No Lovelier Death (16 page)

‘Would that be Paul Winter?’

‘Yeah. Fat bastard. Needs to lose a few pounds. Not that he ever fucking listens.’

‘I’m looking at him now.’

‘You are?’ The news made Mackenzie cackle with laughter. ‘Make sure the old cunt picks up the tab then. Not that he’s paying.’

The line went dead. There was a smile on Berriman’s face. ‘Respect.’ He nodded at Winter then looked at his empty plate.

‘How about another couple of those croissants?’

 

Faraday was on the phone to Gail Parsons when Suttle dropped by his office in Major Crime. The DCI was up in London with Willard, attending an emergency get-together at the Home Office. Media coverage of the weekend’s events in Sandown Road had alarmed Downing Street and one of Brown’s special advisers wanted a full report on the new Prime Minister’s desk by close of play. There was talk of a new task force to explore something Parsons called the urban interface. Faraday hadn’t got a clue what she was talking about but assumed it wouldn’t do her career prospects any harm. Just now she needed to know whether there was anything tasty she could put in the Home Office pot.

‘Not much, I’m afraid.’ Faraday summarised the new intelligence about Rachel leaving the party. The assumption was that Hughes had also found his way next door.

‘And that’s all? Ninety-four interviews and that’s it?’ She sounded disappointed, and Faraday found himself wondering what kinds of promises she’d been making. All those extra bodies she’d won from Willard came at a price.

‘It’s early days, boss. If anything happens, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘You don’t sound hopeful.’

‘I hope I sound realistic.’

‘Realistic’s fine, Joe. Realistic has its place. Up here they deal in fairy dust. As you well know.’

Faraday, waving Suttle into the spare chair, started to laugh. So far he’d never associated Parsons with a sense of humour. She must have the door closed, he thought. And she must be more than desperate.

‘I’ll bell you,’ he said. ‘If anything turns up.’

She began to protest again, telling him to look harder, make a few calls, talk to Jerry Proctor, unearth
anything
for God’s sake that might keep these people off her back. Then, without warning, he was looking at a photograph that Suttle had slipped onto his desk. The resolution wasn’t perfect and one corner of the shot had gone inexplicably black but there was absolutely no doubt about the face. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been dead beside a swimming pool. Now this.

He peered hard at the digital readout across the bottom. 23.08, it read. 4/8/07.

Parsons was still telling him to get his act together. Glancing up at Suttle, he told her to hang on a moment.

‘Where did this come from?’

‘Scenes of Crime recovered it from Rachel’s bedroom first thing.

Jerry had it shipped it across to Netley and asked for priority. It turns out to be Gareth Hughes’s phone.’

Faraday was still staring at the photograph. Someone’s penis filled Rachel’s mouth. She had her eyes closed and she seemed to be smiling, though it was hard to tell. The shot had been taken from above, presumably by whoever she was pleasuring. Light gleamed from wall tiles at the back.

‘So that’s Gareth Hughes?’

‘I’d say not, boss. Hughes was ginger.’

Faraday looked harder. Suttle was right. The pubic hair was clearly black.

‘Who then?’

‘We’re still working on it but a copy of this has gone to the blokes doing the Aults’ house. They’ve matched the background against the upstairs bathroom. It’s a perfect fit.’

Faraday nodded. The old man’s study, he thought. The kids pissing all over the family’s precious photos. Matt Berriman hauling them off. Then taking Rachel along to the bathroom for a quiet chat.

‘So how did this get on to Hughes’s phone?’

‘It was mailed from another mobe.’

‘Did we seize a mobe from Berriman?’

‘No. I checked. But we’ve got the sender’s number and Netley’s checking with the headquarters Phone Unit. They should come up with caller ID.’

‘So Berriman could have given his phone to someone else? Someone who left early? Just in case?’

‘Could be. Or he hid it after we turned up mob-handed. He knows the house, remember. Either way, this is a guy who thinks things through. Which, in my book, makes him sus.’

‘It does, son. It does.’

At last he returned to Parsons. She was still on the phone. By now he was beaming.

‘Bit of a turn-up, boss. Are you sitting down?’

