No Lovelier Death (29 page)

‘Just.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Still at work.’ It was a lie, Faraday thought, but only just.

He asked her whether it had been OK with the kids.

‘Of course,
chéri.
You shouldn’t worry. That’s all they are … just kids.’ Her voice was getting fainter and fainter.

Faraday told her to check the battery. Maybe it needed charging. No answer. He watched her inspecting the mobile, then lowered the binos as she turned on her heel and began to walk away.

Suttle was still tracking her through the telephoto. As he took one final shot his mouth curled into a grin.

‘This is seriously weird, boss.’ He glanced across at Faraday. ‘You know that?’

 

It took Winter more time than he’d anticipated to find the house in Copnor, and it was nearly dark before he was sure of the address. Danny Cooper’s auntie opened the door to his knock and he knew at once that she’d recognised him from the previous visit. She stepped back, tried to shut the door in Winter’s face.

‘It’s OK,’ Winter told her. ‘I just need a word with young Danny.’

‘That’s what you said before. The state of the boy, you should see him. You should be ashamed of yourselves. All of you. I told Danny to go to the police. You should be locked up, people like you.’

Winter admired her spirit. When she told him Danny had moved out, he was inclined to believe her.

‘D’you know where he’s gone?’

‘I’ve not the first idea. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’

‘He’s at home then, yeah?’

She stared up at him, saying nothing, but Winter knew he’d got it right. Home was a newly acquired house less than half a mile away. Winter had made a mental note of the address a couple of weeks ago when Bazza had asked him to find a plumber to sort out a new bathroom for the lad.

He ducked back into the Lexus. Salcombe Avenue was five minutes away, a row of terraced houses that went nowhere. Beyond the wall at the end of the road was an acre or so of allotments. The houses backed onto a football pitch beside the railway line. Good place to hide yourself away, Winter thought as he looked for a parking place.

Danny Cooper’s was the end property. It was getting dark by now. The windows were curtained at the front of the house, and Winter gazed up, looking in vain for a chink of light. He went to the door and rang the bell. When he got no response, he knocked. Again, nothing. He bent to the letter box and peered in through the flap. In the dim light he could make out a narrow hall. There was a smell of new carpets. He put his mouth to the flap, yelled Cooper’s name, but nothing broke the silence.

He stepped back from the door. A path led round the side of the house. He squeezed past a bicycle and a water butt and found himself in a tiny back garden. A rusting bath was upended against the rear wall and he recognised the shape of an abandoned khazi under an old sheet. The back door beside the kitchen window was locked. He peered in through the window. An open bottle of milk stood on the draining board and there were a couple of plates in the washing-up bowl in the sink. On the table, against the far wall, he could just make out the headline on the front page of the
News.
He’d clocked the same story on a placard outside a newsagent’s earlier in the evening. I was right, Winter thought. He’s back.

He retraced his steps to the front of the house. A couple more knocks on the door. Still no response. He was looking for his car keys when he heard a door open across the street. Moments later a figure appeared from behind a builder’s van. His jeans were scabbed with plaster and he was wearing a vest. He padded across the road, barefoot. He looked to be in his thirties, maybe older. He hadn’t shaved for days.

‘Help you, mush? Only it’s normally nice and quiet round here.’ Winter said he was looking for a mate. Danny Cooper.

‘Young bloke? Walks with a limp?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about him?’

‘He doesn’t seem to be in.’

‘Fucking right, he isn’t in. Either that or the geezer’s deaf.’ He was looking at the Lexus. ‘Nice motor. That yours?’

Winter nodded. He might be back later, he said. Just in case Danny came home.

‘Sure. Help yourself, mate. But keep the fucking noise down, yeah?’

He gave Winter a parting scowl and disappeared behind the van again. Seconds later a front door slammed shut. Winter bent to the Lexus then checked his watch. Nearly nine o’clock.

 

It was dark by the time Faraday made it home. He’d returned to Major Crime from Bransbury Park, waiting in his office while Suttle transferred the photos to his hard disk and printed off the best of them. His mate wanted the camera back that night and he was keen to get the job tidied up before
Mandolin
took over his life again tomorrow morning.

