Beyond Reach (7 page)

Faraday opened the file and began to leaf through it. Jimmy Suttle, with his usual thoroughness, had assembled a timeline that began with the victim’s mother, Jeanette Morrissey. She’d first become aware of Munday’s interest in her son Tim when he’d arrived home in the early summer without the rucksack he used to carry his books. At first he claimed to have lost it. Then he said he’d left it on the bus. Only when she accused him of lying did he admit that kids from his class - one of them Munday’s younger brother - had tossed the contents into one of the neighbourhood bottle banks and then used lighter fuel to set fire to the rucksack itself.

Three of the books had belonged to the school. Tim would have to foot the bill for replacements. But the fourth had been precious, a signed edition of a Terry Pratchett novel, and his obvious distress at its loss had delighted his tormentors. From that point on, said his mother, Tim had become the easiest of targets, and when word spread that he’d contacted the council to try and access the bottle bank the news simply whetted the kids’ appetite for more wind-ups.

They’d begun to lay little traps on his way home, chasing him up the street, pelting him with stones nicked from a nearby rockery. They bribed the class minger to try and get inside his trousers on the back seat of the bus. They ambushed him outside his piano teacher’s house, tearing up the sheet music she’d just given him and then videoing his frenzied attempts to prevent the wind scattering it all down the street. In a footnote Suttle had described this kind of behaviour as predatory, and he was right, but the months of bullying and abuse during the summer were merely a prelude to what followed.

The key, once again, was Kyle Munday. He’d just served ten months for assault, hospitalising a young Asian taxi driver who’d got on his nerves, and he was back on the estate, keen to re-establish himself at the top of the pecking order. Tim Morrissey, with his fancy ideas about becoming a jazz pianist, struck him as the perfect target. Munday’s young lieutenants, the kids who trailed like comet dust in his wake, had made a decent enough start but Morrissey’s obvious vulnerability justified a step-change in the violence. Someone like that - bright, talented, hard-working - had to be taught a lesson. And Munday, with his bitten nails and dragon tats, was only too happy to oblige.

The hand-stamping had been his idea. On Friday evenings, like the good boy he was, Morrissey fetched fish and chips for his mum from the Happy Friar. Munday and half a dozen of the younger kids were already pissed on White Lightning from the corner shop up the road. They were hanging around outside the chippy but they let Morrissey through because that way they got a free meal as well as a laugh or two. When he came out, according to a woman who lived across the road, they followed him along the parade of shops, trying to trip him up, laughing and jeering as he began to run. Beyond the postbox, towards the end of the parade, she lost sight of what happened next but ten minutes later the kids and the tall one who was older were swaggering back along the parade, helping themselves to fish and chips from the two wrappers Morrissey had been carrying, treating passers-by to the usual volley of abuse.

By that time, according to Suttle’s timeline, Tim Morrissey was taking the long route home, hugging the inside of the pavement, his head down, his arms crossed, his broken hands pressed against his ribcage. His mother, horrified, had driven him to A & E, demanding that the damage be photographed as well as X-rayed, dialling 999 on her mobile to bring a patrol car up to the hospital.

The photos and X-rays formed part of the file. As it turned out, Morrissey had been lucky. Four broken fingers, lacerations to both hands, but nothing that wouldn’t - in the fullness of time - heal itself. That, though, wasn’t the problem. An attack this organised, this vile, this vindictive, had shattered what little confidence the boy had left. He’d had enough of school, or study, of playing the piano. From now on, in his mother’s phrase, he wanted to draw the curtains and spend the rest of his life in bed. Munday, in other words, had won.

The attending officer at A & E had got nothing out of Morrissey. Three days later, again at his mother’s insistence, an area car called at the family address. This time he volunteered a statement. It turned out to be a death sentence.

