Angels Passing (27 page)

Now Faraday reached for the phone again and dialled Anghared Davies’s number. Wearied by Hartigan’s little games, he wanted to know how J-J was getting on. Gordon Franks had been due at the house shortly after Faraday left this morning. He was taking the boy over to Somerstown for something he called induction. As far as delinquent kids were concerned, there was definitely a deep end and J-J was in for total immersion.

Anghared at last answered. Faraday could hear shouts and screaming in the background.

‘J-J?’ he asked mildly.

There was a pause, then the shriek of Anghared telling someone to shut it. Everything went briefly quiet. Seconds later, she was back on the phone, chuckling.

‘Just went off, I’m afraid. Occupational hazard. What can I do for you?’

‘J-J,’ Faraday said again. ‘How’s he getting on?’

‘Haven’t a clue, Joe. He and Gordon went off with a bunch of them this morning and I haven’t heard a thing since. Good sign that, in our line of business.’

The Portsmouth Arts Centre was housed in a disused school in the south-east corner of the city. The classrooms served as venues for writing circles, music sessions and classes in everything from calligraphy to water colours, while a performance space large enough to accommodate modest drama presentations had been hacked out in an adjacent annexe. Gordon Franks had the ear of the caretaker, and when no one else was using this tiny theatre, he shipped in his own kids.

Today, there were half a dozen, aged thirteen upwards, all of them newcomers to drama. The theatre was small and claustrophobic – black-painted walls, lighting gantries, an audience ramp, no windows – and Franks considered it ideal for concentrating minds and compelling attention. This dark, slightly spooky space was the perfect backdrop for whatever stories he cared to spin, and experience told him that even the most damaged kids found it difficult to resist the spell that drama – pretending to be someone else – could cast.

They’d started off with a series of exercises and he’d signed instructions for J-J to join in. The exercises were largely mime – escaping from a burning aircraft, holding up a bank – and the kids had been fascinated by this lanky, poorly coordinated creature who could do nothing with his body except his hands. At first they’d laughed at him, at his awkwardness, but he’d plunged head first into the spirit of the thing, totally unembarrassed, and the way he could converse with Franks in a flurry of hand movements at first puzzled then excited them. Here was something truly exotic. How cool was a guy who could talk without using his mouth?

At lunch time, they had cheese rolls and played football in the playground. J-J, in goal, was truly hopeless. Then, with the score in double figures, Franks blew the whistle and laid out the plot for the afternoon. They were seamen aboard a frigate under Admiral Lord Nelson’s command. They’d crossed the Atlantic with the trade winds up their arse and now they were cruising the Caribbean. There were rumours of a Spanish treasure ship and the prospect of untold plunder. And then, from the top of the tallest mast, came the cry: Ship ahoy!

Each of the kids was given a role. J-J was captain. The wind shifted to the starboard bow. They had to close the Spaniard and board her. The rest was down to J-J.

The kids set to with enormous vigour, thundering round the tiny stage while J-J signalled them to haul on the ropes, run out the guns, sharpen the cutlasses, prime the muskets, say their prayers and prepare for battle. Each of these stage commands J-J embellished with extravagant mime, whipping the kids to a frenzy, and they were seconds away from letting fly with the grappling irons when there came a noise at the door beside the stage.

Someone was trying to get in. J-J, oblivious, was still rallying the boarding party. Then, with a crash, the door flew open. J-J, alerted by the sudden influx of light, turned to see what had happened. Standing motionless in the open doorway, silhouetted against the light, was a tiny figure. J-J looked towards Gordon Franks. Should he carry on? Was it really all over when the Spaniard was there for the taking?

Franks stepped towards the door, but the moment he moved, the little figure turned and darted away. A couple of the boarding party began to snigger. One of them mouthed something to Franks. Franks nodded and turned back to J-J.

‘Kid called Doodie.’ He nodded at the imaginary galleon. ‘Let battle commence.’

Eighteen

TUESDAY
, 13
FEBRUARY
,
16.00

Faraday was up to his eyes with a welfare crisis when Cathy Lamb appeared at his open office door.