After a delay sorting out a problem with a USB lead, he slipped the prints into an envelope and handed them to Faraday. In Suttle’s view it would probably be possible to ID all the kids except one.

With Suttle clattering down the back stairs to the car park, Faraday had the Major Crime suite to himself. The big incident room at the end of the corridor was empty and everyone else had gone home.
Mandolin,
it was widely acknowledged, had at last settled down. On every investigation he’d ever known the squad took a while to find its rhythm. Sometimes it was a question of days before that happened, sometimes it was even longer. Given the chaos of Saturday night and all the media nonsense afterwards, Faraday knew they’d been lucky to stay in the driving seat. There’d been a bigger helping of frustration than usual, and no one was minimising the difficulties of finding Jax Bonner, but their collective nerve had held. There might even be a chance of a couple of days off at the weekend.

The thought of the weekend put a smile on his face. Gabrielle had been vague about the arrangements but he’d gathered that J-J was taking a train down from London on Saturday. If he got in before midday they could still make it over to the island for a crack at some decent birding.

He slipped Suttle’s envelope into a drawer, locked his office and took the stairs to the car park. Traffic on the way home was light. He turned the Mondeo round, ready for the morning, then let himself into the house. On special occasions Gabrielle cooked sea bass with Pernod and fennel. Faraday could smell it now.

He stepped into the kitchen, determined to put the evening behind him. Watching Gabrielle in the park had felt deeply wrong. It was almost as if she’d been another woman, a passer-by who’d caught his fancy. There was a feeling of guilt compounded by a sense of helplessness. Why hadn’t he done what Suttle suggested? Why had they never talked this thing through?

She met him at the kitchen door, tilted her face up, put her arms round his neck. She’d been in the bath. He could smell the oils she used. She was kissing him now, telling him how much better she felt, how much saner. She’d found the courage to face the kids, to listen to what they had to say, to tell them that last night didn’t matter, that one day she’d come across this
racaille
who’d stolen her money and give him a piece of her mind.

Racaille
meant scum. Faraday smiled down at her then touched her bruised face with his fingertips.

‘Do you have a name for this
racaille
?’

‘Yes. His little brother was there tonight. He said he was sorry.’

‘The
racaille
?’

‘The little brother. And you know something else,
chéri
? I nearly asked you to come tonight.’ She paused, her eyes wide. ‘Would you have done that? Would you have come to the park with me?’

Faraday thought about the question.

‘There might have been a problem,’ he said at last. ‘There was something else I had to do.’

‘Something important?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ He eyed the stove, wondering whether the sea bass could wait a while.

 

Winter got back to Gunwharf minutes ahead of Misty Gallagher. He’d stopped for a pint at the Cardigan and was contemplating a second when she’d phoned him.

‘Paul? We need to talk. I’m at La Tasca. Baz has just walked out on me. Mind if I come across?’

La Tasca was a Spanish restaurant on the waterfront across from Blake House. It did a decent line in seafood and Winter knew Misty favoured it for special occasions. He told her he’d be back in ten.

The minute he saw her face in the video entry screen, he knew she was pissed. A couple of years back she’d had an apartment of her own in the neighbouring block. Bazza had bought it off-plan and sent her the key the day the contractors left the site. She’d filled it with leather furniture and a zooful of stuffed animals and made Bazza feel very much at home whenever he deigned to drop in. Nowadays, no less obliging, she occupied an impressive waterside property on Hayling Island, another of Bazza’s canny investments in a decent sex life.

She stepped out of the lift and made her way uncertainly down the hall. Winter gave her a kiss at the open door and led her into the apartment. Hot pants and a tight-fitting designer T-shirt normally belonged on much younger bodies but at forty-three Misty Gallagher still turned heads wherever she went. She played the slut with real style. Even Bazza couldn’t do without her.

After dark she drank Bacardi. Winter kept a bottle in the fridge but hadn’t needed it for months.

