Blood And Honey (37 page)

‘That’s the one,’ he confirmed. ‘Damn fool that he is.’

Winter woke up late, knowing he was going to be violently ill. The experience of the last couple of months had prepared him for thudding headaches and a blinding pressure behind his eyes but nothing as unbearable as this. It began above the bridge of his nose, a small, intensely hot bubble of pain that spread with the quickening rhythm of his pulse until it seemed to fill his entire skull. It had an almost liquid quality and when he shut his eyes, hunting for images that might offer some kind of relief, all he could picture was a swamp of molten lava, viscous and evil, flooding into the deepest recesses of his brain.

He reached out; found Maddox still beside him; tried to get out of bed. Seconds later he was sprawled on the carpet and she was kneeling over him, slipping a pillow under his bursting head then heaving his body
onto one side as he started to throw up. She stripped off the T-shirt and used it as a bib, catching most of the vomit. Winter was gasping for air, for distraction, for a way out, for anything.

‘Bathroom cupboard,’ he managed at last. ‘Bottom shelf.’

She brought the painkillers back with a glass of water. He swallowed three, then threw up again.

‘You need a doctor.’ Maddox was hunting for her mobile. ‘Where do I find the number?’

Winter was past caring. He clawed at the bed. Sleep. Oblivion. An early grave. Whatever.

‘Here.’ She wanted him to drink more water, try again with the tablets. This time he managed to keep them down.

She got him back to bed and he managed to doze for a while. When he awoke, she was still there, bent over him.

‘You told me you were going to see the consultant.’

‘I did. I’m up there again on Monday.’ Winter tried to get her face into focus. ‘Don’t leave me, eh?’

‘Leave you?’ She kissed him. ‘As if.’

She adjusted the curtains against the bright sunshine, then slipped between the sheets again, her long body wrapped around Winter’s ample frame. With his face nestled between her breasts, he could hear the steady thump of her heart. The pain had seemed to ease a little.

She began to murmur to him, something in French, nothing he could remotely understand. Then she slid away again, returning with a bowl of water and a flannel she used to bathe his face. She knew of a friend’s weekend cottage out in the country. She’d stayed there often, entrusted with the key and the occasional company of a stray cat that lived in an
outhouse at the bottom of the garden. The cottage was down a lane, she said, miles from anywhere. The nearest pub was a forty-minute walk through woods and across a field. This time of year the fields were full of brent geese and you could lie awake at night listening to the wind in the trees and the dormice under the thatch, and the distant honking of the geese. Beyond the fields lay the salt marsh and a tiny patch of harbour and then the open sea. She’d never had much faith in paradise, she said, but this was pretty close.

The thought put a wistful smile on Winter’s face.

‘Take me there?’

‘Today, my love. Now. Just as soon as you can manage it.’

‘You mean it?’

‘Yes.’ She kissed him. ‘Funnily enough.’

She began to caress the swell of his belly, paused when his hand caught hers.

‘No? You don’t want to?’

‘Not like this.’ Winter managed a grin this time. ‘You’d see me off.’

‘Later, then. When you’re feeling better.’

‘Whatever.’ He closed his eyes and winced. ‘Just give me time.’

Faraday took Bev Yates with him to Bembridge Harbour. A glorious day had brought out the weekend drivers, and Faraday’s borrowed Fiesta crawled up the hill towards the village of St Helens that overlooked the water below. Wally Castle sat in the back, supplying directions, one gnarled old hand shading his eyes against the low slant of the sun.

‘Here,’ he said at last. ‘One on the end.’

Faraday coasted to a halt beside a modest semidetached house, red brick with a tiny patch of front
garden. A battered Land Rover was parked outside, both windows down. As he got out, Faraday glimpsed lobster pots in the back. The old man had produced a key. Faraday was still inspecting the contents of the Land Rover.

‘He’s a fisherman? Your boy?’

‘Plays at it. Kids himself.’

The old man led the way to the front door. Before he managed to insert the key in the lock, the door opened.

‘What’s this?’

The old man mumbled something about an earlier phone call. The barefoot figure in the dressing gown at the door was evidently his son, Sean.

‘Fucking
law
?’ Sean looked far from pleased.

DC Yates flipped his warrant card and introduced Faraday. They’d welcome the chance for a brief chat.

‘Mr … ?’

‘Castle. Same as him, daft old bugger. You’d think one was enough, wouldn’t you?’ He looked at Faraday. ‘What’s this about, anyway?’

