Turnstone (26 page)

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s important. Just do it.’

‘I’m scheduled to see Bevan this afternoon. Annual assessment.’

‘Then tell him you can’t make it.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘And you want me to tell him why?’

‘Absolutely.’

Even on leave, he was still a DI, still her boss. Get down to the hovercraft. Bring some handcuffs. He’d expect her within a couple of hours.

Reparking the car to give himself a better line of sight, Faraday settled down to wait, wondering what Hartson might be writing on his laptop. Was he still in touch with Charlie Oomes? Was it another draft of the feature film he’d researched? Or was there something buried amongst the debris of the past couple of weeks that Faraday had somehow missed? The longer he thought about it, the more convinced he became that summoning Cathy had been the right decision. One way or another, the next couple of hours would draw a line under the Maloney inquiry. If he’d got it wrong, if Hartson and the rest of them were indeed in the dark about their missing crew mate, then Faraday would have dug an even deeper hole for himself. If, on the other hand, this was the breakthrough he’d been praying for, then there might yet be some prospect of nailing Charlie Oomes.

To Faraday’s astonishment, Oomes himself appeared within the hour. Faraday caught sight of the Mercedes in his rear-view mirror as it coasted down the hill behind him and he recognised the bulky silhouette behind the wheel. Oomes drove past without giving the Mondeo a second glance. He swung the Mercedes on to the grass verge beside the houseboat and clumped aboard. He pushed the cabin door open without bothering to knock and then slammed it shut behind him. Minutes later, he was out again, carrying the laptop. He put the laptop in the boot of the Mercedes, locked it, then returned to the houseboat.

Faraday glanced at his watch. It was early afternoon and Cathy was due any time. He waited and waited, lifting the binoculars to try and tease some clues from behind those net curtains, but the sun was reflecting off the glass now and the explosion of white light through the lens gave him nothing more than a headache.

At last the taxi arrived. Cathy had obviously dressed for an important lunch date. She rarely wore a skirt.

‘This had better be important,’ she warned.

‘Says who?’

‘Says Bevan.’

Faraday gestured towards the line of houseboats and the red Mercedes parked at the far end.

‘Guess who,’ he said.

He started the Mondeo and drove slowly past the houseboats. Beyond the Mercedes, he turned the car in a cul-de-sac and then parked on the grass verge. With the engine off, Faraday could hear gulls again.

‘You’re serious about arresting these guys?’

‘Yep.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘Conspiracy to murder. The least I want out of it is the laptop – and the chance to search the houseboat.’

‘Do we have a warrant, by any chance?’

‘Of course not.’

Cathy gave him a last, despairing look and then got out. There was no plan beyond gaining access to the boat. She’d follow Faraday just the way she’d always followed him, and when things became a little clearer she’d enjoy a word or two of explanation. Bevan’s parting advice had been to take a precautionary can of CS with her. From the expression on his face, she half suspected that his target might have been Faraday.

Access to the houseboat took them over a couple of builder’s planks, laid side by side. The afterdeck was still littered with crumbs. Faraday hesitated for a moment at the door, then knocked twice and stepped inside. Cathy was right behind him.

Charlie Oomes was sitting behind the table, nursing a tumbler of Scotch. Recognising Faraday, he made no move to get up. Faraday began the formal caution. When he’d finished, Oomes lifted his glass in a toast.

‘You’re like one of my mum’s old records when the needle gets stuck,’ he said. ‘If you weren’t so pathetic, I’d think this was a joke.’

Cathy pushed past him, looking for Hartson. She disappeared through a door at the other end of the tiny saloon. Faraday heard voices. Then she was back again.

‘Come here, sir,’ she said urgently.

Faraday followed her into a tiny bedroom occupied almost entirely by a double mattress on the floor. Hartson was slumped against the pillows with his head in his heads. When he looked up, the lower half of his face was a mask of blood.

He showed no signs of recognising Faraday, but nodded just the same.

‘Hi,’ he said thickly.

Faraday bent to help him to his feet. Cathy had found a cubbyhole with a sink beyond the bedroom and returned with a wet flannel. As she reached to mop Hartson’s face, Faraday heard the stamp of heavy footsteps from the saloon, then the slam of the door as Oomes left.

