Beyond Reach (9 page)

The message was tagged ‘Urgent’. It had come from Jimmy Suttle. He clicked on the email and rubbed his eyes. Suttle was replying to his earlier enquiry about the red VW.
I remember a red camper van
, he’d written.
It belonged to Jeanette Morrissey.

 

Winter sat in the Renault at the side of the road. Detective Chief Inspector Perry Madison had once been second in command on the Major Crime Team. The last time Winter had seen him was a couple of years ago. Now Madison sat behind the steering wheel, stripping the foil from another wafer of gum.

‘It’s true, then?’ he said. ‘About you and Mackenzie?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you sleep easy with that? No regrets?’

‘Not one.’

‘Nothing you miss?’

‘Fuck all.’

‘
Nothing?
Not the blokes? Not the crack? Not jumping on the bad guys?’

‘I don’t miss any of it.’ Winter shook his head. ‘At the end they fucked me over. I get a sweeter deal from Mackenzie than I ever got from any of you lot.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘I’m not talking money; I’m talking support, back-up. I enjoy going to work, believe it or not. And that’s something I’d given up on.’

Madison nodded, staring out into the darkness of the New Forest. He’d never been good at listening and nothing had changed since. He took what he wanted from every conversation and forgot about the rest. Winter had never met anyone so punchy, so totally dedicated to his own self-advancement.

‘And you’re telling me this is work?’ Madison gestured at the distance between them. ‘You’re Stu Norcliffe’s private eye?’

‘Mackenzie’s. There’s a difference.’

‘Yeah? Like how?’

‘Mackenzie means it. She’s his daughter. Norcliffe will kill you, believe me. But Mackenzie will do it slower.’

‘That’s bollocks.’ Winter caught Madison’s soft laugh. ‘Esme’s a grown-up. She’s making a choice here. Mackenzie doesn’t own her. Neither does her husband.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you ought to be talking to her, not me.’

‘Maybe I have.’

Madison glanced across. For the first time Winter had caught his attention.

‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘I’d know.’

‘You think she couldn’t disguise it? Play you along? You think she’s too thick for that?’

‘I know when a woman’s lying. Esme doesn’t lie.’

Winter held his gaze a moment, then looked away. The thought that a woman having an affair never lied was a joke, but Madison was way too thick to spot the irony. Winter could smell the spearmint on his breath. He’s driving home, he thought. He’s going back to the missus with his stage yawns and his complaints about the pressure at work. I’m fucked, sweetheart, he’d announce. Too right.

‘Are you in love with her?’

‘Who?’

‘Ezzie.’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Wrong, my friend. That’s exactly what it is. In case you’re wondering, I need to know.’

‘And why might that be?’

‘Because it affects the outcome. Tomorrow morning I have to report back to Mr M. He’s going to want to know how serious all this is because that way he can come up with something sensible.’

‘Sensible how?’

‘Sensible in the way of a plan. Think of all those strategy meetings you must go to. It’s the same principle. We have to scope the options. We have to weigh the odds.’

‘What makes you think I’m still in the Job?’

‘Your warrant card.’ Winter nodded at the dashboard. ‘I expect you swiped yourself out of the car park this evening. Major Crime, is it? Or are you somewhere else now? Either way, you’re still a copper.’

There was a long silence. Winter wound down his window an inch or so. He could hear the stir of wind in the nearby trees.

Finally Madison turned to look at him.

‘If you’re trying to frighten me, forget it. I’ve seen off bigger people than Mackenzie.’

‘Sure. It’s tricky, though, isn’t it? Whether you like it or not, Mackenzie’s the closest Pompey comes to a proper Level Three. Screwing his daughter might not be a great career move.’ Level Three was intel-speak for top criminal.

‘My career’s in fucking pieces already.’ Madison shrugged.

‘How come?’

‘Too many people hate me.’

It was true. Winter had never met anyone with such a talent for making enemies.