Faraday said he’d explain inside. After a moment’s hesitation Castle held the door wide while they stepped past. The house looked like a building site. The wall at the end of the tiny hall had been reduced to rubble. Beyond the twin Acrows supporting the floor above, there was a kitchen in a similar state of chaos. The old units had been ripped out. Pipes sprouted from the bare boards. Wires hung from the ceiling.

‘Got a bit of work on.’ Sean was rolling himself a cigarette. ‘Make yourself at home.’

Faraday heard someone moving around upstairs. Then came a woman’s voice, asking what was going on.

‘Tell you later. Go back to bed.’

‘Who else lives here?’ Yates had his pocketbook out.

‘Mandy. My other half. Get any sense out of her after last night and you’re a better man than me.’ Sean asked his father for a light, then turned back to Faraday. ‘What’s this about?’

Faraday briefly explained. He was investigating the disappearance of a Portsmouth man. He had reason to believe a row might have got out of hand. Did Sean know a Rob Pelly?

‘Yeah.’ Sean nodded. ‘For sure. Owns a nursing home. Shanklin way.’

‘He’s down here a bit too.’ Faraday nodded towards the harbour. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Doing what? Exactly?’

Sean was looking at his father. Later, there was clearly going to be a conversation.

‘Bits and pieces. Fishing mainly. He’s got one of those fancy Cheetahs – brand new, nice bit of kit. Must be money in old folks’ homes.’

‘You said “mainly”’. It was Bev Yates this time. ‘What does “mainly” mean?’

‘It means he works as hard as every other bugger. Then pushes off for a bit of fishing. Me? I do the reverse.’

‘But you said “mainly”’, Yates insisted. ‘What else does he do with the boat?’

‘Dunno. Ask him.’

‘OK.’ Yates scribbled a note, then began to prowl round the kitchen. ‘Must cost a bit, all this.’

‘Like you wouldn’t believe, yeah.’

‘The fishing game see you right, does it?’

‘You have to be fucking joking.’ Faraday and Yates spun round. A woman was standing in the wreckage of the hall. She was wearing a cardigan that was several sizes too big for her, unbuttoned at the front, and not
much else. For someone closing on middle age, she was in extraordinary shape.

Faraday glanced back at Sean. His eyes were shut and he was shaking his head. A bad morning had just got abruptly worse.

‘And you are … ?’ Yates was smiling at her.

‘Mandy. What’s it to you, then?’

Yates dug out his warrant card again. She barely spared it a glance.

‘Ask him what we do for money.’ She was pointing at Sean. ‘Ask him who has to put out to pay the bloody supermarket bill. Go on. He won’t bite.’

‘Mr Castle?’ Yates was beginning to enjoy himself.

‘Pay no attention.’ He sounded weary. ‘She’s been pissed since the Christmas before last. Most blokes wouldn’t give her the time of day.’

‘Wouldn’t they?’ She stepped between the two detectives and thrust herself in Sean Castle’s face. ‘How’s that then? When half the fucking island can’t wait to shag me?’

Faraday noticed that the old man had crept away. Under the circumstances, he didn’t blame him.

Mandy hadn’t finished. She was sick of living in a tip, sick of getting by on chip butties, sick of all Sean’s banging on about the money he was going to make. Proper men, real men, knew how to look after their women. Not cart them round Lidl like some trophy shag.

‘What about you, then?’ She’d turned on Yates. ‘Married, are you?’

‘Very.’

‘Yeah? What a fucking waste. Me? I’m out of here.’

She disappeared down the hall. Moments later Faraday heard the tramp of footsteps overhead, then a
door slammed and with it came a brief moment of silence.

‘Well, son? You going to tell them or shall I?’

It was the old man. He was back between the Acrows.

‘Tell them what? She’s on the Jim Beam again. You can smell her from the top of the hill.’

‘I meant Pelly. The boat. They’re going to find out anyway. Best you get it off your chest.’

‘Boat?’ Faraday’s interest had quickened.

Sean was examining the remains of his cigarette. Finally he shot his father a withering look and told Faraday it was nothing, just a favour.

‘Yes, but what boat?’

‘Mine. Back last year Pelly wanted a charter. I know he’d asked around and no one was very keen. In the end he came to me. He knew it would cost him but he didn’t turn a hair.’

‘How much?’ It was Yates.

