Turnstone (5 page)

In the end it had been a friend’s suggestion that had taken him to the city’s Central Library. She’d faced a similar challenge and she recommended a particular bay on the second floor, three along from the photocopier. Faraday had found it in minutes. The middle shelf was full of picture books. About birds.

He’d brought them home by the armful – and early evenings and weekends had found Faraday and Joe-Junior sprawled in various corners of the study or the downstairs lounge, poring over shots of waders and warblers, of harriers and kites. The beauty of the house was its harbourside location. The view from the window was the pictures brought to life. Shelduck, mergansers, godwits, curlews, all real, all moving, and – as far as J-J was concerned, – all totally mute.

For the boy, though, that hadn’t mattered in the slightest. What he woke up to, what he pressed his nose against on cold winter mornings, was a world that belonged exclusively to himself and his dad. Faraday understood this, not because some expert had told him, but because he’d seen it in the child’s eyes, heard it in the strange, tuneless cackle that served for him as laughter. J-J loved his dad very much, and the birds – with their thousand different shapes, plumages, habitats, breeding patterns – were the messages they passed back and forth.

By the time J-J was ready to leave the special school and ride his luck with ordinary kids, those messages had become a language, expressive, flexible, capable of infinite nuance. When J-J made gannet wings, his arms arrowed back from his thin little shoulders, it meant that he was hungry. When Faraday posed as a heroin, one leg tucked up as he fought for balance in the middle of the kitchen, it signalled another trip to Titchfield Haven, a bird reserve along the coast where J-J had made special friends with the man who sold the ice creams.

By the boy’s eleventh birthday, Faraday knew he’d turned the numbing double-trauma of those early years – his wife’s death, his son’s deafness – into something infinitely precious, and to mark the occasion he’d bought J-J the first volume of the birder’s bible. The books were called
Birds of the Western Palearctic
. At £85 each they weren’t cheap, but nine birthdays later J-J had the full set on a shelf of his own beside the ancient roll-top desk. Even now, the sight of those books still gladdened Faraday’s heart.

*

It was later, when he was back in the house, that Harry Wayte phoned. For once, the Drugs Squad DI had no favours to ask. Instead, he just wanted to say thank you. The stuff they’d got from young Scottie was priceless. Red Rum was back on the rails for the gallop to the line and if things went well, then some of the credit belonged to Faraday’s team.

Faraday resisted the temptation to inquire further about Harry’s impending drugs bust. The thought of Paul Winter buying everyone celebratory drinks in the police bar turned his stomach.

On the phone, Harry changed tack.

‘Understand you’re up to HQ for interview tomorrow. Going for one of the MI Teams? Is that right?’

Faraday was watching a cormorant preening its feathers on a piling at the water’s edge. A posting to one of the force’s three Major Incident Teams was regarded as a plum assignment, though Faraday had his doubts.

‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘But it’s their idea more than mine.’

‘Don’t you fancy it? Pick of the good quality crime?’

‘Yeah, of course I do.’

‘What’s the problem, then?’

Faraday grunted something about management structures but refused to go any further. Harry began to laugh.

‘It’s true, then,’ he said. ‘The man who hates delegating can’t take orders either.’

Faraday didn’t reply, letting the conversation trail away. It was probably fair to say that he put too much faith in his own judgement, and it was truer still that he had little respect for most of his superiors, but this was neither the time nor the place to share confidences. Finally Harry wished him good luck and rang off. Faraday was still staring out of the window. The cormorant had gone.

Five

The fact that Scott Spellar phoned first thing in the morning was a good sign. He wasn’t pissed and there was nothing that Winter had yet come across to suggest that he was sampling the merchandise he delivered to Marty Harrison. No, the boy just wanted a meet.

Winter was up in his bathroom, having a shave. He named a big department store in the city centre and then glanced at his watch.

‘The coffee place is up on the top floor. Be there for ten.’

He wiped the foam from his mobile, returned it to the glass shelf under the mirror, and carried on shaving.

Scott Spellar was already in the store cafeteria by the time Winter arrived. The moment he sat down, he made it plain why he’d rung.