‘So how is it with Esme?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I meant in terms of where we go next. You carry on? Keep screwing at your mate’s house down the road? Only this is the point where it stops being covert. As of now, my friend, you have to make a decision.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘If you decide you can’t stop, the shit hits the fan. In no particular order, a number of people come knocking at your door. One of them will be Stu. The guy’s a brick shithouse. Another might be Mr M. Your missus won’t be pleased. Neither will Professional Standards. Either way, you can kiss goodbye to your marriage, maybe the Job, maybe a whack of your pension, and probably Ezzie.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Because the fairy tale’s over. Think kids, for a start. She’s got three of them.’

Madison didn’t move. Just his jaws, chewing and chewing.

‘And what’s the other option?’

‘You bin it. You call it a day.’

‘
It
has a name.’

‘I know. I’ve been there.’

‘Not where I am, you haven’t.’

‘You’re wrong. But you know the difference? Mine was legal. I had no wife to cheat on.’

‘So what happened?’ There was a hint of interest in Madison’s question.

‘Her name was Maddox. And if you’re really interested I still get the odd postcard.’

‘Was this the looker from the knocking shop in Old Portsmouth? The student you were shagging when you had the medical problem?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I heard about that. To be honest, I never believed a word.’

‘Why not?’

‘You?’ He looked across at Winter again, then laughed and shook his head. ‘Never.’

Winter let the insult pass. He checked his watch.

‘I need a decision,’ he said. ‘Preferably before the fucking sun comes up.’

The silence stretched and stretched. Finally Madison reached for his keys and stirred the engine into life. Then he changed his mind. The engine coughed and stopped.

‘Esme’s been frank,’ he said. ‘That’s one of the reasons I love her. We talk a lot. About pretty much everything. She trusts me completely. Maybe she shouldn’t.’

‘What are you saying?’ Winter stared at him.

‘I’m a copper. I know things.’ Madison was smiling now. ‘Where all this is concerned, your Mr M should mind his step.’

WEDNESDAY, 21 MAY 2008. 09.44

Jimmy Suttle settled himself in the spare chair beside Faraday’s desk and flicked quickly through the file.

‘Here, boss.’ One finger was anchored halfway through a statement. ‘She made a complaint about harassment. Kids had been round all hours. One of them had given her precious camper van a bit of a kicking.’

‘And it was definitely a VW?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Red?’

‘According to the PC who interviewed her, yeah.’

Faraday’s hand strayed towards the phone. The obvious thing was to pass on this piece of information. He’d no idea how far Steph Callan had got but this might spare her budget a great deal of overtime.

Suttle hadn’t finished. ‘You want me to phone her, boss? Find out whether she’s still the owner?’

‘No.’ Faraday reached for his car keys. ‘Remind me where she lives.’

 

Paulsgrove is a part-privatised council estate that sprawls over the lower reaches of Portsdown Hill. Built to offer a new start for thousands of bombed-out Pompey families after the war, it was once a byword for peace and quiet, decent-sized gardens and fine views of the city below. Jeanette Morrissey occupied a house on the northern edges of the estate. Behind the property reared the upper slopes of the hill, gashed a startling white to reveal the chalk bones beneath.

Faraday pulled his ageing Mondeo to a halt to take a call. It was DCI Parsons. She’d just been talking to Jimmy Suttle.

‘He tells me you’ve got a lead on the vehicle from the hit-and-run. ’

‘That’s right.’

‘Tying it to the woman Morrissey?’

‘That’s the supposition. Nothing’s confirmed. She may have sold the thing, she may have moved, left the area, whatever. We just don’t know.’

‘Action it, Joe. Find her. Talk to her. You’re working on
Melody
now. And I’m still the SIO, in case you’d forgotten.’

Faraday nodded. The phone had already gone dead. He looked across at the house. Suttle had given him 33 Harleston Road. There were flowers in the downstairs window and uncollected empty milk bottles on the front step. No sign of a red VW camper.

He got out of the car and pushed in through the gate. The garden had been recently tidied: neatly trimmed borders around a tiny oblong of grass and newly forked earth at the base of a rose bush. He rang the door bell, waited, rang again. Six months ago Jeanette Morrissey had been a practice nurse at the health centre in the middle of the estate. Maybe she was still at work.

