Happy Days (9 page)

‘
The Eagle
?’

Suttle nodded. According to J-J, Faraday used to read the poem aloud to his infant son, doing all the moves, pretending he was the bird in the poem. Deaf and not yet able to lip-read or understand sign, J-J had been entranced by his dad’s performance, especially the bit at the end.

‘So what happens?’

‘Can’t say, boss. You’ll have to wait and see.’

‘But it’s good? Fitting? You know …
appropriate
?’

‘Absolutely. I thought at first there was nothing of Joe in J-J, but I was wrong. Faraday could be off the planet sometimes. You had to look very hard to see it, but it was there. His boy’s got that in spades. I’ve never met anyone like him. The guy’s a total one-off.’

‘And the girl? The Russian?’

‘She’s a bit of a fruitcake too. Nice, though. And she really cares about him.’

Parsons smiled, calling up her diary on her PC. ‘So when’s the funeral?’

‘Thursday, boss. Half three at the crem, then Faraday’s place afterwards.’

‘J-J doesn’t mind going back there?’

‘Not in daylight. It’s the dark that gets to him.’

Suttle said that Lizzie and Ulyana would be getting a few nibbles together and something to drink. Parsons was still looking at her computer screen.

‘I’ve got a couple of meetings scheduled at Winchester that day. Both involve Mr Willard. I’m sure he’ll cancel. What time did you say?’

‘Half three, boss. We’re talking the whole of the afternoon, really.’

‘Of course.’ She typed in the details, then looked up. ‘I take it you’ll sort out the guests? Get the invitations circulated?’

Suttle nodded. He’d already been in touch with Personnel and had a longish list of Faraday’s ex-colleagues to contact. With luck, there might be more than a token scatter of mourners at the funeral.

Parsons wanted to know about Winter. Would he be coming, too?

‘Of course. In a way they were close. Especially over the last year or so.’

‘You mean mates?’ Parsons couldn’t believe it.

‘Not really. But they’d been through some of the same old shit together, and I guess that matters after a while. Faraday knew Winter was a rogue, but he always got the job done. Occasionally they used to get a bit pissed and swap war stories. I was there a couple of times. It was nice to see.’

‘And this happened often?’

‘Not often enough, boss, if you want the truth. Especially towards the end.’

Parsons nodded, not wanting to take the conversation any further. Instead, she scribbled herself a note and asked whether the Bargemaster’s House might be available after the guests had gone.

‘What for?’

‘A meet. Mr Willard, myself, you …’ she offered Suttle a thin smile ‘… and Winter.’

It rained on the morning of Faraday’s funeral. Suttle had taken the day off, and while Ulyana helped Lizzie get the food ready for the Bargemaster’s House, he drove J-J to some of the places he knew Faraday had loved. Favourite of all was the tip of Spice Island, a spit of shingle that curled around the bottom of Old Portsmouth. Here, beside a pub called the Still and West, was a waterside area that had recently been tarted up to help put Flagship Pompey on the map. Faraday hadn’t much liked what the planners had done, but nothing could spoil the real magic of the place.

Faraday had come here often, especially when an investigation was threatening to hit the rocks. Most of the time he’d be alone, nursing a pint beside the railings, staring out at the incessant comings and goings in the harbour, but sometimes he’d take Suttle along, quizzing him about this or that aspect of a case, wanting to know how much weight the intel could bear, wondering whether they were heading in the right direction, abruptly breaking off to direct Suttle’s attention to a lone cormorant, inches above the racing tide, heading out towards the Solent and the open sea.

It was that quiet, dogged, relentless professionalism, spiked by moments of childlike excitement, that hung in Suttle’s memory. He wanted somehow to get just a little of this magic across to J-J, but in the absence of Ulyana, for all J-J’s lip-reading skills, he knew it was beyond him. Instead, they stood in the drizzle, doing what Faraday used to do, just gazing out across the water until it occurred to Suttle that there was no need for explanations. J-J, wholly his father’s child, understood instinctively. Moments later, as if to prove the point, he took Suttle’s elbow and steered him into the pub. He had a wet ten-pound note in his hand and brooked no argument. Drinks were on him.

