Beyond Reach (3 page)

‘The what?’

‘Marie’s had a word, yeah? Last night? First thing this morning? About Tide Turn? Fact is, Baz, I’ve had enough. You’re paying me to make money not work fucking miracles. If you really want a social worker you’d better find some other monkey. As it happens, I think I’ve found one. Bloke called Scott. Can’t wait to get you an invite to the Palace.’

‘I’m not with you, mush.’

‘This isn’t about Tide Turn?’

‘No.’

‘What, then?’

‘Ezzie.’

Winter hesitated. Yesterday’s lunch at the restaurant had lasted long into the afternoon. Marie had poured her heart out about her daughter’s marriage, chiefly because she hadn’t a clue what to do. The last thing she’d extracted from Winter, out on the pavement beside her new Porsche, was a promise not to say a word to Bazza. Now this.

‘What’s up?’ Winter knew it was time to be cautious.

Bazza threw him a look, then got to his feet and went to the big picture window and the view across the harbour towards the Gosport shore. There was anger in his face when he finally glanced round, and something else that Winter couldn’t quite place. A family thing. Maybe disappointment.

‘None of this gets back to Marie, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘If it does, I’ll break your legs.
Comprende?
’

‘No problem.’

‘Right, mush. So this is what we know.’

‘We?’

‘Me and Stuart.’

Stuart Norcliffe was Esme’s husband, a City banker who’d spent the last couple of years running a hugely profitable hedge fund. Winter had only met him on a handful of occasions but had sussed what turned Esme on. The guy oozed power and money. On top of that, if you had a taste for sheer bulk, he was a bit of a looker.

‘So what happened?’

Mackenzie returned to the sofa and ran a hand over his face. He’d let himself go a bit over the winter but recently he’d returned to the gym and was back on his toes.

‘Listen, mush …’ He kept his voice low as if the neighbours might hear. ‘Stu gives me a bell last week. That’s a hard thing for a bloke like him to do, believe me. Why? Because he thinks his missus, my fucking daughter, is having it off with some wanker at that noncey spa hotel she goes to.’

‘Based on what evidence?’

‘You’re talking like a copper.’

‘Old habits, Baz. Just tell me.’

Esme, it turned out, had spent most of last year complaining about the chore of driving twenty miles to the gym and pool she used. The facilities were attached to a four-star hotel on the edge of the New Forest. The pool, she said, was too small and some of the guys in the gym, mainly visiting businessmen, were distinctly chavvy. What she didn’t need in her precious spare time was some spotty sales rep asking whether she was up for a spot of hand relief in the sauna.

‘So why didn’t she jack the place in?’

‘Good fucking question. That’s exactly what Stu wondered.’

‘And?’

‘She met someone.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like the guy she’s shagging.’

Stu, said Bazza, hadn’t sussed it to begin with. Looking back it was obvious, but at the time, working twenty hours a day, Stu was just glad that Esme had stopped moaning. For whatever reason, she was driving over there two or three times a week without a word of complaint, and if that floated her boat then so much the better. Then, last week, a mate of Stu’s had given him a ring. This was a guy Stu occasionally played squash with. He’d been over at the hotel for a business lunch and afterwards he’d wandered down to the gym to check out the facilities. The place had been empty apart from two figures in the corner.

‘Adjacent running machines, mush. Thump, thump, thump. Really pushing it. Then she gets off, silly cow, legs totally shot, and he’s all over her. Kissy kissy. Towelling her face. Squeezing her arse. Fetching a drink from the machine. The works. Stu’s mate couldn’t believe it. One of the reasons he phoned up was to check about the divorce. They hadn’t played squash for a while. Maybe he’d missed something.’

‘Did Esme see him?’

‘He says not. The way he tells it she only had eyes for lover boy.’

‘And Stu? He’s tried to check this guy out?’

‘No. That’s the whole point, mush. That’s why he came to me. He says he doesn’t trust himself. He says he’d kill the bloke. And what good would that do?’

Winter nodded. He knew exactly what was coming next but there was a move of his own he needed to make.

‘About the Trust, Baz.’

‘Fuck the Trust.’

‘My thoughts entirely … but listen, we need to get one or two things straight.’