He tried the bell one final time. Turning to leave, he became aware of a figure in the next-door garden. He was elderly, late sixties at least. With a chamois and a bucket he was about to clean his front windows.

‘You after Mrs M?’

‘That’s right.’

‘She’s off out. You can catch her later.’

‘Is she at work, do you happen to know?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s gone looking for a hire car.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘That camper van of hers got nicked, didn’t it?’

 

Bazza Mackenzie had taken delivery of his new Bentley Continental only last week. The colour - Neptune Blue - was a nod to Marie to keep her sweet but everything else in the car told Winter that Bazza was turning yet another corner in his life. The bird’s-eye maple veneer, the three-spoke hide-trimmed sports steering wheel, the six-litre engine that could haul several tons of motor car to 60 mph in less than five seconds. Even with the roof down, the Bentley smelled of power and money. For a hundred grand, Bazza assured Winter, you could buy the ride of your dreams.

They were purring north along the A3. At 90 mph, there was barely a whisper from the engine.

‘Tell me more, mush.’ Bazza was wearing a pair of Pirelli sunglasses against the brightness of the morning. They didn’t suit him.

‘About Madison?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Late forties, maybe a bit older. Fitness fanatic, always has been. Used to go fell running or whatever they do over mountains. Binned it after a bit of an incident in the Lake District.’

Fell runners, Winter explained, often ran with mates. That way, especially at night or in shit weather, they could keep an eye out for each other. Madison, though, would stop for no one.

‘So what happened?’

‘They were in some kind of race and his buddy dropped out. It was three o’clock in the morning pissing down with rain but Madison just kept going. The way I heard it he wanted to keep to his precious fucking schedule. Worked, too. I think he won in the end.’

‘And this mate of his?’

‘Turned out he’d broken his leg. Nearly died of exposure.’

‘Nice.’

Bazza was brooding. On the phone, first thing, when Winter had broken the news about the new man in Ezzie’s life, he’d been expecting a major ruck. Instead, Bazza had simply grunted. Stu was driving down to see a client near Guildford. He and Winter needed to meet up with him, have a pow-wow, decide what to do next. Earlier Winter had been impressed by the rare display of self-control. Maybe one-hundred-grand convertibles bought you a certain peace of mind. Fat chance.

‘What did this guy Madison say about Ezzie?’

‘He said he loved her. He said they were really tight.’

‘Proper job, then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Cunt.’

Winter, wondering which one Bazza meant, kept quiet. His only daughter shagging the Filth. Unthinkable.

‘So how long has all this been kicking off?’

‘He didn’t say. Stu should know.’

‘But what do you think?’

‘A while. Has to be.’

‘You’re right, mush. She’s been grinning fit to bust for months. Marriage doesn’t make you
that
fucking happy.’ He took the Bentley up to a hundred and ten. ‘Stu must have had his head up his arse. Twat.’

 

Beddington Manor lay behind a pair of electronic gates in the rolling Surrey countryside north of Guildford. A long curve of gravelled drive led to an Elizabethan manor house, perfectly restored. Bazza pulled the Bentley into a half-circle and killed the engine. Beyond the helicopter pad, a peacock strutted the length of an ornamental lawn. Closer, in a fenced compound, were half a dozen animals.

Bazza took off his glasses, got out, had a proper look.

‘What are they, mush?’

‘No idea.’

They strolled down to the edge of the lawn until they were standing beside the fence. The animals, lazily cropping the grass, took no notice. Bazza was speculating about some fancy breed of goat when Winter heard footsteps behind them.

‘Llamas, Baz. Pedigrees. There’s more round the back. The guy’s turning a hobby into a small fortune.’

It was Stuart Norcliffe. The last time Winter had seen him was a month or two back. Then, he’d been in the rudest of health, chasing his kids around Bazza’s Craneswater garden. Now, he looked like one of life’s windfalls, diminished, bruised, discarded.

They went into the house. Coffee was waiting in a sunny lounge overlooking a lake on the other side of the property. The owner, Stu explained, had already left for the executive airport at Biggin Hill. He was due to meet a couple of clients in Monaco for a late lunch.