‘Shit.’ He looked at Cathy. ‘Stay here. Clean him up. I’ll be back.’

Faraday was out of the bedroom in seconds. By the time he was up on the afterdeck, Charlie Oomes was back behind the wheel of the Mercedes, pulling it into a tight U-turn. As he accelerated past the houseboat, he turned to look at Faraday. His big, jowly face was twisted in a snarl of triumph and he had one hand raised, the middle finger erect. It was exactly the pose he’d struck on the photo Maloney had taken in the cockpit of
Marenka
. It meant more than the scent of victory. It meant that he’d won.

The Mondeo started first time. By now, Oomes was at the foot of the hill, stalled by a long queue of holiday traffic. Catching him up, Faraday reached down for his mobile. The sensible thing would be to phone for assistance. He needed a road block, extra hands, local knowledge. Instead, he dialled Oomes’s mobile.

‘Who is it?’

‘Faraday. You’re under arrest.’

Faraday watched as Oomes adjusted his rear-view mirror. He began to pull out to overtake the traffic queue, but an oncoming bus made him change his mind. Instead, he settled back behind the wheel. Faraday could suddenly hear music in the background.

‘Arrest, bollocks,’ Oomes said. ‘What is it with you, Faraday? Why don’t you just let it go? Like any other fucker would?’

Faraday didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He could hear the anger in Oomes’s voice but there was something else there as well, something close to weariness. Faraday seemed to genuinely puzzle him.

‘I’ve just cautioned you,’ Faraday said. ‘Pull over.’

‘No.’

‘It’s finished. Just do it.’

‘Fuck off. I’m going to see my old mum. You gotta problem with that?’

At the top of the hill, Oomes hauled the Mercedes on to the main road south, using his lights and horn to try and shift the endless convoys of family cars en route to the beaches, but few would budge. Holiday traffic clogged the roads at every bend and Faraday simply rode in Oomes’s wake, matching him move for move. Every time Oomes checked in his mirror, Faraday was there, three car-lengths back, happy to take the risks he took, happy to wait for the next development. It was a tactic calculated to test Oomes to the limit, and at Sandown his patience finally snapped.

Without warning, he plunged right, crossing the oncoming stream of traffic, and disappeared up a narrow lane. As soon as he could, Faraday followed. The road wound uphill, and he could see the scarlet Mercedes maybe half a mile ahead. At the top of the hill, set back from the road, was a white-painted mansion that Faraday first mistook for a hotel. Only when he turned in at the drive did he realise that Oomes had meant it about visiting his mother. ‘Vectis Nursing Home’, read the gold-lettered board beside the big brick pillars.

Oomes was already standing beside the Mercedes when Faraday pulled to a halt on the circle of gravel in front of the house. In an upstairs window, an elderly figure in a yellow dressing gown was peering down at them both. Her face behind the glass was a mask of rouge.

‘My mum,’ Oomes grunted. ‘Good for eighty-nine, eh?’

Faraday was looking at the Mercedes. The keys were still in the ignition.

‘Open the boot,’ he said.

Oomes shook his head.

‘No.’

‘Then I will.’

Faraday stepped towards the car but Oomes blocked his path, pale with anger.

‘You,’ he said, ‘are a fucking lunatic.’

A thick finger stabbed Faraday in the chest, then Oomes was on top of him, pushing him backwards, big powerful shoves. He felt the Mondeo’s bumper against the back of his calves. One more poke from Oomes and he’d be lying on the bonnet, totally helpless. When Oomes came forward again, he sidestepped to the left, catching the bigger man off-balance. Seconds later, Faraday had the Mercedes keys out of the ignition and was circling round the car on the blind side. Oomes met him by the boot.

‘Give me those keys.’

‘You’re under arrest.’

‘I said give me those fucking keys.’

There were more faces at the windows now. Dimly, Faraday heard the front door open. Then came the patter of footsteps and a sudden silence.

‘Mr Oomes? Is everything all right?’

Oomes didn’t answer. His eyes never left Faraday’s face and Faraday knew that violence, serious violence, was now inevitable. Charlie Oomes had reverted to type. Goaded beyond endurance, he’d become Ronnie Dunlop.