Faraday leafed forward through the file until he found the statement. It was, as usual, transcribed by the interviewing officer but no amount of police-speak could disguise the boy’s gathering sense of hopelessness and terror as he realised what lay in store for him. They’d taken the fish and chips off him. They’d pushed him to the ground, sat on his back, shoved his face into the wet gravel behind the parade of shops, given him a kick or two in the ribs and legs before Munday set about his hands. He’d jumped on them, rubber-soled Doc Martens, full force. Morrissey’s hands were precious to him. He’d tried to scream, to struggle, to somehow get free, but there were too many of them and what few shouts he’d managed had gone unanswered. Then, all of a sudden, the weight on his back had disappeared and all he could hear was the thunder of his heart and the sound of footsteps on the gravel as they all ran away. It had taken him ages to get to his feet. He’d been frightened of them coming back. Getting home had been hard, really hard. He knew his fingers were broken.

At the end of the interview the attending officer had asked for names. Unusually, he’d got them. Dale Sapper. Casey Milligan. Roxanne Claridge. Jason Dominey. Ross McMurdo. And Kyle Munday. Four of the kids were in Morrissey’s class. Roxanne had come along for the ride. Munday, said Morrissey, had been the worst of the lot.

All six had been pulled in for interview by local detectives. Four came voluntarily. Casey Milligan and Munday had to be arrested. All six denied having anything to do with an aggravated assault on Tim Morrissey. Three of them accused him of making it up. Faced with the evidence to the contrary - the X-rays, the photographs - only Dale Sapper showed any sign of changing his story.

The D/S holding the file, aware of the latest blitz on bullying, had seized footware and items of clothing. There was money in the operational budget for forensic analysis in a case like this and the results were back within a fortnight. The lab technicians had drawn a blank on Kyle Munday’s boots - they showed signs of thorough cleaning - but they’d retrieved Morrissey’s DNA from a brand-new pair of Nikes belonging to Casey Milligan, and matching bloodstains from jeans worn by Jason Dominey. Presented with the evidence, both Milligan and Dominey had gone No Comment. Dale Sapper, hauled in for a second interview, said he couldn’t remember what happened. The CPS, in the absence of corroborating evidence, had profound doubts about taking the case to court. Then came the bombshell. Tim Morrissey phoned up one morning and told the D/S he wanted to withdraw his statement. Case closed.

Faraday sat back, staring out of the window. The first drops of rain were falling out of a grey sky, smearing his view of Stamshaw rooftops. A swirl of pigeons swooped low over the car park, then rose again, wheeling towards the ferry port and the harbour. These were Pompey racing pigeons, thought Faraday. And their big mistake was ever coming back.

If Morrissey thought the retraction of his statement would bring his torment to an end, he was wrong. Back at school for the winter term, he was labelled a grass. The harassment, if anything, got worse. Mrs Morrissey made arrangements to put her house on the market. They’d move somewhere else, somewhere half-civilised, somewhere her son might stand some small chance of getting his life back. It never happened.

On 5 November, in a corner of the playing fields half a mile from the celebratory bonfire, Tim Morrissey was stabbed to death. Four wounds to his back and upper chest. Deep slashes to the side of his throat and a single jabbing thrust through his right eye. In the pathologist’s opinion, at least two blades had been used, possibly three. Faraday remembered Suttle’s comment when he went through the post-mortem report. This isn’t a homicide, boss, he’d said. It’s an orgy.

Parsons, only too aware of the intensity of local press coverage, had thrown everything at
Melody
, and Faraday, as Deputy Senior Investigating Officer, had found himself with more D/Cs than he could remember in any previous case. He fired up the Major Incident Room and dispatched detectives to the four corners of the Paulsgrove estate. Media appeals for witnesses from the bonfire celebrations brought a flood of calls, all of them disappointing. Hundreds of people that night reported gangs of youths on the prowl, pissed, aggressive, lippy. Some, with long memories, even produced a name or two. But none of these lines of enquiry got any further than a bunch of revelling kids out for a laugh. Never carry a blade, mate. Not my style, know what I mean?

Within days, increasingly frustrated, Parsons was demanding progress. From the start, after a difficult interview with Morrissey’s mum, Faraday was convinced the answer lay in the earlier file held by the detectives who’d investigated the stamping incident. The knife attack, while a clear escalation in violence, was clearly Munday’s MO. Word on the estate suggested he’d lost it. The bloke had become psychotic. Too much White Lightning. Too many vodkas. Plus all the toot he could lay his hands on. A state like that, you start playing God. Which is precisely what he’d done. Morrissey, the cunt grass, needed a lesson in manners. And Munday had been happy to offer his services.