‘That nice PC from Operational Support has been on. Willard’s hassling for more bodies and they’re looking to us. Local knowledge is the line they’re taking.’ She nodded at the phone. ‘I said you might like a little input before we strip the cupboard bare.’

‘Who would we lose?’

‘Yates and Ellis. They’re off duty in an hour. You need to make a decision.’

Cathy waited for Faraday to make the call before sending them through but the brief conversation with Ops Support got him nowhere. The Assistant Chief Constable in charge of Special Operations was in the business of properly resourcing major inquiries and that was that. The good news was the time limit that he’d imposed. Willard had originally acquired ten extra bodies for just two days. That deadline had nearly expired but Ops Support were about to extend it to the end of the week, giving Willard additional help on top. Yates and Ellis would be part of those reinforcements but they’d be back in the Southsea CID office by Monday, guaranteed.

The moment Faraday broke this news, he could read the disappointment in their faces. On Major Crimes you worked around the clock. A posting to Operation
Bisley
, in terms of overtime, was a blank cheque. The last thing Yates and Ellis wanted was a speedy return to division.

Faraday asked about Misty Gallagher.

‘The woman’s a nightmare.’ It was Dawn Ellis. ‘Mothers like that, no wonder we’ve got a problem in this country.’

‘But what about the girl? Helen Bassam? Are we talking drugs here?’

‘Gallagher says yes but it’s an assumption. She says she can’t evidence it. There’s no way she’s going to give us a statement. And naturally none of it’s got anything to do with her.’

‘You think she’s supplying?’

‘Has to be.’ Yates this time. ‘She’ tucked up with Bazza McKenzie and that guy scores charlie by the ton. Bloke told me the other day he owns half of Colombia. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’

‘You’re telling me the girl was doing cocaine?’

I doubt it. Misty seemed to think tabs, Es mostly. That sounds about right. Her age.’

Faraday scribbled himself a note. Yates and Ellis had also been back to Chuzzlewit House, chasing up the old boy who’d returned from holiday.

Ellis leaned forward. ‘He said he’d seen the kid Doodie around a lot before last week.’

‘Doing what, exactly?’

‘All sorts. Up and down in the lift. Racing around the corridors. And out on the roof.’

‘By himself?’

‘Always. Apparently, he had a little game he played. He used to chuck pebbles off the roof. He had plastic bags of them, from the beach.’

‘How does the old boy know?’

‘People started finding dents in their car roofs. From the west side you can hit the car park. There was a cat found dead, as well, little black and white thing. There was no direct evidence but it was a real mess.’

‘He threw a cat off the roof? This Doodie?’

‘It’s possible.’

Faraday looked at them both. Yates, no cat lover, was trying to hide a smile.

‘What about recently? Has the kid come back?’

Ellis shook her head.

‘We asked him that and we talked to the warden, too. No one’s seen him since last week. That tells me he was definitely implicated. He used the place as a playground. Now he’s gone elsewhere.’

Faraday got up and went to the window. If it was true about the cat, you had to wonder what else this child might be capable of. He made a mental note to talk to Anghared again, then paused.

‘We still haven’t got a decent picture,’ he said.

‘That’s right, boss.’

‘But if he was a regular visitor, there’d be video, lots of it. Right?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So why don’t you go back to the control room and ask for tapes before Friday. He’s bound to be on there somewhere. Then we can take hard copy and push a decent mugshot around. No?’

‘You’re right.’ Yates nodded. ‘Except you’re telling us we’re off to Major Crimes.’

There was a long silence while Faraday considered the options. The Helen Bassam inquiry was already five days old. A lot of other crime had happened since then, none of it especially dramatic but all of it demanding attention, and he didn’t need Cathy Lamb to tell him that an odds-on Death by Misadventure verdict was already way down the list of priorities. Week after week, he found himself in exactly this same situation, totally shafted.

Something inside him snapped.

‘This is bloody silly,’ he raged. ‘We’ve got a girl who chucks herself off a block of flats, a woman who says she was doing drugs, and a ten-year-old we can’t find. On top of that, there’s bugger all we can do about it. We’re supposed to be on top of this job. We’re supposed to be the people in the know. We’re supposed to be way, way ahead of the bad guys. So what’s gone wrong? Anyone like to tell me?’