‘Yeah, like my daughter’s bloody love life.’

‘Of course, Baz. Not a problem. Leave it to me. But we’re talking unfinished business here.’

‘Too fucking right. You see him off, mush. You find out who he is, you take him to one side, and you tell him from me that I’ll rip his bollocks off if he ever goes near my little girl again. Have you got that, mush? Only it might get very messy if you start fannying around.’

‘Since when have I ever done that? Listen, Baz. This is the deal. There’s a guy you need to meet. His name’s Scott Taylor. He’s a phone call away. He’s a hotshot social worker, the real McCoy, exactly what Tide Turn needs. The moment he takes it off me is the moment I sort out our little problem.’

Mackenzie studied Winter for a long moment. He looked, if anything, amused. At length he reached for his coffee, gulped a couple of mouthfuls, followed it with the Bacardi, and wiped his mouth. Then he settled back against the leather sofa.

‘You know something, mush?’ He patted Winter’s arm. ‘You were
born
fucking evil.’

 

Faraday had been at his desk barely ten minutes before DCI Gail Parsons appeared at his open door. Since the recent reorganisation, she’d become the top detective on the Portsmouth-based Major Crime Team. Martin Barrie had departed to headquarters, leaving Parsons his office, his conference table and the lingering whiff of the roll-ups he used to smoke beside the ever-open window.

Parsons eyed the litter of unopened mail on Faraday’s desk. Faraday, less than halfway through his list of waiting emails, wondered if she might start this conversation with a kindly enquiry about his trip to Montreal.

‘We need to talk about
Melody
, Joe. Have you got a moment?’

He followed her along the corridor. She was a small, forceful woman with an aggressive dress sense and a huge chest. She was rumoured to be extremely close to the Head of CID, Geoff Willard, and given the depth of her undisguised ambition Faraday was inclined to believe it.

Since Barrie’s departure, his office had been transformed. On Mondays Parsons arrived with armfuls of fresh flowers and there was a small gallery of family photos carefully propped on the windowsill behind her desk. In the absence of a husband or a partner, two of them featured a black Labrador called Nelson.

Parsons waved Faraday into the chair in front of the desk. Whatever the occasion, she had the unhappy knack of making visitors feel they were under oath.

‘Remind me, Joe. Where exactly are we with
Melody
?’

Faraday had spent the last minute or so trying to visualise the file. Operation
Melody
had been running for nearly nine months. A teenager, Tim Morrissey, had been stabbed to death on Guy Fawkes night. The murder had taken place in a remote corner of the city’s King George V recreation ground, traditionally the site of the city’s biggest bonfire. Thousands of people had come for the fireworks yet months of painstaking investigation had failed to turn up a single witness.
Melody
’s intelligence cell had built up an in-depth picture of the dead boy and Faraday’s squad had few doubts about the name of the killer. All they needed was evidence.

‘We’re nowhere, boss. The file’s still open.’

‘But we have a prime suspect. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And his name again?’

‘Kyle Munday.’

‘That’s what I thought. Have you seen this?’

She angled her PC screen towards Faraday. He had to get closer to read the details. Every morning, details of overnight developments force-wide were available for anyone to check. It was called The State.

‘Here. Second entry from the bottom.’

Faraday followed Parsons’ finger. The news that Kyle Munday had died in a hit-and-run brought a smile to his face. Parsons hadn’t finished.

‘Frankly, Joe,
Melody
’s been a bit of a disappointment. You don’t need me to tell you that. Half the city were up there for the fireworks and that gave a lot of people a stake in what happened. It wasn’t our finest hour, by any means. As our friends on the
News
pointed out.’

It was true. For a week at least the press had been brutal. KNIFE SLAYING MUM TALKS OF HER PAIN. COMMUNITY GROUPS DEMAND ACTION. NO ARRESTS IN PROSPECT.

‘There may be some crossover here, Joe. The Road Death lot obviously have ownership but maybe that should change. If we could establish some kind of linkage with
Melody
, we might be able to bring last night’s little episode into Major Crime. I could certainly talk to Mr Willard.’

Faraday nodded. Parsons, like most bosses, was constantly pushing to expand her empire. In the case of
Melody
, she’d call it closure. A more exact term might be a raiding expedition. Someone else’s turf. Someone else’s trophies.