 

Winter was interested in Berriman’s choice of reading. Berriman had rolled himself a spliff from the contents of the holdall and the bag still lay open on the pavement beside the table.

‘Shakespeare?’

‘Sure.’

‘Just for pleasure?’

‘No.’ He produced a lighter, expelled a plume of smoke. Heads turned downwind.

Winter wanted to know more. A Somerstown boy tucked up with
King Lear
? The combination was hard to believe.

‘You should get a life then, Mr W. I know blokes who read this stuff every day of the week.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Not at all. Why me? Why now? Because it was Rach’s idea.’

‘She put you up to it?’

‘She said I ought to go back into education. She suggested sports management. I don’t think she meant to patronise me but that’s the way it felt.’

‘So you went for the Bard?’ Winter nodded down at the book. ‘Just to make it hard for yourself?’

‘Sure.’ Berriman ignored the dig. ‘It’s a degree course. Comparative Drama. Shakespeare. Ibsen. Arthur Miller. All the greats.’

‘Here? At the uni?’

‘Yeah. I talked to the admissions people and they said I had a year to get my shit together. A couple of half-decent A levels and I’d be in. It’s cheaper here, for one thing. Plus Oxford’s not that far away.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.’

‘So you hadn’t given up? On Rachel?’

‘Never.’

‘Because you knew you could get her back?’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t take the answer any further.

Winter glanced down at the paperback again, trying to measure the journey Berriman would have to make from a handful of GCSEs to full-time study. Was it a fantasy? Some half-arsed bid to get back inside Rachel Ault’s knickers? Or did he mean to stay the course? He looked up, watching Berriman making another call. 22.3 seconds, he thought. After five years thrashing up and down that fucking pool.

At length Winter took the conversation back to the party. His guvnor, Bazza Mackenzie, was less than pleased at what had happened. It was Winter’s job to come up with some answers. Preferably before Thursday.

‘Why Thursday?’

‘Because that’s when Rachel’s mum and dad arrive back. Baz phoned them last night. The father’s in a terrible state.’

‘I know. I phoned them myself. I’m not sure answers are what he’s after. What he’s after is his daughter back. How do you get round that?’

‘You don’t. You leave it.’ Winter frowned, trying to imagine this conversation. ‘So what did you say?’

‘I said I was really, really sorry. I meant it. I said she was a lovely girl.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah … truly fucking outstanding.’

For the first time Winter detected a catch in his voice. He remembered the number he’d found in the paperback. Berriman must have got it from Bazza.

‘Bazza wants names,’ Winter said at length. ‘And, given where Rachel ended up, I’d say he’s got a bit of an interest.’

‘Sure. I hope he’s a patient man.’

‘So why don’t you tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Tell me the way you see it.’ He beckoned him closer. When Berriman didn’t move, Winter leaned forward across the table. ‘You’re still in love with the girl. She means everything to you. You spend half the night reading
King Lear
, the rest of the time wondering how else you can get her back. Then, bang, she’s gone. She hasn’t run off. She isn’t in Australia. Someone’s killed her. Now that’s a situation a bloke like you isn’t going to walk away from. Not when you were there.’

‘There?’

‘At the party. Feeling the way you do about her.’

‘I see.’ Berriman hadn’t taken his eyes off Winter’s face. ‘Go on.’

‘So tell me what’s gone through that brain of yours. Tell me what you’d do in my situation. Given that Mr Mackenzie has absolutely no fucking time for patience.’

‘I’d jack it in.’

‘You mean that? Seriously?’

‘Yeah. I’d jack it in because you want names and there’s no way I can help you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s not what we do. Not where I come from.’

‘Because I’m asking the heavy questions? Because I was a copper? You think that’s grassing?’

‘Yeah. Once a copper …’ He shrugged then glanced at his watch.

‘What about Mackenzie?’

‘Mackenzie’s different. But the principle’s the same. This is between me and a bunch of other guys. It’s got fuck all to do with you, and fuck all to do with Mackenzie. We sort it out the way we sort it out. Mackenzie would know about that. Back in his time it would have been exactly the same for him.’ He offered Winter a lazy smile. ‘Or have I got that wrong?’