The first swing was wild and high. Faraday ducked it with ease, stepping in close, driving hard for the big man’s throat. Oomes twisted sideways, absorbing the force of the blow on his shoulder. At the same time, he locked his arm around Faraday’s neck, using his weight to force him to his knees.

‘I’m going to fucking kill you,’ he hissed. ‘You’re gonna regret you ever started any of this crap.’

Faraday was choking. Dimly, he could see the rear bumper of the Mercedes coming towards his face. Any moment now, Oomes was going to batter him to death on the back of his car. So much for heroic exits.

Inching his mouth open he forced his head down and then bit hard when he sensed flesh. Oomes bellowed with pain as Faraday felt the blood trickling into his mouth and he bit again, harder this time, until the pressure on his neck suddenly slackened. Wiping his mouth, he struggled to his feet and turned in time to parry a lunge from Oomes and then a wild kick that caught him high on his left thigh.

Oomes was breathing hard now, his face scarlet with anger, and he hurled himself forward, all restraint, all calculation, gone. Faraday waited until the bulk of the man was only inches away before trying to side-step him again but Oomes’s sheer bulk forced him to the ground.

For what seemed an eternity, they rolled around on the gravel, first Oomes on top, then Faraday. Twice Faraday thought he’d pinned him in an armlock but both times Oomes broke free. He was breathing harder and harder, his face scarlet, his hands desperate to choke the life out of his tormentor, but by the time Faraday heard the wail of the sirens, his strength was beginning to flag.

Moments later, he found himself looking up at a young uniformed policeman. Behind him, a circle of watching faces shuffled warily closer.

‘CID,’ he explained wearily, fumbling for his ID. ‘And in case you’re wondering, I’ve just arrested this guy.’

‘What for, sir?’ The policeman was examining the ID.

‘Conspiracy to murder.’

The nearest cloakroom was a couple of steps inside the front door. Faraday soaped his face and then gargled with cold water, ridding his mouth of the coppery taste of Oomes’s blood. Oomes himself had been bundled into the back of the patrol car and driven to Shanklin police station. Later Faraday would be pressing personal charges of assault, but first he wanted a look at Hartson’s laptop.

Opening the boot of the Mercedes, he lifted it out. With his back to the sunshine, he steadied it on the bonnet of his car and powered it up. The last file Hartson had used was tagged ‘
Fastnet
’, and the first page was dominated by a title in heavy italic script. ‘
Marenka
’, it read. ‘
The Truth
’. Faraday smiled, resisting the temptation to scroll any further. The file extended to thirty-eight pages. Hartson must have been working on it for days.

Faraday closed down the programme and slipped the laptop into his car. Closing the passenger door, he glanced up. The elderly woman in the yellow dressing gown was back at the window, gazing down at him. The moment their eyes met, she shook her head and turned away.

Before he checked in at Shanklin police station, Faraday drove back to Bembridge. Unless Hartson admitted that the laptop was his, its value as evidence would be zero. Whatever it contained.

When he got to the causeway, he parked in the Mercedes’ wheelruts and eased himself out of the car. Already his neck was stiffening, and Oomes must have kicked him harder than he remembered because his hip was beginning to throb. Stepping aboard the houseboat, he paused by the cabin door, wondering whether Cathy had found time for a thorough search.

The saloon, to his surprise, was empty. The tumbler still stood beside the bottle of Scotch but there was no sign of either Cathy or Hartson. Faraday reached for his mobile, meaning to ring her, when a woman’s voice came from the bedroom next door. It was a voice he knew. She was calling for Ian.

Faraday rubbed his neck, wondering whether the damage had been worse than he’d thought. He’d never believed in ghosts. Until now.

‘Ian?’ The voice came again. ‘Is that you?’

Very slowly, Faraday limped forward through the saloon. The door opened with a small sigh when he pushed it with his foot. For a moment he just stood there, rooted, then he stepped forward again. Ruth Potterne was lying full length on the mattress. Naked against the whiteness of the sheets, she might have been brought here from the empty space on Maloney’s wall. Exactly the same pose. Exactly the same message.

She stared at Faraday, then brought her knees towards her chin. It was a reflex movement, instinctive, defensive, fending him off.