‘Five hundred.’

‘What kind of boat are we talking about?’

‘An Aquabel Sports.’

‘Yeah, but what’s that? Big boat?’

‘Twenty-seven foot.’

‘And how long did he want it for?’

‘A night.’

‘A
night?
For five hundred quid?’

‘Yeah. He knew it was over the odds but it made no difference. He was in a hurry. He even paid on the spot. Cash. Full whack.’

Faraday propped himself on the table. At last, he thought.

‘So why would he need this boat of yours?’

‘He never said and I never asked. That kind of money, you don’t want to know.’

‘What do you
think
he wanted it for?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘Did he take it out himself, your boat?’

‘Yeah. That was my only condition. He knows what he’s doing in a boat, Pelly. I showed him the ropes and off he went. There’s no way I was having some stranger at the wheel.’

Yates was busy scribbling notes. Faraday still wasn’t clear why Pelly hadn’t used his own boat. At first Sean wouldn’t answer. When Faraday put the question again, he dug his hands deeper into the pockets of the dressing gown and looked him in the eye.

‘His own boat went out the same night. They left in convoy, him and another bloke. High tide was around eight.’

‘We’re talking the Tidemaster?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So who was it at the wheel?’

‘I’ve no idea. Honest to God.’

‘You didn’t see him at all?

‘Not properly. Not close up. A young-looking guy? Tallish? I don’t know. It can get really dark out there.’

Faraday let the silence stretch and stretch. The old man was looking happier.

‘So when did all this happen?’ Faraday asked at last.

Sean Castle had stepped over to the window. He wiped off the condensation with his sleeve, then peered out.

‘October time, beginning of the month. I was down on the harbour next day. Pelly gave me the keys back.’

‘OK was it? The boat?’

‘No, it fucking wasn’t. Couple of bloody great gouges out of the gunnel on the starboard side. Told me he hadn’t a clue how it happened. Nerve of the guy.’

‘What kind of gouges?’

‘So big.’ Castle held his thumb and forefinger apart, the width of a cigar. ‘Looked to me like he’d taken a swing or two with an axe, but the bugger wasn’t having it.’

Faraday nodded, exchanged a glance with Yates.

‘And Pelly’s own boat?’ Yates enquired. ‘The Tide-master?’

‘Dunno. Never saw it again.’ He shrugged, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around him. ‘Five hundred quid, you don’t ask too many questions.’

Winter was still in bed when Suttle finally turned up. Winter made it to the front door, pausing in the hall to catch his breath. Suttle stared at the paisley pyjamas.

‘What’s the matter? You look crap again.’

‘Long story, son. Come in.’

‘I thought we were going down to see Cathy Lamb? I thought you wanted a lift?’

‘Later.’

Suttle’s car was parked outside, door open, engine still on. He locked it and returned to the bungalow.

‘Through the back?’ Suttle nodded down the hall.

‘No.’ Winter indicated the adjacent door. ‘Come in here.’

The bedroom couldn’t have been changed since the death of Winter’s wife. Suttle tried to take it all in. No man would have chosen this wallpaper, these curtains, this particular brand of carpet, all of them studies in pink and powder blue. Waking up in a room like this, thought Suttle, would be like drinking tea with four sugars. You’d spend the rest of the day getting over it.

Heaped on the floor beside the bed was a pile of clothes. Since when had Winter taken to wearing lacy black knickers?

‘Maddox,’ he said briefly.

‘She’s here?’

‘Gone to Sainsbury’s.’

‘Shit. No wonder you’re looking so rough. Sort you out, did she?’

Winter let the comment pass. He’d phoned Cathy Lamb and asked for an urgent meet. Before they drove down to Kingston Crescent, they ought to be sure what they wanted out of it.

‘Wishart, for starters,’ Suttle suggested. ‘You had a good look through the billing?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter eased himself back into bed and reached for the flannel. ‘One of the numbers was his. I checked it out. Lafemka was on the phone to him most days. The last call he made to Wishart was after lunch the day he died.’

‘OK.’ Suttle perched himself on the edge of the bed, stirring the heap of clothes with the toe of his trainers. ‘So we can definitely link the bloke to Wishart. It’s not enough, though, is it? Not if we’re right about a hit?’

‘No. I’ve got a couple of numbers you might like to phone. Blokes you ought to talk to.’ Winter dug under the pillow and tossed over a mobile. Suttle didn’t pick it up.