‘Someone’s nicked some money of mine,’ he said, ‘and I want it back.’

‘I’ve got it.’

‘How come?’

‘Safe keeping.’

‘You took it? Just like that?’

‘Yeah. Call it a favour, area like yours.’

Scott stared at him for a moment or two. He hadn’t shaved for several days and the shadow added years to his face. He looked pale and drawn, and the way his eyes kept flicking towards the top of the escalator spoke volumes about the state of his nerves. He could be a tout already, Winter thought.

‘How much was there?’ Scott asked.

‘Six hundred pounds.’

‘There was eight hundred on Friday.’

‘Are you telling me I can’t count?’

‘No. I’m just saying someone’s nicked two hundred quid of my money.’ He paused. ‘So where’s the rest?’

Winter reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket and laid the wallet on the table between them. Scott tore it open. Apart from his driving licence and a carefully folded photo of Steve Claridge, it was empty.

He stared at Winter.

‘Where’s the money?’

‘I’d like to talk about Marty Harrison,’ Winter said softly. ‘I’ve got a proposal that might interest you.’

The boards for the MIT job took place at police force headquarters in Winchester, and Faraday was very nearly late. A crash on the motorway at Eastleigh delayed him half an hour, and he sprinted the two flights of stairs to the ACCO’s office on the first floor.

There were three men waiting for him behind the big conference table. Henderson, the Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), waved him into the empty chair, accepted his apologies, and gave him a moment to get his breath back. With him were Detective Superintendent Pollock, Faraday’s CID boss, and a uniformed superintendent from Southampton.

Faraday produced a handkerchief and blew his nose, doing his best to get his thoughts in order. He’d got up to find another e-mail from J-J. His son was thinking of selling the return half of his ferry ticket. Did he mean it? Or was this just another step into fantasy land?

Across the table, Henderson was offering his congratulations on the speedy resolution to the Paulsgrove murder. One of the words he used was ‘exemplary’.

Faraday at last forced himself to concentrate.

‘We were lucky,’ he said. ‘The guy virtually gave himself up.’

‘Not the way we heard it.’ Henderson glanced sideways at Pollock. ‘Eh, Det. Supt.?’

‘It was certainly neat, sir.’ Pollock’s smile was bright with self-congratulation. ‘It just shows what you can do when you keep the channels open.’

Faraday stared at him, remembering the curt instruction on the phone and the tinkle of party voices in the background.

‘Channels?’ he queried.

‘Talking to each other. Sharing intelligence. Looking for synergies. Getting our act together, if you’ll excuse the
argot
.’

Faraday studied his knuckles in disgust. Pollock had a habit of spicing his conversation with little morsels of French. He owned a place down in the Charente somewhere and it was rumoured that Henderson was one of many summer visitors.

Henderson was looking hard at Faraday. Two years on the fourth floor hadn’t quite robbed him of his street instincts.

Taking his cue, Pollock leaned forward over the desk.

‘What’s the matter, Joe?’

‘Nothing, sir. Except the kid was innocent.’

‘Of murder, of course he was. We knew that. He just happened to be running Class A drugs. Doesn’t that come into the equation somewhere?’

‘Cocaine’s a career opportunity to kids like Spellar. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a way of getting out of Paulsgrove.’

‘You’re defending the boy?’

‘Not at all. I’m doing the job his brief would have done. Had he had one.’

‘He refused, so the custody sergeant tells me.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’d have preferred the duty brief there?’

‘In his own interests, yes.’

There was a long silence. Henderson was bent over his pad. At last, he looked up.

‘I don’t think this is getting us very far, Joe,’ he said carefully, ‘unless there’s something you haven’t shared with us.’

After the second cup of coffee, Winter took Scott Spellar for a walk. Victoria Park was in the city centre, bounded by the railway line on one side and a couple of major roads on the other. In the middle, where it was quieter, Winter pulled the boy to a halt. There was a big aviary only metres away and Scott couldn’t take his eyes off a gaudy, mad-eyed toucan.

