Angels Passing (30 page)

‘She’s another one. Bev’s right. She’s shagging McKenzie and she doesn’t much care who knows it. These people are the new aristocracy, the new rich. With the kind of money McKenzie’s making, there’s no one you can’t buy. You’ve got a problem, right, because you’ve got to start washing all that cash? You need professional help for that, you’ll need the guys in the white collars, but it’s amazing what people will do if the price is right. I could name you solicitors in this city who’ve saved their careers on the back of MacKenzie. Legal practices going down the tubes rescued by some tosser from the wrong side of the tracks. He stitches these people up. He puts them in his pocket and from that point on they’re doomed. Believe me, Joe, Mackenzie’s got it taped. Until we decide otherwise.’

‘And Misty?’

‘She’ll be lucky to last a year.’ He shrugged. ‘Though she might get to keep the Gunwharf place.’

More lager arrived and Faraday tried to change the subject. He’d learned quite enough about the drugs scene for one evening and he thought that he and Imber owed themselves a laugh or two. But Imber wasn’t having it. Whatever family tragedy had taken him to drugs intelligence in the first place had left a deep scar, and he was determined – above all – to mark Faraday’s card.

‘I’ve been thinking about this kid Doodie,’ he said. ‘Given the weather and the time of year, there are a couple of places you might look, one in particular. You know the old ABC cinema? Mile End?’

Faraday nodded. Before the arrival of the big multiplexes – Port Solent, Gunwharf – cinemas like the ABC were the only option if you were a film buff. A big brick-built structure with steel-framed windows and an imposing entrance, the ABC had recently been closed and was now awaiting demolition. Faraday often passed it on his way out of the city. Every window was smashed now, and at street level the boarded-up swing doors were plastered with fly posters, but ten years ago he and J-J had been there several times a month to catch a decent movie.

Imber was explaining about the kids. Word on the street suggested they’d spent most of the winter colonising the place. Some used it as the ultimate drop-in centre. Others seemed to live there.

‘What’s it like inside?’

‘Wrecked, as far as I know.’

‘Access?’

‘Supposed to be impossible. The agents say the place is secured. They’re obviously wrong.’

‘Have you been inside?’

‘You’re joking. Even the fire brigade are cagey. They’re saying it’s structurally unsound.’

‘So where does Doodie fit in all this?’

‘I’ve no idea, Joe.’ He folded his napkin and reached for his glass. ‘I suppose it depends how badly you want to find him.’

J-J was in the bath when Faraday finally made it home. Four pints of Kingfisher had done nothing for his judgement and he’d crawled home at the kind of speed that would have made him a sitting target for any traffic patrol. Luckily the streets had been empty, and now he was standing at the bathroom door, eager to know how J-J’s day had gone. There was no point knocking or trying to conduct any kind of conversation through an inch of wood, so he walked straight in.

J’J’s long body was largely invisible under a duvet of bubbles. His eyes widened as his father appeared.

‘How was it?’ Faraday signed.

‘Brilliant.’

‘Even better than Caen?’

‘Much. Gordon’s a star.’

The way J-J signed ‘star’ a big firework burst, both hands, brought a smile to Faraday’s face. He hadn’t seen J-J like this for years.

He perched himself on the side of the bath.

‘What were the kids like?’

‘Crazy. Crazy but OK. Gordon gets them doing stuff. They love it.’

‘And you?’

‘I love it too.’

He was going in next day, for sure, and if Gordon thought it was a good idea he’d try to join the place full time. He didn’t care about money. That wasn’t important. What mattered was what he could do for the kids. If the feedback and stuff was all OK, then he was certain he could help them. One or two of the kids were already really friendly. Tomorrow he might hang out with them after hours.

Faraday felt the first tiny prickles of anxiety. J-J’s raw enthusiasm was often his downfall. He took people on trust and that wasn’t always such a great idea. He’d seen it happen dozens of times.

‘You be careful, eh?’ he signed.

J-J grinned at him and a pink thumb emerged from the bubbles. Of course he’d take care. He knew what his dad meant but these were kids, and kids were different.

‘By the way,’ he signed, ‘there’s a message downstairs on the answerphone. Might be Gordon.’

Faraday nodded and stepped back onto the landing. Marta, he thought. She’s as miserable as I am and she’s got back in touch. Her husband’s returned, and absolutely nothing has changed, and she’s realised that the last twelve months can’t simply be buried.

