her towards the door, saying nothing.

*

Back in his office, minutes later, Faraday took a call from Cathy Lamb. She was still with Elaine but she’d hit a problem.

‘What is it?’

‘She won’t talk without you being here.’

‘Why not?’

‘She wants some guarantees. From someone more senior than me.’

‘Ah …’ Faraday nodded. ‘Has she got much to say?’

‘I think she may have, yes.’

‘How come?’

‘Charlie Oomes is one of her clients.’

Faraday drove to Port Solent. Cathy met him at the kerbside, and briefed him before leading the way back indoors. There were two potential hiccoughs. One was obvious. Elaine made a good living from her services and wasn’t keen on interference from either the locals or the Inland Revenue. The other was more personal. Like a doctor or a lawyer, she had objections to discussing her clients, especially when it concerned a head-case like Oomes.

‘Is that her description?’

‘Yes. Apparently he pays good money but she says he can be difficult.’

‘How come?’

‘Strange tastes. She wouldn’t go into it but I don’t think four hundred pounds a pop buys him tea and sympathy.’

Cathy led the way indoors. Elaine was busy in the kitchen so Cathy took Faraday straight upstairs.