By early afternoon the rain had cleared. Rags of cloud scudded in from the west, and the sunshine glittered in the puddles of standing water during the long drive out of the city. At J-J’s insistence, Lizzie and Suttle rode in the limousine behind the hearse. Lizzie had parked Grace with her mum, who lived at the top end of the city. The cortège took the motorway north across the harbour, and J-J sat bolt upright, his eyes never leaving his father’s coffin. His face was a mask. Suttle had borrowed a suit for him from a mate. It was far too big across the shoulders and made him look like a refugee. In some respects, Suttle thought, the effect was fitting. Like his dad, J-J was one of life’s windfalls.

The crematorium was at Portchester, on the mainland. The
previous funeral had just finished, and a thin straggle of mourners was filing away towards the Garden of Remembrance to inspect the flowers. Faraday’s cortège turned into the drive. Outside the Chapel of Rest there were faces Suttle recognised, chiefly the hardened smokers, lingering in the sunshine before going in. At the sight of the approaching hearse, they ducked into the entrance and disappeared. Suttle had toyed with trying to arrange some kind of modest guard of honour for Faraday’s last journey, but Ulyana had told him that J-J was against the idea. He didn’t want any fuss, she said. He just wanted to say goodbye.

The hearse came to a halt. Suttle and Lizzie joined J-J and Ulyana as the undertakers hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders and began the slow carry into the chapel. To Suttle’s quiet satisfaction, there was a good turnout. The chapel wasn’t big, and the pews on either side of the aisle were packed. He reached for Lizzie’s hand, nodded at a face or two, suddenly overcome by what this moment really meant. Faraday was no longer among them. The man he’d trusted, admired, respected, liked, had gone.

Spaces had been saved for them at the front. Suttle stood aside, letting Lizzie squeeze into the pew, then took his place beside her. Mercifully, no one could see his face. He swallowed hard and reached for the Order of Service he’d had printed. On the front was a photo of Faraday and a much younger J-J, lifted from J-J’s laptop.

Father and son were squatting together on the stony strip of foreshore in front of the Bargemaster’s House, Faraday’s arm around the child’s skinny shoulders. J-J, barely seven, immensely proud of himself, was holding a tiny green crab by one leg, showing it to the camera, while his dad’s attention appeared to have been caught by something else. For Suttle, it had been impossible not to wonder what that something was, but he now realised why J-J had treasured the shot.

Only last night, through Ulyana, he’d told Suttle that there
were two things he’d always remember about his dad. One was his bigness and his smell, both of them an enormous source of comfort, and the other was his curiosity. Dad, he said, was always on the lookout, always interested, always nosy. And for that alone he’d loved him.

A Schubert impromptu came to an end and the moment of silence was broken by the vicar. The music for the funeral had been Ulyana’s choice. She remembered Faraday telling her about solo piano pieces that had touched him at a concert he and Gabrielle had once attended, and she’d selected two impromptus plus an extract from a Beethoven sonata, telling J-J that his dad would have loved them. Reflective, beautifully paced, intensely moving, the music was perfect.

The vicar extended a welcome to the congregation. Suttle, half-listening, let his mind drift away. He’d noticed Winter at the back of the chapel and wondered whether he shared this sudden gust of overwhelming loss. Then, his opening remarks complete, the vicar invited Detective Chief Superintendent Willard to come forward and make his tribute.

Willard was in full-dress uniform. Dwarfing the vicar, he spoke without notes. Faraday’s death, he said, had come as an immense shock. Not because he was so young. Not even because those that knew him might have sensed that all was not well. But because an event like this, so sudden, so final, was a terrible reminder of how easily the best qualities in a man could be lost.

Faraday, he said, was one of the finest detectives he’d ever had the privilege of serving alongside. He was utterly honest, immensely hard-working and never let anything stand between himself and the best possible outcome. He never hogged the limelight. He kept himself away from the usual swirl of canteen gossip. But best of all he could read other people like a book. In the service of justice, said Willard, this was a huge gift. But as a human being it made Faraday someone pretty rare. The man listened. The man understood. The man reached out. And
– in all three respects – he was a lesson for us all.

Suttle felt an audible ripple of agreement behind him. This was powerful stuff. He’d no idea Willard had it in him. But Willard hadn’t finished. Turning to J-J, on behalf of his father’s ex-colleagues, he offered their most profound sympathies. In his view, it was a mark of Faraday’s uniqueness that J-J had lost more than a father. Because, when it had mattered most, Faraday had been his nipper’s sole contact with the world. He’d brought him up single-handed. He’d built a bridge to the strange, mute happenings around him. He’d been there until the time had come for J-J to flee the nest. And only then had he let himself get on with a life of his own. That had demanded a degree of love, and commitment, and selflessness all too rare in today’s world. And for that, Joe Faraday, we salute you.