He clattered down the stairs, catching his balance at the bottom, and picked up the phone. His finger found the replay button on the message panel and he waited for the familiar voice. It was Cathy Lamb.

‘Me, boss,’ she said. ‘Bloke called Phillimore’s been in touch. Says he wants to talk to you. It sounded urgent so I thought I’d call.’ A local number followed, then Cathy rang off.

Faraday stood by the phone, staring blankly out at the harbour. Then he caught a movement reflected in the big glass doors and he looked round to find J-J wrapped in a towel, halfway down the stairs.

‘Anything important?’ he signed, nodding at the telephone.

Faraday shook his head.

‘Afraid not,’ he murmured.

Twenty

WEDNESDAY
, 14
FEBRUARY
,
06.30

The arrests took place at dawn. Given the theft of the shotgun from the house at Compton, Willard had decided to request support from the Tactical Firearms Unit at Netley, and calls at all three addresses were spearheaded by armed police. Whether or not this level of precaution was justified was, in Willard’s view, immaterial. Bradley Finch’s dangling body had signalled a jokey contempt for both human life and law and order. Now he wanted to send a message of his own: up the game to homicide and expect the business end of a Heckler and Koch on your doorstep.

To Dave Michaels, three hours later, it was the individual reaction of each of the three suspects that was interesting. Terry Harris, at half six in the morning, had seemed less than surprised. He’d asked the arresting DC to keep his voice down in case the noise woke his daughter up and had walked out of the house without a backward glance. In the car, when the DC had explained about the impending Scenes of Crime search, he’d simply shrugged. His wife could deal with all that hassle. Just as long as Maisie got to school.

‘What about Foster?’

Paul Winter had dropped into Michaels’s office before driving out to the Plough, the pub near Petersfield. There, he was to meet Gary Sullivan before testing Terry Harris’s alibi on the landlord.

‘Kenny?’ Michaels pulled a face. ‘Apparently he was amused. Asked one of the blokes whether he’d take an offer on the shooter.’

‘No grief, then?’

‘None. Sweet as a lamb.’

‘Shit.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And Harris’s twin? Mick?’

‘Pissed off big time. He was back from his jolly in Cherbourg and the gaff was up to here with booze and fags. He was so hung-over he thought the blokes were from Customs and Excise and he kept telling the guys with the guns it was his birthday. How much Stella do you need to celebrate your thirty-fifth?’

Winter chuckled. He’d lost count of the number of early doors he’d attended, hauling villains out of bed at God knows what hour, but he’d always found the ritual deeply rewarding. At that time in the morning, just for a moment or two, you could truly play God.

Terry Harris and his twin brother had been driven to Waterlooville police station and were now in adjoining cells awaiting the arrival of their respective solicitors. Kenny Foster, meanwhile, was banged up in Fareham nick, doubtless arguing the toss with the police surgeon over blood samples and nail scrapings.

Winter glanced at his watch. It would take a couple of hours for the briefs to sort themselves out. In the meantime, he had an alibi to destroy. He looked up at Michaels.

‘How do I find this bloody pub, then?’

For once, Faraday couldn’t blame his blinding headache on the Macallan. He’d drunk barely anything last night, too depressed to have the slightest faith in malt whisky. Now, manacled once again to his computer, he could barely read the dancing lines of text on his thirteenth email. Abandoning a must-read circular on the latest Home Office priorities – ‘Civic interaction and neighbourhood partnerships are the weapons of choice in the fight against volume crime’ – he picked up the phone. The number Cathy had given him last night answered on the second ring, and he found himself listening to a recorded message. The voice was cultured but warm. Nigel Phillimore would be away until tomorrow night but callers were more than welcome to leave their names and numbers. So much for the urgent need for a chat.

Faraday put the phone down, wondering about the accent. In this job, he thought, most of your working life was sandpapered with a hundred versions of working-class Pompey. Lay aside all the PC nonsense about class-free policing, and that’s where the bulk of divisional CID work belonged. The city’s council estates were far from affluent, and with poverty went crime. It wasn’t a justification. It wasn’t even an excuse. It was simply a fact. Add crap education and the grab-it-while-you-can culture, and no wonder you ended up with nicely packaged mission statements about neighbourhood partnerships and civic interaction.