By the time he returned to the living room, she was draped across the sofa. Her shoulder bag lay open where she’d dropped it on the floor. Winter counted three condoms among the litter of tissues, Marlboro Lights,and chewing gum.

‘And Bazza?’ He settled on the other end of the sofa.

‘Manic, Paul. I haven’t seen him like this since Marie kicked off at Christmas.’

Winter grinned. Marie had bumped into her husband in a lingerie shop in the middle of Pompey. He was buying a handful of expensive French bras. No way would 36C ever have fitted her own gym-honed bust.

‘What was the problem?’

‘He wouldn’t say. Not to begin with. Cheers.’ She winked at him.

‘Old times, eh?’

A year ago, after Winter had finally turned his back on CID, Bazza had celebrated with the loan of his mistress for the night - part golden hallo, part showing-off. Winter and Misty went back years but this had been the first time Winter had understood Bazza’s infatuation for the woman. A week or so later, bloodied in a face-off with one of his new employer’s Southampton rivals, Winter had been dispatched to Dubai for a spot of R & R, Misty had been there, waiting for him, another mark of Bazza’s gratitude.

Misty wanted to know about Bazza’s neighbour. Some judge or other?

‘His name’s Ault. He’s got a big house, just like Baz. He used to have a daughter too. You ever read the papers, Mist? Watch the news on telly?’

‘Never.’

It was true. Misty’s take on the world was shaped almost exclusively by copies of
OK
magazine. Celebrity, she always said, was more fun than car bombs in Baghdad and starving kids in Africa.

‘This bloke’s important to him? The judge?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But why, Paul? He never had any time for people like that before. ’

‘You’re right, Mist. But that’s because he’s never lived next door to them before. They’re all pals now. Him, and Aulty, and the heart surgeon who lives down the end of the road. He’ll be playing fucking golf next.’

‘He calls him Aulty?’

‘Not to his face. You see them together and you wouldn’t believe how respectful Baz can be.’

‘He’s taking the piss then. Must be.’

‘That’s what I thought, Mist, but I’m not sure. Marie loves it.

Thinks Craneswater’s turned Baz into a human being at last. They even go to fucking dinner parties. Can you believe that?’

‘I’m not surprised. She’s been trying to change him for years.

Cow.’

She nodded, fingering the glass. Winter loved her nails, a deep scarlet.

‘So tonight…’ He yawned. ‘What happened?’

Baz, she said, had phoned her last week. Around this time of year he always made a special fuss of her, something to do with when her daughter had been a baby. Trude sometimes came along on these occasions but she was in the Canaries at the moment, making her name as a rep, and so it had been just the pair of them at Mist’s favourite corner table in La Tasca.

‘The tapas, Paul. Those little prawny things on soft roe. To die for.’ She reached for him, extended a hand, pulled him close. She wasn’t quite as pissed as Winter had thought.

‘And Baz?’ he enquired.

‘Just talked about the judge all the time. This Aulty. He’s been abroad somewhere, is that right?’

‘The Pacific. On some yacht or other.’

‘And Baz owes him?’

‘Big time. The judge and his missus are on the plane as we speak.

Should be back tomorrow morning.’

He told her about Saturday’s party, about the bodies beside the pool.

‘Dead?’ She struggled up onto one elbow. ‘Baz never said anything about that.’

‘He wouldn’t. I think he’s ashamed of it.’

‘Baz? Never. He doesn’t do shame.’

‘That’s yesterday’s Baz, Mist. Now it’s different. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.’

She was still thinking about the bodies. She had a pool of her own, another token of Bazza’s undying affection. She spent most of the summer beside it, stretched out on a recliner, surrounded by bottles of tanning lotion and yet more celebrity magazines.

‘He’ll have to drain it and start again,’ she said. ‘Marie would freak out if he didn’t.’

‘Drain what?’

‘The pool.’

‘But the bodies weren’t in the water, Mist.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Just close is enough. She’ll have got the bleach in by now. She’ll want to scrub the whole thing down. Baz too, probably. ’

Winter grinned at her. This was a new take on Saturday’s tragedy.