‘Why you?’ she queried softly.

Twenty-Six

By seven in the evening, back in Portsmouth, Faraday had read Hartson’s file twice. His account of the events surrounding the loss of
Marenka
covered everything from his first meeting with Charlie Oomes to the afternoon nearly a week ago when he’d fled from his Chiswick flat. In terms of evidence – names, dates, even motivation – Faraday had rarely been so spoiled. But one question still haunted him.

‘Why her?’

The tiny interview room felt even more oppressive than usual. Faraday sat on one side of the table, Ian Hartson on the other. Hartson had waived his right to a defending solicitor.

‘Because she is who she is,’ he said simply. ‘Meet a woman like that and she changes your life.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. It’s impossible to say. Her face? Her eyes? Her conversation? Her body? The fact that you get it on? The fact that you can’t stop? The fact that you go to bed with a certain expectation, and then you find yourself blown away by what actually happens? I don’t know. You tell me.’

The invitation was rhetorical, Faraday knew it was, but the implications made him look away. Time and again Hartson had led the interview back to Ruth, to the strange spell she’d woven, not in a bid to shift the blame, but in an almost detached fascination with the chain of events that had led him from a London media career to a holding cell in a provincial police station. He’d fallen in love with the woman. They’d had an affair. And months and months later, it had led to this.

‘Who made the first move?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I did, by accepting Henry’s invitation to stay. She did, by being there. Stuff happens. It’s pointless trying to analyse it.’

‘But that’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? That’s what you said you wanted?’

‘That’s true.’ He nodded.

‘So answer my question. Who made the first move?’

Hartson sighed. His face had ballooned round the jawline where Oomes had beaten him up, but so far he’d had four paracetamol and the pain didn’t seem to worry him. Far more important was Ruth.

‘I did,’ he said at last. ‘It was around Christmas time, maybe just after. Henry had some kind of sale at the gallery and he wasn’t around a lot. He’d been kind enough to lend me his study at home. That’s where the reference was. He had Fastnet stuff coming out of his ears.’

‘And Ruth was there?’

‘Most of the time, yes. She’d bring me coffee, rustle up a spot of lunch. We found we liked the same food, the same books. We talked at first. That’s all. Just chatted. It was easy. And we laughed a lot, too.’

Faraday found himself nodding in agreement. He’d been there. Only a couple of days ago, in his own kitchen, he’d been there. Laughter was where it began. Laughter was the real aphrodisiac.

‘And then?’

‘Hard to say. It just grew. A kind of closeness. I can’t describe it. I felt I’d known her for years. I even used to talk to Henry about it. It was that innocent.’

That innocent
.

Was this what Faraday had stumbled on? The guilt-free murder? The slaying so hedged around with wonderful moments that it ceased to have anything to do with crime and punishment?

‘You cheated,’ Faraday pointed out. ‘She cheated on her marriage and you cheated on your friend.’

‘I know. That’s what was so unbelievable, so hard to grasp. It was never in the game plan, never what we intended. What we had was simple. It felt good. It felt whole. The last thing we wanted to do was hurt anyone.’

‘Maloney died.’

‘I know. I was there.’

‘He died because you lied.’

‘By omission, yes.’

‘Because you let Henry believe that Ruth was screwing Maloney.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you never told him otherwise.’

‘That’s true.’

Faraday leaned back, letting the implications sink in. It was no longer a question of formal admission. Already, earlier on the tape, Hartson had described in great detail exactly what had happened on the Friday afternoon before the race. How Henry had accessed the e-mail message on the passage over from Cowes. How he’d gone looking for Maloney and returned with a picture of his wife posing naked on a chaise longue. How Maloney had pursued him back to Port Solent, outraged in his innocence. And how Henry, maddened by drink and jealousy, had smashed an empty bottle of Glenfiddich over his head and sliced his face to ribbons with the jagged remains. Maloney had done his best to defend himself but a broken arm hadn’t helped. After the fight, there’d been blood and tissue everywhere. Even making a film about Ron Dunlop had never prepared Hartson for this.

Now, he was still tussling with the implications of what he’d done. Faraday shook his head, putting the record straight, his finger in Hartson’s face.