He gazed at the screen, trying to still the thunder in his head, and for the first time he began to give serious thought to Willard’s suggestion that the time might be ripe for a move to Major Crime. Divisional CID work was the career equivalent of nailing water to the wall. The longer you persevered, the wetter your feet got. And the wetter your feet got, the less prepared you were to take another plunge into the swamp. What he needed was the chance, just for once, to pursue a single investigation, more for the sake of his own sanity than any fanciful notions about justice.

His hand found the phone again. Anghared Davies was at her desk in the Brook Centre.

‘Doodie?’ he said briefly. ‘Still no joy?’

‘Can’t help, I’m afraid. We’re as clueless as you are.’

‘What about this cinema?’

Faraday recounted last night’s conversation with Brian Imber. Word on the street suggested that the old ABC had become an adolescent squat. Was that something Anghared’s kids ever mentioned?

‘Can’t really say, Joe. It’s Buckland, remember. Bit out of Doodie’s territory.’

The comment at last brought a smile to Faraday’s face. The distance from Raglan House to the boarded-up cinema couldn’t be more than a mile, but in a city as tribal as Portsmouth geographical distance was meaningless. To kids from Somerstown, the badlands of Buckland might as well be on the moon.

‘So what do you reckon? Worth a scout?’

‘Depends how brave you are. Apparently the place is a wreck.’

‘How do you know?’

The question caught Anghared off guard. Faraday heard her laughing.

‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘The kids do talk about it.’

‘And?’

‘Definitely worth a visit.’

The Plough Inn lay on a picturesque country lane ten minutes’ drive south-east of Petersfield. A couple of hundred years ago, the place would have been no more than a cottage – soft red brickwork, slate roof, curl of woodsmoke from the single chimney – but successive generations had added outhouses and an extension at the back. The adjoining car park had recently been resurfaced and a brimming builder’s skip beside the brand-new Shogun told Winter that this small corner of rural Hampshire was doing very nicely out of cask-conditioned real ale and £6.99 Sunday lunches.

At ten o’clock in the morning, the front door was still locked. The clink of bottles led Winter and Sullivan round the back. A tall, lean figure in jeans and a hooded top was bent over a plastic tub of empties. The clientele evidently drank gallons of Bacardi.

‘Steve Pallister?’

The work stopped. Pallister was in his early forties. His big square face was scarred around one eye, and too much booze had reddened the rest of it, but he moved with the ease of someone who still worked out.

‘Who are you then?’

‘CID.’

Winter snapped open his warrant card. Sullivan did the same. Pallister inspected them both then looked up, grinning. His handshake was wet and slightly sticky.

‘Business, is it?’ He nodded towards the open door. ‘Or do you fancy a drink?’

The saloon was dark and still smelt of last night’s beer. Pallister gestured at the row of optics behind the bar but Winter and Sullivan settled for coffee. Pallister yelled through to a kitchen at the back and a woman appeared. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and didn’t bother to peel off the rubber gloves when Pallister did the introductions. Gina, he explained, was his partner.

Sullivan was looking at the framed photos that hung in a line above the bar. They featured buddy shots of heavily armed soldiers, the same faces recurring in print after print. The story began aboard some ship or other and ended against a flat, treeless landscape dotted with sheep. The final photo had caught a younger Pallister necking the remains of a bottle of Bells. There was a church in the background with a corrugated iron roof and pink walls. Pallister’s face was still daubed with camouflage cream but the combat smock hung open and he was winking at the camera.

‘Goose Green,’ he explained briefly. ‘Two Para. My moment of glory.’

Gina reappeared with a tray of coffees. She ignored Sullivan’s smile and told Pallister she was off to sort out the goats. Back later.

‘Goats?’ Winter was watching her tight little backside as she made for a side door.

‘Yeah. It’s a woman thing. Gina fancied a mountain top in Wales so we settled for a couple of fields round here with a bar attached. I couldn’t cope with all that fucking rain. Not after the Falklands.’

‘You’ve been here twenty years?’

‘Ten. We had a trial run up near Aldershot.’

‘And?’

‘Disaster. Squaddies and booze don’t mix.’ He touched the scarring round his eye. ‘Thought I’d have learned, wouldn’t you?’

Winter explained briefly about the Bradley Finch inquiry. A young lad had been killed down in Pompey. They heeded to sort out one or two details about a couple of blokes called Harris.

‘Terry and Mick?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Up for it, are they?’

‘Is that a serious question?’

‘No, mate. It’s a joke. What do you want to know?’

Winter asked how well he knew them.