He turned to the coffin, bowed his head and then returned to his seat. Suttle could hear someone sobbing a couple of rows back. Lizzie’s hand was knotted in his. For the second time in ten minutes he was close to losing control himself. Beautiful, he thought. Spot on.

A couple of prayers followed. Then it was Suttle’s turn to squeeze out of the pew and join J-J beside the coffin. Last night the pair of them had rehearsed for this moment. A bottle of Côtes-du-Rhône had helped. Now Suttle produced the carefully folded text from his jacket pocket, nodded to J-J, and began to read.

‘
The Eagle
…’ he announced uncertainly ‘… by Alfred Lord Tennyson.’

He made the mistake of glancing up. A sea of white faces, blurring again at the edges. He fought to regain control of himself, aware of J-J beside him, his bony hands outstretched, already miming the opening line. Suttle bent to the text again and began to read:

‘
He clasps the crag with crooked hands

Close to the sun in lonely lands

Ringed with the azure world, he stands
.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls
,

He watches from his mountain walls
,

And like a thunderbolt he falls
.’

Suttle looked up. J-J’s performance had got wildly out of sync and he was already sprawled at Suttle’s feet, the fallen thunderbolt, but it didn’t seem to matter. The soft applause came from Ulyana. The vicar picked up the cue, joining in. Then everyone else did the same, uncertainly at first, then louder and louder before Suttle helped J-J to his feet and silence returned.

Back in his pew Suttle closed his eyes. Lizzie reached up and kissed him. There were more prayers, a reading or two, and then an address from the vicar about the welcome awaiting Faraday on the other side of the grave. Over the last week Suttle hadn’t managed to find anyone who had a clue whether Faraday was a believer or not. It was yet another side of the man that would remain a mystery. Yet just here, in this small moment of time, Suttle sensed that there’d be some one, some thing, some presence that would take care of Faraday. Not because he’d been to Sunday school or collected for Oxfam or found some other way to stack his credits up. But because he’d been a good man. The vicar appeared to agree.

‘Like all of us, Joe Faraday is a child of God. May the Lord be with him.’

The service came to an end minutes later. The curtains closed on the coffin and Suttle found himself listening to another Schubert impromptu, sunnier this time. J-J was standing at the end of the pew closest to the aisle. His task now was to lead the mourners out of the chapel but he couldn’t take his eyes off the curtains. Suttle was trying to get inside his head, trying to imagine what this must feel like. Did he view this as some grotesque conjuring trick? Would he expect to meet his dad again in the Garden of Remembrance? Or had he managed to make some kind of peace with Faraday’s going?

Suttle didn’t know, and seconds later it didn’t matter because Ulyana had taken him firmly by the elbow and was steering him down the aisle towards the door. Out in the sunshine people knotted together, seemingly lost for words. Several of the women gave each other hugs. Then a D/I, Cathy Lamb, appeared from nowhere and took Suttle to one side. As a D/S years ago, she’d been a favourite of Faraday’s. Suttle had served under her himself as a rookie detective on division and understood why. She was solid and warm-hearted, and had turned out to be a brilliant skipper.

Looking at her now, Suttle realised she’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy and her mascara had streaked. He fumbled for a handkerchief and then mumbled something about not having brought one.

She waved his apology away. ‘That poem was unbelievable,’ she said. ‘Joe would have been really proud of you.’

PORTSMOUTH: THURSDAY, 27 AUGUST 2009

Most of the mourners made it to the Bargemaster’s House. J-J had insisted on picking up Grace from Lizzie’s mum’s place and he circulated among the guests with the child in his arms, jiggling her up and down and giving her a nuzzle from time to time. Watching him from across the room, Suttle realised how helpful this was. Grace was an icebreaker. People were a bit wary of J-J. You never knew quite what to say to someone who was profoundly deaf, and his performance in the chapel – Suttle now realised – hadn’t been to everyone’s taste. There had been something frankly odd about it, something way over the top, and people could be nervous around stuff like that.