‘What you’d both done,’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘Does Ruth know about Maloney? What actually happened?’

‘Christ, no.’ He seemed startled. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Yes. As far as she’s concerned, he’s done a bunk. He was that kind of guy. Forever dreaming of the next affair.’

‘And she’d never …?’ He left the question unfinished.

‘No, God no. Not Maloney. If you knew Ruth at all, at
all
, you’d know there’d be absolutely no way.’

Faraday gazed at him. He was right. She’d never cheapen herself with the likes of Maloney. The silence stretched and stretched.

‘So what does that tell you about Henry?’ he said finally. ‘He seemed pretty convinced about Maloney.’

‘He was.’

‘And you didn’t bother to put him right?’

‘Not at all. Maloney was a smoke-screen, a cover for us. Henry was jealous anyway. He was just made that way. He didn’t really know Ruth, not the way I knew her. He couldn’t get close to her – and that simply made him more manic. The slightest symptom, he’d think the worst.’

‘You
were
the worst.’

‘No. That’s just it. That’s the paradox. We were the
best
. How come all this’ – he gestured at the tape machine, at the log, at the bars on the single window – ‘comes out of all that?’

At the custody sergeant’s insistence, they broke for forty minutes to let Hartson have something to eat. Faraday was under instructions to keep Pollock and Bevan informed of progress, but instead he stepped out of the police station and walked to Old Portsmouth. He wanted to be by himself. He wanted to know exactly what had happened to Maloney’s body.

‘We put him in a sail bag,’ Hartson said. ‘Big black thing. Have you ever tried doing something like that? It takes for ever.’

They were back in the interview room. Hartson’s swollen chin was smudged with ketchup.

‘The cabin would have been a mess,’ Faraday prompted.

‘It was. We did our best to clean it up on the way over to Cowes but you’re right. It was. I’d no idea. Absolutely none.’

‘No idea of what?’

‘No idea how much blood there is inside a human body. Henry must have hit an artery. The stuff was everywhere—’ He broke off, studying his hands. ‘You know something? I can’t look at kitchen roll any more. I can’t bear the sight of it. At home I had to throw them out. Ruthie had some on the houseboat.’ He shuddered at the memory.

Faraday pretended to make a note on the log. Ruthie, he thought. This man’s property. The little gem he’d spotted in his travels. The magical village way up in the mountains, hidden from view, undiscovered by the world. He’d moved in and made her his own. His, and his alone.

‘You got back to Cowes,’ Faraday said. ‘What did you tell Oomes?’

‘We cooked up a story about a tart, a young kid, a junkie down from Liverpool. Henry had screwed her for twenty quid. She’d tried to nick his credit cards. He’d had too much to drink—’

‘And
killed
her?’

‘That’s right. It happens. Believe me.’

Hartson sat back at the table, nodding. This is the way it would have been, Faraday thought. The older man, driven half insane by his own demons, and the cool young writer, cooking up an alibi to hide his own guilt. Hartson worked in the invention business. He invented people. He invented plots. Deep in his head, he may even have invented his precious Ruthie, with consequences he can never, for a second, have imagined. At some point along the way, Ian Hartson had confused real life with his own elaborate fantasies and this was the result.

‘What did Charlie Oomes say?’

‘He bought it. He wanted to do the race. That was what mattered. The last thing he cared about was some young skag-head who no one had ever heard of.’

‘And Bissett?’

‘He thought it was crazy.’

‘And criminal?’

‘Sure. But he went along with it in the end because Charlie made the decisions. On that boat, you either did what he said or you waved goodbye. Bissett couldn’t afford to wave goodbye. Not with the business and everything. Not with the opportunities Charlie had put his way. He was mortgaged to the hilt. He
liked
working for Charlie. And he liked the money, too.’

Bissett had been arrested at his home in Beacons-field. Like Charlie Oomes, he’d be available for interview later in the evening.

Faraday pushed the story forward.

‘Did the other two know? Sam? David Kellard?’

‘No. We’d stuffed the sail bag away in the forward cabin. There was no need to go in there, so there was no need for them to know. We were going to dump it at sea, just as soon as we could, the further out the better. There was anchor chain in the bag to help it sink, and a couple of old car batteries.’

‘Heavy, then?’