‘Pretty well.’

‘They come up here a lot?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Regulars?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Like a drink, do they?’

‘Just a bit.’

‘What about getting home, then? Taxi, is it?’

The hesitation brought a smile to Winter’s lips. Pump up the conversation like this – repartee, ping-pong – and it was child’s play to insert the simplest of traps. Fifteen miles was a long way to come for a serious drink, especially with a big fat cab fare at the end of it.

‘One of them drinks, one of them doesn’t.’

‘They toss for it?’

‘Yeah. And the loser gets to win at cards. Never fails.’

‘You always play cards?’

‘They do, yeah. There’s a regular school. Two other blokes, locals.’

‘What do they play?’

‘Cribbage.’

Pallister yawned and looked at his watch. Winter hadn’t touched his coffee.

‘So when did you see them last, then?’

Pallister mugged a frown, pretending to dredge his memory, and a sideways glance at Sullivan’s face told Winter they were on a hiding to nothing. Pallister must have rehearsed this conversation a thousand times. Not that it made his performance any the more convincing.

‘Friday,’ he said at last. ‘Friday night. Both pissed as rats. Stayed over upstairs.’

‘Anyone corroborate that?’

‘Yeah, Gina. And the other two lads.’

Winter glanced at Sullivan again. Sullivan wrote down their names. They both lived in Petersfield and Pallister had a mobile number for one of them.

‘What about the punters?’ Winter gestured round at the bar. ‘Who else might have clocked them?’

‘No one. They play upstairs. Friday nights, you can’t hear yourself think down here. Madness, it is. Our fault, really. Shouldn’t be so popular.’ He leaned back against the bar, looking Winter in the eye, then tilted his head upwards towards the line of Falklands photos. ‘You know the funny thing about war? After shit like that, nothing fucking gets to you.’ The grin again. ‘More coffee?’

It fell to Dawn Ellis and Bev Yates to interview Terry Harris’s wife. By mid-morning, the Scenes of Crime team had completed their initial trawl through 62 Aboukir Road.

So far, amongst the stack of suspiciously new consumer goods, they’d found nothing in the way of bloodstained clothing or potential weapons, and there was no sign of items which might conceivably have belonged to Bradley Finch, but a cardboard box in a spare room upstairs had yielded a rich haul of videos. In with the usual helping of Scandinavian porn was a collection of nastier material: poorly shot sequences featuring extreme violence. Whether or not this stuff was faked wasn’t the issue. As the DC charged with viewing the videos put it, what kind of human being spent his leisure hours watching a black stripper first gang-raped then beaten unconscious by three white guys?

‘Do you have a view on that, Mrs Harris?’

Harris’s wife occupied a bare, overheated bedroom on the second floor of the seafront Travel Inn. Her daughter, Maisie, had gone off to school in a taxi and now Mrs Harris sat in the only armchair, the tea and biscuits at her elbow untouched. Willard had decided not to interview her under caution, sensing an advantage in getting her onside. This woman had put up with Harris for a considerable time. Maybe now was the moment to sort out her real priorities.

‘I’d no idea he even had the videos,’ she said. ‘What he does with stuff like that is his own business.’

Ellis was sitting on the edge of the bed, Yates leaning against the wall behind her. She put her notebook to one side.

‘You don’t watch television together?’

‘Sometimes we do but mostly’ – Mrs Harris shrugged – ‘he’s not around.’

‘So where is he?’

‘Out.’

‘You know where?’

‘No, not usually.’

‘Out late?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Quite late.’

Yates took up the running. They’d already been through the events of Friday night and she’d confirmed the version passed on by Paul Winter. Terry had left early, spent the night up near Petersfield, and come back next day with a terrible hangover. She couldn’t go into details because she simply didn’t know.

‘There’s a lot you don’t know, isn’t there?’

‘That’s true.’

‘What about the boy, Bradley Finch?’ Ellis had a photo. She passed it across. ‘Is the face familiar at all? Did you ever meet him?’

Mrs Harris gave the photo the briefest glance. She seemed to have been preparing herself for this moment but it took a while before she nodded.

‘He came to the house a couple of times.’

‘What was he like?’

‘I don’t really know. Thin. Cocky. I think he used to help Terry out with jobs.’

‘Are we talking double glazing?’

‘Of course.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Not that I know about.’

‘What if we were to tell you that Terry was a burglar?’

‘I wouldn’t have a clue about that.’