‘You want me to …’ He didn’t need to end the sentence.

‘I do, Joe. There’s a woman called Steph Callan. She’s a sergeant on RDIT. She’s got the lead on Munday.’

The Road Death Investigation Team worked from offices in Eastleigh. Faraday had come across them on more than one occasion and had been impressed.

Parsons glanced up at the clock on the wall, her eyes gleaming. ‘I’ve asked Callan to drive over,’ she said. ‘She should be here by ten.’

Steph Callan was early. Faraday glanced up from the last of his emails to find her out in the corridor, checking the name on his door. She looked to be in her early thirties, no more. Uniformed, she wore a sergeant’s stripes. Tucked under one arm was a large manila envelope. Steady eyes. Nice mouth.

‘D/I Faraday?’ Flat London accent.

Faraday invited her in, tramped down the corridor to fetch a couple of coffees, returned to find her inspecting his modest gallery of bird photographs. The envelope was now propped against his PC.

‘Did you take these?’ She was looking at a family of coots.

‘Yes.’

‘And this one?’ She tapped a column of gannets plunging into the sea.

‘My son’s. That’s an old shot. He got lucky with the focus.’

‘It’s bloody good. Clever boy.’

‘That’s what he thinks. What’s that?’ Faraday had noticed the envelope.

‘Part of the PM file. I understand you’ve had dealings with our Mr Munday.’

Faraday emptied the contents of the envelope onto his desk. These were post-mortem shots. The one on top offered a close-up of a head, three-quarter profile, the flattened face a blancmange of blood and gristle. Faraday felt a rising wave of nausea. Even Kyle Munday didn’t deserve this.

‘Quick, at least,’ he heard himself say.

‘Yeah … for sure.’

She sat down. So far, she said, they’d drawn a blank with witnesses. There was no CCTV at the scene, no tyre marks on the road. Munday’s clothing had been submitted for forensic examination, and the stolen-vehicle examiner attached to the Scenes of Crime team at Cosham was already working on debris recovered from the road.

‘Like what?’

‘Bits of an indicator unit and more stuff we think might have come from one of the headlights.’

Faraday nodded, sliding the post-mortem photos back into the envelope. A single tiny flake of paint or a splinter of glass could identify the make of a vehicle, even its year of manufacture.

‘What about the post-mortem?’ Faraday asked.

‘Interesting. Have you ever come across a pathologist called Dodman?’

Faraday shook his head. He’d never heard of him.

‘He’s a locum. We’ll have to wait for his report, obviously, but he was prepared to take a punt on what might have happened.’

Callan described the injuries to Munday’s lower leg and the provisional conclusion that he must have been facing the vehicle head on when it hit him.

Faraday nodded. According to
Melody
’s intelligence profile, Munday had a talent for confrontation, pushing even casual encounters to the point when something was bound to kick off. He enjoyed frightening people, loved hurting them. Tim Morrissey, in all probability, had been only one of his victims - though the rest, mercifully, were still alive.

‘The guy was a monster,’ Faraday said quietly, eyeing the envelope.

‘How did you ID him?’

‘The blokes on the scene found a breach-of-the-peace summons in his jeans pocket. There was a driving licence too. Matching the face was a bit of a problem but it was the same name.’

‘Next of kin?’

‘It turns out he lives with his mum.’ She named a road in Paulsgrove, a sizeable council estate on the slopes of Portsdown Hill. ‘I sent a FLO round. Half past three in the morning. You know how these things go with the death message but she wasn’t best pleased.’ FLO meant Family Liaison Officer.

‘She’s a smackhead,’ Faraday told her. ‘And she deals too. She hates us.’

‘That’s what the FLO said. She’s driving the woman over to Winchester this morning for the ID. Apparently the house stank. There’s a dog there too. Shit everywhere.’

‘That was Munday’s. It’s a pit bull. He used to let it off the leash to savage other dogs. Just for the laugh.’

Faraday was staring out of the window, trying to imagine what had happened. Southwick Hill Road took traffic from the top of Portsdown Hill to the edges of Cosham, one of the city’s mainland suburbs. The road was steep, maybe a mile in length.