‘They’re not the bad guys,’ Ellis muttered. ‘They’re kids.’

I know, I know, but you think that makes it any easier? Kids today, criminals tomorrow. Either that or fucking dead. Great prospect, eh?’

He turned to the window and stared out, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. In the CID office, Faraday had a reputation for maintaining an almost Buddhist calm in situations where others would have gone ballistic. He rarely let himself get wound up. He coped with almost everything the job could throw at him. Now, Yates and Ellis exchanged glances. Maybe Paul Winter had been right. Maybe Faraday really was losing it.

Finding one of Kenny Foster’s luckless opponents was a great deal easier than Winter had anticipated. Back at Fratton, they toured the incident room with the seized Sony, showing freeze-frames of Foster’s handiwork. They were after a positive ID on one of the battered faces, and it was Paul Ingham, the DS in charge of outside inquiries, who poked a finger at victim number two.

‘His name’s Billy,’ he said. ‘Billy Carter. He’s got previous for nicking stuff off building sites. Always gets caught. Never fails. And I’ll tell you where to find him, too. You know that place in Fratton Road that does all the disabled gear? In there.’

Winter nodded. He knew exactly where he meant.

‘What’s he like, then?’

‘Thick.’ Ingham took another look at the video. ‘Wouldn’t have felt a thing.’

The shop was a five-minute walk from Fratton nick. The front of the building looked newly painted and there was a row of electric wheelchairs displayed on the pavement outside. Winter and Sullivan crossed the road. The shop window was full of retirement aids, items to smooth the journey to the grave, and Sullivan had time to count four kinds of potty before Winter steered him towards the door.

Inside, the shop appeared to be empty. There were more goodies stacked on the shelves, and Winter paused to examine a rubberised undersheet which promised to take the misery out of night sweats. When Sullivan made a joke about the job Foster must have done on Billy Carter to warrant all this gear, Winter remained stony-faced. Those last weeks nursing Joannie had made him a world expert on night sweats. Some mornings, it was like waking someone up in a swimming pool.

There was a movement at the rear of the shop and a big man appeared, lumbering towards them. As soon as the light from the shop window settled on his face, Winter knew they’d found their target. The swelling had settled down by now but his face was still a mess, the purple bruises beginning to turn yellow. He loomed over them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a figure from a child’s cartoon.

Winter snapped open his warrant card. Sullivan did the same. They were here to talk to him about Kenny Foster.

‘Yeah? What of him?’ He had a deep voice, Pompey-gruff.

‘We understand you fought him.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘We’ve got some pictures, video pictures. You remember the camera?’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Little git.’

‘Who?’

Carter shook his head. He’d said enough already. Did they want to buy anything or could he go back to his tea?

Winter didn’t move.

‘Foster thinks you were crap,’ he said softly. ‘He wonders why he even bothered to get out of bed that day.’

‘Kenny? He said that?’

‘Yeah. He’s got a little nephew. Kid of six. He told us he should have sent the boy along to do the business. Saved himself the trouble.’

‘You kidding?’ Carter looked genuinely hurt. ‘Kenny?’

Winter nodded, saucing the insult with one or two extra bits of fiction. The longer he watched this man, the more he wondered about Ingham’s description. Thick was one thing, thick he understood, but there was something about Carter’s eyes, a hint of derangement that suggested a more serious condition. Had Foster added brain damage to his usual list of injuries?

‘About this camera.’ Sullivan had taken up the running. ‘Little git, you said.’

‘He was, too.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Yeah, I knows him.’

‘Wasn’t Bradley Finch, was it?’

‘No.’ He shook his massive head. ‘I knows Bradley. It wasn’t Bradley.’

‘But you know Bradley’s dead?’

‘What?’

‘Someone killed him. Friday night.’

‘
What?
’

This wasn’t fake surprise, and both men knew it. Billy didn’t stretch to pretending. Just getting the basics in the right order was quite enough for one day.

‘Kenny?’ he queried.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Cos Kenny can be rough. Me? I can handle myself. If you seen them pictures you know that. Kenny’s the only guy ever got near me.’ He offered them a grave nod. ‘That’s how good he is, Kenny.’

‘You think Kenny might have fought Finch?’

