Blood And Honey (28 page)

‘This is Jimmy Suttle.’ Winter knew exactly how to wind Prosper up: ‘I’m teaching him how to be a proper detective.’

Prosper threw a look at Suttle and then nodded at a desk in the corner of the big open-plan office where a significant bundle of buff files awaited their attention.

‘Sixty-seven and counting,’ he said. ‘And that’s only October.’

‘You’ve got coffee here?’

‘There’s a machine in the passage. Help yourself but go easy on the milk.’

Winter and Suttle exchanged glances. Winter had already been on the phone to Prosper, wanting a steer on those October fatalities that might warrant further
attention. Prosper, whose working life had long adjusted to the glum excitements that followed a sudden death, had accused him of having a laugh.

Every day the office was dealing with seven or eight deaths uncertified by either a hospital or a GP. Some of them were down to drugs or alcohol. Others were industrial accidents, blokes who’d ignored safety regulations and paid the price, or broken bodies recovered from the pavement after taking a header from a tower block or a multi-storey car park. A handful, especially in winter, were scooped up from some beach or other, their dead lungs full of water. Each of these bodies was subjected to post-mortem examination. Most turned out to have died from natural causes or because the individual concerned had decided to throw in the towel. A tiny handful were flagged by the pathologist for further police investigation but no one during October qualified for this select little file on Prosper’s computer screen. Mere Coroner’s Officers, though, could always be wrong. So drop by, he’d told Winter, and help yourself.

Winter divided the files in half while Suttle sorted out the coffees. For the rest of the morning they worked slowly through their respective piles, an increasingly dispiriting task. Early on, Suttle discovered a woman of forty-three who’d been found naked and lifeless on the stairs by her suspiciously unmoved partner. Turned out she’d been a junkie for half her life and had choked to death after a syringeful of especially potent smack. Winter, meanwhile, briefly pondered the case of an eighteen-year-old scaffolder who’d visited a number of Fulham pubs after a Pompey away win, necked half a bottle of Jim Beam on the journey home, and celebrated by opening the door and hanging out as the train sped through Rowlands Castle station. A
London-bound express on the other line had taken his head off.

Neither victim seemed to offer any conceivable link to Wishart and nor did any of the other deaths that had required the attentions of the duty pathologist. By lunchtime Winter was back at Prosper’s desk.

‘You want September or November?’ Prosper was enjoying this. ‘Only I’ve had a quick shufti through both.’

‘And?’

‘Bugger all.’

He was right. All afternoon, case by case, Winter and Suttle hunted for any trace of a contract hit. Most of these people, all too obviously, were predisposed towards an early end, either because of self-abuse or inattention or recklessness, or the kind of enveloping despair that led to suicide. Others, in the considered view of the Coroner, were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t the North End mother of three’s fault that the driver of an Astra lost control after a tyre burst, mounted the pavement, and wiped her out. Nor could the Filipino sailor at Flathouse Quay, who turned out to be deaf, have been expected to hear the warning
peep-peep
of the 38-tonne artic that crushed him to death as it reversed. These bad-luck fatalities were regrettable, tragic even, but of absolutely no use if you were looking for evidence of body parts from the grenade that Maddox had so casually lobbed into Operation
Plover
.

‘You’re sure she’s not making this up?’

Suttle and Winter were walking back to the car park. Winter had another headache coming on.

‘Positive,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t piss about. Not with stuff like this.’

‘How do you know?’

It was a good question and Winter pondered the merits of an honest answer for long enough to give Suttle the opening he needed. They were halfway up the dank staircase that led to Floor E in the multistorey. Suttle caught Winter by the arm as he turned for the next flight of concrete steps.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You remember you once gave me a bollocking about getting involved with the punters?’

‘The what?’ Winter was out of breath.

‘The clientele? Young Trudy? Remember what you said?’

Winter wouldn’t meet his gaze. Trudy Gallagher was a nubile seventeen-year-old, the love child Bazza Mackenzie had always called his own. Last year Suttle had given her a knobbing and paid the price.

‘That was different,’ Winter muttered.

‘Different how?’ Suttle had backed Winter against the wall. From several storeys below came the squeal of a door opening and then womens’ voices echoing up the stairwell.