‘Sure. But Henry came up with a lift using a spar and the gennie halyard. We could have got it out through the forward hatch. No problem.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Sam and Dave never went to sleep. Not that first night. And Charlie wasn’t prepared to involve them. The second day we were on a long beat down to Land’s End and it all got a bit edgy. Sam and Henry were always having a go at each other. Sam was Ruthie’s boy. He resented Henry, always had done, and Henry knew it. They’d pick a fight over anything. What course to sail. How many tea bags in the pot. Anything. Being around them both was like the holiday from hell. You just wanted to hide.’

‘But on a boat like that?’

‘You can’t. There’s nowhere to go. You’re forever on top of each other. Plus you’ve got a body stashed away. Nightmare.’ He shook his head. ‘Total nightmare.’

A patrol car whined past on the dual carriageway outside, its two-tones slowly receding into silence.

At length, Hartson looked up. The light was fading now and Faraday was reminded of the evening he and Cathy had first interviewed him at his Chiswick flat. His voice was lower, his tone less certain, and Faraday wondered whether the consequences of what he’d done, of what he was saying, were beginning to dawn on him.

‘Maloney started to smell,’ he said. ‘Henry had locked the forward cabin but the smell must have got into the bilges. It was everywhere. You couldn’t avoid it. The cabin smelled like a butcher’s shop. Sam wanted to find out why.’

‘So he looked?’

‘Eventually. Charlie kept giving him jobs to do, silly jobs, stuff to keep him out of the cabin, but that only made it worse. Sam wasn’t stupid. He knew something was up and he wanted to know what it was.’

By now, they were closing the Lizard. According to the weather reports there was a storm on the way.

‘Sam and Dave were talking about putting in to Falmouth. I think they’d both had enough but Charlie wouldn’t hear of it. He said we were going on. We’d come to sail round the bloody Fastnet Rock, and that was that.’

‘What did you think?’

‘Me? I thought it was surreal. It was like being in some film, some movie. I couldn’t believe what was going on. In a way it was all logical. I knew the background. I knew exactly why everything had happened. Yet to end up on this tiny yacht, with a body up one end and a bunch of guys who were driving each other barmy at the other, was beyond belief. On top of that, there was this storm coming. I’m no sailor but you could almost feel it. There was something about the sea, the wind. It was like an animal, stirring …’

He fell silent again, contemplating that awful evening. Sam had gone to the heads and then broken into the forward cabin and discovered the sail bag under one of the bunks. He’d dragged it single-handed into the main saloon and unzipped it.

‘We were all down there except Derek Bissett. He was on the helm. Maloney’s face had gone black. I’ve never seen anything like it. Charlie went potty, absolutely potty.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Henry had lied to him. That was even more surreal. Charlie hadn’t seen anything wrong in getting rid of some girl Henry had shagged, some junkie, and I’m not even sure he’d have objected to dumping Stu. It was the fact that Henry had lied. He just kept yelling at him. Betrayal. That was the word he used. Henry had betrayed him. He completely lost it. He was completely off his head.’

‘How did Henry react?’

‘Henry had been out of it most of the day. It was my job to get rid of the bottles.’

Marenka
ploughed on. The wind backed to the south-east and the yacht began to ship the biggest waves over the port quarter.

‘That’s when Sam tried to send a Mayday. He thought Charlie was busy in the forward cabin. We’d chucked Stu overboard by now and Charlie was making Henry clear up the mess. While he and Henry were up forrard, Sam tried to get the call out. Charlie caught him and cancelled it. Then he put a rigging spanner through the VHF and dumped the flares overboard. That did it for Sam. He turned on all the gas jets on the stove and tried to set fire to Henry’s charts. Charlie doused them with a towel but it was chaos. They were just swinging at each other. Mad. Completely mad.’

Faraday remembered the state of Oomes’s face the morning after he’d been rescued. The damage had come from Sam, not the storm.

‘And this message he tried to get out? You’ve got a time?’

‘I’m not sure. It was coming on dark.’

‘No other boats around?’

‘Nothing close.’

Faraday grunted in agreement. According to the Pendennis Radio, the beginnings of the call had been received at 20:21. Within the hour, the wind had been blowing at gale force.