‘What do you say, then?’

‘I dunno.’

‘There’s no pressure, absolutely none.’

‘You’re joking. You think this isn’t pressure?’ He gestured hopelessly at the space between them, then his gaze returned to the aviary. ‘Tell me again about Marty.’

‘Blokes that carry for him are under surveillance. You know that. You’ve worked that out for yourself. Them being under surveillance can only mean one thing. You’ve worked that out, too.’

‘Yeah?’ Scott shot him an ironic look, his chin tilted up. ‘Remind me.’

‘It means he’s under the cosh. If he’s got any sense, he’ll be taking’ – Winter shrugged – ‘precautions.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like cleaning up his premises. Like making sure he doesn’t get nicked with anything silly. If it comes to it.’

‘He does all that anyway. He’s really careful.’

‘Then he’s got nothing to worry about. But look at it this way – if you break the news gently you may spare him a nasty surprise.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘These busts, son. They can be heavy. I’ve been on them myself. Half past four in the morning? That can ruin your whole day.’

‘You’re telling me they’re going to bust Marty?’

‘I’m telling you it’s a possibility. I’m telling you lots of people are spending lots of money keeping tabs on blokes like him. And money like that doesn’t get spent without a result at the end of it.’

Scott blinked. He seemed to be having trouble keeping up.

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘No, son,
you
are. It’s what you sussed in the Bridewell, the night we put you through the mangle over your grandad. It was Saturday night, remember? Half of Paulsgrove was in there with you.’

‘I know.’ Scott nodded. ‘That’s what’s doing my head in. Loads of guys saw me down there. And half of them know Marty.’

Winter nodded, saying nothing, letting the situation speak for itself. Harry Wayte’s little bust would happen regardless. Wouldn’t Scott do himself a favour by passing on the news before Harry’s boys went in?

Scott dug his hands in his pockets. A tall, well-built blonde girl sauntered past, but he didn’t give her a second glance.

‘I dunno,’ he said again. ‘This is mad.’

‘Listen, son.’ Winter took his arm and began walking. ‘Look at it like this. You
have
to do it. If you don’t, and if he gets done, Marty will think you’ve grassed him up anyway. And just imagine where that could lead.’

‘Yeah, but …’ Scott stared at him. ‘What the fuck happens after that?’

Winter smiled.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘
Nothing
? I just walk away? And you won’t come hassling me any more?’

‘Absolutely not.’ He reached into his jacket and produced a plain white envelope. ‘Count it, will you?’

Scott looked at the envelope and then ripped it open. The money was in ten-pound notes. He counted it twice and then scribbled his signature on a pad that Winter held open for him.

‘About this little meet you’re going to have with Marty …’ he began.

Scott shook his head and tried to take a step away, but Winter stopped him. Scott stared at Winter’s hand on his arm.

‘What’s this about?’

‘Money,’ Winter said easily. ‘You’ll be paid for your trouble.’

‘Yeah? How much gets me a new face?’

‘Two hundred.’ Winter flashed a sudden smile. ‘Cash.’

Faraday was back at his desk in the inspectors’ office by early afternoon. There were mountains of paperwork to sort out from last week, and an urgent message from Jerry Proctor asking about the deadline on the Paulsgrove DNA report. He had the samples from Mick Spellar and his dead father ready for despatch, but the charge the labs made for the 48-hour turnaround had just gone up to £2400. Was Faraday happy to authorise the sum?

Faraday was still trying to get through to Jerry to tell him to hold off when a secretary called Bibi stuck her head round the door. Bibi worked for Superintendent Neville Bevan, the uniformed boss of the division and Faraday’s immediate superior. He wanted a word as soon as possible.

Faraday asked Cathy to talk to Proctor and plucked his jacket from the back of his chair. Bevan’s office was up on the next floor, and when Faraday appeared at the open door, he glanced up from his computer screen and beckoned him in.

Bevan was a squat, robustly built Welshman with a reputation for plain-speaking. He and Faraday would never be social buddies but a measure of mutual respect made for a solid working relationship. Bevan always drew the straightest line between two points, and for that, Faraday was eternally grateful.