‘Screwing Trude was totally out of order. You were bloody lucky they only put you in hospital.’

‘And screwing Maddox? Some fucked-up tom with more money than sense?’

‘Different,’ Winter insisted. ‘For starters I’m not screwing her.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Well you should, son.’ Winter at last looked him in the eye. ‘If I could, I would. Truth is, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know.’ Winter shook his head, aware of the swelling cackle of conversation as the women mounted the stairs below them. ‘It just doesn’t happen.’

‘Why not?’ Suttle’s concern was genuine. ‘Love job, is it?’

‘Christ knows. If I could remember what love felt like, I’d tell you. Just now …’ He shrugged, gazing at the wall opposite, trying to focus on the zigzags of graffiti behind the curtain of bubbles, trying to rescue some shred of self-respect from this small moment of truth.

‘Trust me.’ Suttle’s face was inches from Winter’s. ‘I’m trying to help.’

‘Help? Help how?’

‘You’re sick, mate. I can see it. Something’s happened, something’s gone wrong, and I just want to know what. Maybe I can help. Could you handle that?’

Winter could feel the knobbly chill of the concrete on the back of his head. The women were in sight now, three of them staring up through the banisters, laden with shopping, not knowing what to do. Suttle was still in Winter’s face, still demanding an answer. Winter summoned the beginnings of a smile, pushing him gently away.

‘Thanks for the thought, son.’ He fumbled for his car keys. ‘Maybe you’d better drive, eh?’

Faraday and Webster were back at Ryde police station by late afternoon. After the interview at Cheetah Marine Webster had given Faraday the tour of Pelly’s alleged properties on the eastern side of the island, the list of half a dozen addresses he’d acquired from the informant, Gary Morgan. For the most part these were modest red-brick terraced houses tucked away in side streets, and Faraday had been surprised by the evidence of Pelly’s care for the properties. In every case the exterior woodwork – front door, window frames – had been repainted, always in the same shade of green. Every window was curtained, and the tiny rectangles
of front garden were free of the usual debris of spilling refuse bags and sodden mattresses. There was even a new-looking satellite dish bolted onto the front wall of each house a foot or two beneath the eaves.

Parked opposite a house in the back streets of Sandown, watching a couple of men emerge from the front door, Faraday had speculated on the implications of this little surprise. He’d never heard of a man in Pelly’s situation going to such lengths. For someone allegedly making a fortune from other people’s misery, he was certainly spending a bob or two keeping his empire in good shape, a hint of philanthropy that sat uneasily with accusations of ruthlessness, violence and naked greed.

‘If he’s making so much money, how come he couldn’t afford the new boat? To begin with, at least?’

‘Dunno, sir.’ Webster was still watching the two men. ‘Maybe it’s a timing thing. Maybe he only got these places very recently. The boat he’s using now, he could bring dozens of blokes in.’

‘But he’s only had it a month.’

‘I know.’

‘So it doesn’t make sense, does it?’

Faraday carried the thought with him to Ryde. Tracy Barber was up in the Major Incident Room, deep in conversation with two of the DCs Willard had shipped over as reinforcements. She broke off, accompanying Faraday to the SIO’s office. Faraday gazed round. He found the bareness of the desk oddly comforting. It suggested, at this stage in the investigation, a sense of limitless possibility.

‘Well?’

Barber began to tally the day’s developments. On Faraday’s instructions she’d dispatched a couple of DCs to Midhurst to trawl the antique shops for word
on Chris Unwin. If it was true that he’d been shipping furniture over from France, then it made sense that he’d look to West Sussex for the best prices. Marie Grossman had seemed pretty certain that Midhurst had figured in their conversations, and by now the DCs would have had plenty of time to turn up a lead or two.

‘They belled me this afternoon.’ Barber had settled herself in the spare chair across the desk. ‘They got a result in two shops, one at either end of the main drag. Both times the owners recognised the name, said that Unwin turned up with bits and pieces he’d bought at auction in French villages – big heavy stuff, wardrobes, beds. Apparently you had to watch him on price. He’d be asking silly money.’

‘Was this a regular run?’

‘No. And he never phoned ahead. Just drove over and wandered in. We get the impression he wasn’t too organised.’