‘Yeah.’ Carter nodded. ‘That’s what you said, ain’t it? Fucking mismatch, that. Says me, anyway.’

Winter was studying the rubber undersheet again. Portsmouth never ceased to amaze him. Here was a man who thought Kenny Foster had killed Bradley Finch in a stand-up fight. With seconds present and a guy with a camera. And all that without anyone being any the wiser.

‘How does it work then, this fight game?’

‘Ain’t nothing illegal.’

I know that. I’m just curious.’

‘Well …’ he shrugged, lost for words ‘… we just fights. There’s a bit of betting of course, but it’s really the fighting. Hardest man in Pompey. That’s what it’s about.’

‘And Kenny?’

‘Hardest man in Pompey. For definite.’

‘So he took money off you?’

‘Yeah. Couple of quid. But that ain’t all, since you’re asking.’

‘What else then?’

‘He didn’t tell you?’

‘Remind me.’

Billy looked from one face to the other, trying to work out whether they were winding him up, then shrugged again.

‘He must have told you about shagging my bird after. He told every other fucker in the world.’

‘Oh, right …’ Winter began to laugh ‘… that. I thought you meant something serious. She shags for England, apparently, your good lady. Didn’t even have to be asked. Isn’t that right?’

‘Is that what he said?’ Billy’s face had darkened.

‘That’s what he told us. Could be fantasy, mind. He wouldn’t be every woman’s wet dream.’

‘No, they definitely shagged. Trace told me. He wasn’t any good, either. She said it was like being at the dentist, my Trace. Never felt a thing. He tell you that, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t. He said they were at it like rabbits. Both times.’

‘
Both
times?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter frowned, checking with Sullivan. ‘Just the twice, wasn’t it?’

‘So far.’

‘There, then.’ Winter turned back to Carter. ‘Just the twice.’

Carter was brooding. That hurt look was back on his face. He was seeing Trace tonight. They were going to the movies. She was mad about Sean Penn. He’d have it out with her then.

‘And what if it’s true?’ Winter asked gently.

‘I’ll hammer the bastard.’ Carter nodded, telling himself it was possible. ‘He’ll fucking regret it. And that’s a promise.’

Winter didn’t say anything. It had begun to rain outside, and the silence was broken by the steady drip of water somewhere close at hand. At length, Carter stirred. He’d been thinking. He’d come to a decision.

‘The bloke with the camera.’ He stole a look at Winter. ‘You know Tosh Harris?’

‘Course I do.’

‘It was him.’

Dave Michaels knew Tosh Harris.

‘Double glazer from Stamshaw,’ he said briefly. ‘Real name’s Terry. Got a twin brother, Mick. Bent as ten-bob notes, both of them.’

Winter and Sullivan were sitting in the DS’s office. Winter had been racking his brain about Tosh Harris, dredging his memory for the name, but had drawn a big fat blank. Sullivan was amused, for once, that Michaels had to come to the rescue.

‘Well known, is he? This Terry Harris?’

‘Depends who you talk to. I happen to know him because I pulled him on a couple of jobs. The double glazing is a hobby. He buddied up with a guy years ago who’d been made foreman in a factory up in Hilsea. They made plastic extrusions for the trade. This bloke sorted out offcuts for Harris, just for a drink, and he started doing cut-price double glazing, mainly outside the city. It’s the simplest thing in the world. You get a half-decent van and some letterheads and you’re off. It’s the moneyed people you’re after, big spreads in the country or decent gaffs in places like Chichester and Arundel. Those kind of people always love a bargain and while you’re there you can case the joint for later. That’s where the real money comes from.’

‘He goes back?’

‘Yeah. And he was a smarmy little bastard, too. Used to chat up all the housewives, find out when they were off on their hols, then … bingo! In he went. Access wasn’t a problem because he’d put the bloody windows in in the first place and most times he’d sorted the alarm, too. Clever little bastard, Harris.’

‘And Mick? His brother?’

‘Not really in the same league. Not smart enough to make a decent housebreaker. Last time I heard he was into contraband booze and fags. Used to take a van across to Cherbourg and load up for the week. Suited him down to the ground, They were close, mind, Terry and Mick. Both Stamshaw boys, obviously.’