‘Not at all, son, but no one died. Least of all in your own back garden.’

‘So what?’ He got to his feet then stretched. ‘Shit happens.’

He bent for the bag, hoisted it to his shoulder, then nodded a thanks for the coffee and croissants. Winter scribbled his mobile number on the back of the bill and handed it across.

‘You’ll need this,’ he said. ‘Once you’ve had a think about it.’

Berriman glanced at the number, folded it into his jeans pocket and then sauntered away. Two girls at a nearby table watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared. Then came the
beep-beep
of a car horn and Winter turned back to see a driver waiting for the lights to change. She raised a hand, looking directly at Winter, and it was a moment before he made the connection. Nikki Dunlop, he thought. Driving a BMW.

MONDAY, 13 AUGUST 2007
. 13.10

It was Jimmy Suttle who brought news of the new Facebook page to the hastily convened management meeting. His late arrival drew a tight-lipped reprimand from Gail Parsons but Suttle barely spared her a glance.

He handed round a set of photocopies. Even Parsons couldn’t hide her curiosity.

‘This went up this morning.’ He’d checked with Facebook. ‘Around half ten.’

Faraday found himself looking at a photo of Rachel Ault. She was leaning against a ship’s rail, her head framed by the wide blue spread of Portsmouth Harbour. The sun was in her eyes and someone must have cracked a joke because the grin had a spontaneity that seemed to Faraday totally unposed. Her friend Sam had been right, he thought. She was a lovely girl.

The page was titled ‘Rachelsbash’ and it took Suttle to point out the obvious.

‘Think RIP,’ he said. ‘Think memorial. It’s the kids’ way of saying goodbye.’

He was right. The page was full of tributes from her friends. Some were awkward. Others were over-sincere. A couple simply buckled under the weight of grief. But every single one was garlanded with lines of kisses. ‘You were chocolate,’ one girl called Maddie had written. ‘Ever in our memories, always in our dreams,’ someone else had managed. ‘LVU4EVR’ went a third, ‘SLPWLL’.

Once, Faraday thought, you said all this with flowers. Now you got together with your buddies, found a little corner of the Internet, and built the victim a shrine.

Another tribute caught his eye at the foot of the page.

Faraday mouthed the lines, tasting the blank verse.

‘
King Lear
.’ Suttle had seen it too. ‘Act Four, Scene Seven.’

Heads turned round the table.

‘Shit, Jimmy …’ It was Proctor. ‘How come you know that?’

‘I googled it.’

‘Impressive. I thought kids these days never picked up a book in anger?’

‘Wrong. These are posh kids, remember? Grammar School kids. They’ve got a bit of class, a bit of style. This is turning into a national wake. It’ll be the chavs’ turn next. We hold our breath.’

‘What are you expecting?’

‘T-shirts. My money’s on
The Craneswater Ruck Survivors’ Club.
Up on eBay by the weekend. Serious bidding starts on Sunday.’

Another look from Parsons failed to silence the laughter. She called for a minute of silence in memory of Rachel Ault and Gareth Hughes. Heads bowed round the table and even Proctor closed his eyes.

The meeting resumed. Parsons asked Faraday to summarise the results of Jimmy Suttle’s trawl through the interview transcripts. Faraday did so then flagged the obvious lines of enquiry.

‘Number one, we’ve got ourselves a timeline. It’s not perfect, in fact in places it’s bloody wobbly, but it’s a start. We know when it all kicked off, and once we get a look at the mobe images this afternoon we might be able to tie some of the damage to particular individuals. They’ll become the subject of a separate criminal damage inquiry which I’m guessing we’ll offload. As far as Rachel is concerned, we can put her in the party until about eleven. That’s when the kids trashed her dad’s office. After that she was locked in the upstairs bathroom with Matt Berriman. The next time we see her is in the kitchen, thirty minutes or so later, en route into the garden. She’s very upset and she appears to be bleeding from some kind of facial injury. So the assumption has to be that she’s off next door. She’s had enough. The lad Hughes must have joined her at some point because Mackenzie’s wife found them both by the pool. But we don’t know when he turned up or how he got there. What we
do
have is this. Jimmy?’