‘So how often do they see him?’

‘One bloke reckoned every five or six weeks, roughly. The other guy thought that sounded about right.’

‘OK.’ Faraday nodded. ‘So when did they last see him?’

‘Late September. We’ve even got a date. One guy looked in his petty cash ledger. September twenty-seventh. Two hundred quid. Unwin never took cheques.’

‘And the other guy?’

‘The same. Hand on heart he couldn’t be certain, but he thought early autumn.’

‘Do they have an address for him? Mobile number?’

‘Nothing. You remember Marie’s take on Unwin? A bit of a dickhead? These people thought the same.
Rick thinks they’re far too well bred to say it but that’s the impression they’re giving. Unwin was all mouth. Pretended he could speak French, claimed to have all kinds of contacts, asked them what they wanted for his next trip over, but never turned up with the right gear. Some of the stuff he brought over was OK, no problem, but he never listened.’

‘And the van?’

‘White. Old model Transit. Loads of rust round the sills and the bottom of the rear doors.’

‘Reg number?’

‘One bloke thought M reg but wasn’t really sure.’

‘And no word since September?’

‘No. Not that they were surprised … but no.’

Faraday went through the drawers until he found a pad. Scribbling himself a note, he listened to Barber detailing the rest of the day’s developments. An application had been made for a Judge’s Order to pursue enquiries on Unwin’s name with the major banks. Wightlink had made available CCTV video recordings on the car ferry crossing to Fishbourne. P & O and Brittany Ferries were combing their customer databases for bookings in Unwin’s name, a line of inquiry that should, in theory, yield a home address plus a registration number for his van. So far nothing had turned up and
Congress
was further hampered by the fact that no one had a clue what the man looked like.

‘I talked to Media Services this morning,’ Barber added. ‘If we can come up with a photo, the
News
will stick it in the paper. Waifs and strays column. Return to owner asap.’

There was a single knock at the door. It was Bev Yates. He had a woman on the phone for Tracy. Sounded urgent.

Barber got up and left without a word. Faraday nodded at her empty seat. He’d worked with Yates for a couple of years now and had a great deal of respect for his judgement. At forty-four, Yates was still as bewildered as ever by the challenges of his private life, but a young wife and two squalling kids had done nothing to hamper his effectiveness on the job. This morning Faraday had asked him and his oppo – Gerry Mulligan – to scout the marina and boatyards around the edges of Bembridge Harbour in search of more information about Pelly. Specifically, he wanted to know about Pelly’s previous boat.

‘Tidemaster 21.’ Yates sat down. ‘I’ve even got a shot.’

He slipped a photocopied sheet from the back of his pocketbook. Faraday unfolded the sheet and studied the grainy black and white photo. It had come from the For Sale pages of a magazine and showed a sturdy working boat with a wheelhouse midships. The text below detailed the features on offer. Perkins diesel. VHF radio. Colour fish finder. Two bunks, self-draining deck, plus nav lights. ‘Good clean sea boat,’ the ad ended. ‘£9000’.

‘This was Pelly’s?’ He returned the photocopy.

‘Afraid not but he had one just like it.’

‘Who says?’

‘Bloke I talked to at one of the boatyards.’ Yates glanced down at his pocketbook. ‘Mark Sprake. He owns the yard and some of the moorings. Pelly’s had one since 1995. Started at a hundred and twenty-five quid a year, now it’s up to a hundred and fifty. The Tidemaster has been on the mooring for the last couple of years. Before that Pelly had something a bit smaller.’

‘So what happened to the Tidemaster?’

‘Sprake doesn’t know.’

‘What do you mean, doesn’t
know
?’

Faraday didn’t bother to hide his irritation. He was still smarting from yesterday’s abortive SOC search, Pelly letting them waste an entire afternoon in the knowledge that they’d chosen the wrong boat.

‘You think he sold it?’ Faraday was still looking at the ad.

‘It’s possible.’

‘What does Sprake think?’

‘Hard to say. I get the impression they’re all a bit careful about Pelly. If he sold it, then it certainly didn’t happen locally.’

‘Did he ever ask Pelly?’

‘He says not.’

‘So the boat’s there one day, gone the next, and no one wondered why?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What about the rent on the mooring?’