Faraday had pulled Munday in, plus all five of the kids named by Morrissey after the stamping incident. To no one’s surprise, every single one of them had an alibi for bonfire night. The alibis, corroborated word for word, proved unbreakable. While individuals on the estate exchanged looks at the mention of Munday’s name, no one was prepared to talk, let alone offer a statement. Stuff happens. None of my business. Shame about the kid.

Parsons, twisting Willard’s arm, got clearance to put in Special Ops.
Melody
spent thousands of pounds plotting up surveillance on a series of addresses in Paulsgrove. Steps were taken to tap phone lines and plant bugs. But Munday, with his evil little ways, was streets ahead of them. People buttoned their lips, even behind closed doors. Not because they were clever, or even experienced, but because they were afraid of him. It was common knowledge that Munday had done the kid Morrissey. But common knowledge would cut no ice in court. Who wanted ten minutes in a locked room with Munday’s pit bull?

Faraday read a little further, reliving those grim days of late November, then closed the file. He understood now why Parsons was so keen to extract a little something,
anything
for fuck’s sake, from the shambles of Operation
Melody.
The fact was that Munday and his little band of helpers had humiliated the Major Crime Team. For all their investigative reach - dozens of detectives, thousands of man hours, every covert trick in the book - the sheer brutality of Munday’s MO, his preparedness to maim, even to kill, had put him beyond reach. Here was a man, thought Faraday, who had pitched camp in the darkest corners of a society in free fall. He preyed on the weak and the vulnerable, and gloried in their pain. The fact that he’d got away with it was deeply shaming but the dawning realisation that younger kids were only too prepared to follow in his footsteps was frankly scary. Until, that is, Munday found himself looking at a pair of headlights at half past one in the morning, still playing God.

Faraday reached for his keyboard, glad he’d seen the post-mortem shots. Where Major Crime had failed, some nameless driver had done the world a favour. Tomorrow Jimmy Suttle would be back in harness. Faraday tapped out an email, enquiring whether a red VW had featured in
Melody
’s thousands of actions, knowing in his heart that the driver deserved a medal.

TUESDAY, 20 MAY 2008. 17.45

The Tatchbury Mount Spa Hotel lies on the eastern edge of the New Forest. Internet checks had already told Winter that it offered four-star accommodation, fine dining, a fitness centre, pool, beauty and health spa, two squash courts, plus complimentary membership of a nearby golf club. The accompanying photos showed a newish-looking three-storey building artfully timbered to blend into the surrounding trees. A night’s stay in a double room, on the Spring Escape Package, would cost £184.00.

Winter followed the signs to the parking lot. Esme’s new 4 x 4 occupied the space nearest to the exit and Winter slowed for a moment, gazing at the tinted windows. Why did people like Esme spend another grand or whatever hiding themselves away? Did she really think a sheet of glass would keep her safe?

He parked the Lexus on the far side of the compound. Bazza had lent him a golf umbrella to go with his surroundings and he stepped into the thin drizzle, setting off for a tour of the premises.

The health spa lay at the back of the hotel. A huge expanse of lawn fell away to a line of trees beside a small stream and the architect had glazed the side of the spa that faced the view. Winter was clueless when it came to exercise but imagined you’d be grateful for anything that took your mind off the drudgery of the treadmill. There was a small gazebo beside the health spa and he ducked inside, glad of the shelter. From here, he could see figures beyond the spa’s rain-pebbled glass. Ezzie, in her black and white leotard, was easy to spot. Winter had seen this garment only last week, gatecrashing an impromptu modelling session in Marie’s kitchen.

Winter grinned to himself. One of the pleasures of this new life of his was the slow process of becoming part of someone else’s family. Ezzie hadn’t liked him at first. She had a good law degree from a decent university and had shared her husband’s suspicions of an ex-cop who’d taken Bazza’s shilling. But working for Bazza had forced them together, and when Winter returned from a spell babysitting Marie’s residential development on the Costa Dorada, it was Esme who’d drawn up all the contracts for a raft of brand-new businesses. Between them, she and Winter had launched Mackenzie Confidential, Mackenzie Poolside and Mackenzie Courier, and to their mutual surprise they’d started to get on.