Bevan finally turned from his computer screen. Over his shoulder, Faraday scanned a line or two of rotund managerial prose before Bevan switched it off.

‘I’ve had ACCO on about your interview,’ Bevan said briskly. ‘I think “mystified” covers it nicely.’

‘Mystified about what?’

‘You. Why you even bothered turning up this morning. Waste of time was one of the phrases he used.’

‘Theirs or mine?’

Bevan threw back his head and barked with laughter. A couple of his teeth were missing, combat damage from some long-forgotten rugby match, and the fact that he’d never bothered with cosmetic dentistry spoke volumes about the man. Bevan measured himself and everyone else in terms of results. The rest, in his phrase, was conversation.

‘They’re pissed off,’ he went on in his Swansea lilt. ‘They don’t understand you and they feel a bit insulted and they’ve asked me to have a word. They think there might be a stress problem.’

‘Who with?’

‘You.’ He frowned, peering hard at Faraday with his muddy little eyes. ‘Is there a stress problem?’

Faraday wondered where to start. Should he tell him about J-J? About the lad’s fantasy affair with some French social worker? Should he tell him about the nights he lay in bed, listening to the lap-lap of the tide, trying to work out where the last two decades had gone? Should he describe the moments when he sometimes paused on the stairs, frozen by the memories behind one of Janna’s photographs? Should he share the bewilderment and disgust he increasingly felt, tidying up the wreckage of other people’s lives? Should he confess, just occasionally, to an anger so intense and so deeply rooted that he felt capable of murder himself?

‘No,’ he said softly, ‘there isn’t a stress problem.’

‘Good,’ Bevan nodded. ‘That’s what I told them. I said you were a difficult bastard and tricky to handle and much better off where you were. That kind of stuff really throws them. Dishonesty they can cope with, and incompetence, too, but blokes like you leave them in the dark. They think it’s lack of ambition and that’s something they most definitely don’t understand. You know the eleventh commandment?
Better
thyself. Aggressively, boyo. And at all times.’

He barked with laughter again, shaking his head. Like Faraday, he viewed headquarters with a certain derision. They were too remote from the real business of policing. Like bosses everywhere, the uniformed hierarchy had begun to believe all the New Labour clap-trap about community partnerships and transparency and best value. The latter, according to Bevan, was a smokescreen for wholesale cuts in budget. This year alone, he was supposed to find a two per cent budget reduction through a mysterious mechanism headquarters termed ‘efficiency savings’. Two per cent of Bevan’s budget would keep five beat men on the streets for a whole year.

Now he produced a red file from a drawer and slid it across the desk towards Faraday. The heart-to-heart was obviously over.

‘I’ve got the Port Solent lot on my back again,’ he said. ‘Someone’s having a go at all those fancy motors and they don’t think we’re doing enough to stop them. And you know what? I think they’re probably right.’

Faraday returned to his office with the file. The marina development was tucked into the northern corner of Portsmouth Harbour. Apartment blocks and waterside executive houses ringed a yacht basin with berths for over a hundred boats, while pubs, restaurants and a multiplex cinema drew in crowds every night from the city. Port Solent was where you went for tapas and a chilled bottle of Becks, for deck shoes and the latest chinos, and, according to some, it offered exactly the kind of leisure experience that would shape the city’s future. The irony that it lay a stone’s throw from the wastelands of Paulsgrove, hollowed out by poverty and crime, was largely ignored.

Faraday flicked through the file. By page three of the report, he’d lost count of the number of BMWs that had been burgled or vandalised in the big public car park, and it was no surprise to find the letter at the end. It had come from the desk of Nelly Tseng, Port Solent’s chief executive, and it was blunt to the point of terseness. She was sick and tired of waiting for the police to do something about the current influx of hooligans. They were making life a misery for her and her staff. More important, they were starting to drive customers away. Developments like hers depended on their reputation, and Portsmouth – in turn – depended on developments like Port Solent. Was it really asking too much of the police to expect a little action?