No Lovelier Death (30 page)

‘Did you tell him that?’

‘I couldn’t. Like I said, he never went into details. It was just the judge. What he was going to say to this bloke. How Baz was going to make it up to him.’

‘And you didn’t ask? Didn’t enquire further?’

‘I couldn’t, my love. You know Baz when he gets like this. He cops a serious moody and there’s absolutely fuck all you can say. He never listens at the best of times. Tonight I might as well not have been there. You know what I mean?’

She’d loosened the belt of Winter’s trousers. Her hand slipped inside. The nails, he thought.

‘So what happened in the end?’

‘He walked out on me. I thought he’d gone to the loo. After half an hour, a situation like that, you start getting worried. He’s not that young any more, Baz. You can tell sometimes. There’s a nice young waiter at La Tasca. Enrique. I asked him to pop into the gents, have a look. No Baz. Bastard.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘I’ve no idea. He’d been talking about Westie earlier. That was another thing.’

‘Westie?’ Winter’s heart sank.

‘Tall guy? Black? Heavy?’

‘I know who Westie is, Mist.’ He closed his eyes a moment, then lay back as she eased his trousers away from his belly. ‘So why would he want to see Westie?’

‘I’m not saying he did see him. It’s just the last thing he said, that’s all.’

‘Like what? What did he say?’

‘He said there was no point hanging around. And then he said there was no point paying a fortune to someone like Westie and not getting value for money.’ She ducked her head for a moment or two. He loved the warmth of her tongue. ‘How’s that, Paulie?’

‘Beautiful, Mist.’

‘Faster?’

‘No.’

‘Slower?’

‘Yeah. You remember that huge fucking bed in Dubai? At the Burj?

I’ve still got the oils I nicked. They’re in the bathroom. You want me to get them?’

He opened one eye, waiting for an answer. Misty’s head came up. She pulled off the T-shirt then loosened her hair so it tumbled over her naked shoulders. Then she grinned at him.

‘We’ll get round to the oils later, my love. Never talk to a girl when her mouth’s full.’

THURSDAY, 16 AUGUST 2007.
03.55

Faraday had set his mobile on silent alarm. Already half-awake, he felt the tremor through the pillow. He stole along the upstairs landing, washed and shaved, made himself a pot of tea among the wreckage from last night’s meal.

By half past four he was on the road.

The Family Liaison Officer, D/C Jessie Williams, lived in Fareham and Faraday had made arrangements to pick her up in the car park of the Marriot Hotel at the top of the city. He found her standing beside her Fiesta, eyeing a spectacular sunrise. After a year on Major Crime she’d won herself a solid reputation among the more experienced detectives. She knew how to get alongside people, to buffer them from news worse than they could possibly imagine yet still preserve a certain distance. And it was from that distance, as Faraday knew, that you so often conjured a result.

They drove north. Even at this time in the morning the traffic was beginning to thicken. By six o’clock they were on the approach road to Heathrow’s Terminal Four. Jessie had the travel details. She’d already contacted Qantas for an update on the Aults’ flight. QF319 was slightly ahead of schedule. With luck they should be coming through Customs within the next half-hour.

Faraday parked in the multi-storey. Scenes of Crime had recovered photos of Ault from the wreckage of the judge’s study. The least-damaged showed a tall figure in his mid-fifties. The shot had been taken on a marina pontoon. He was wearing a strawberry-coloured shirt and a pair of patched jeans. He had a thatch of greying hair swept back from a high forehead. Horn-rimmed glasses gave his face a certain sternness, though nothing could hide the fact that he was enjoying himself. He was carrying a canvas holdall in one hand and a life jacket in the other. He looked fit, tanned and very obviously happy. God help him, thought Faraday, pocketing the photo.

A steady stream of passengers was already emerging into the Arrivals Hall. These were overnight long-haul travellers, the walking dead, their trolleys piled high with luggage. Faraday found a space behind the rope while Jessie fetched a tray of coffees from a nearby Starbucks. By the time she got back Faraday was deep in conversation with a Qantas official. It seemed there’d been a problem with Mr Ault en route. He’d complained of chest pains and his wife was insisting on a check-up. They were still airside while staff organised an ambulance to take him to nearby Hillingdon Hospital. It might be best to meet them there.

Faraday had no option but to agree. He got directions to the hospital and finished his cappuccino in the car. The hospital was fifteen minutes away. By the time he’d found the A & E department it was nearly half past seven. Late yesterday he’d agreed a meet with Jerry Proctor at Sandown Road in case the Aults wanted to take a preliminary look at their property. The Scenes of Crime team anticipated releasing the house by mid-morning and Jerry was standing by to brief them.

Faraday punched in Proctor’s number. The phone was on divert. He explained the delay at Heathrow and asked Jerry to get in touch. Pocketing the phone, he looked up to find Jessie on her feet beside him.

‘This is Mrs Ault.’ She indicated a slim pretty woman in a rumpled cotton suit. She was younger than Faraday had anticipated and, to no one’s surprise, she looked exhausted.

‘Call me Belle.’ Her hand felt cold. ‘I’m afraid Peter may be a while yet.’

The pain, she said, had come on after they’d left Singapore, first in his chest, later in his tummy. Personally she was putting it down to stress though it made absolute sense to make sure.

‘He’s very fit, Peter. I can’t remember a day’s illness since goodness knows when. It’s just … all this …’ The gesture took in the pair of them. Then Faraday felt her hand tighten on his arm. ‘Please don’t think we’re not grateful. We are. It’s ungodly, getting up at this hour. It’s just hard to know what to expect any more. One moment you’re floating round the South Pacific, having the time of your life. The next …’ Another sentence unfinished.

Jessie suggested more coffees. There was a machine in the corner. A staff nurse approached. Somebody from the airline must have phoned because she seemed to understand the situation. She said there was another room available, more private. There was a canteen nearby as well, if they needed something to eat.

Faraday was famished. Belle Ault shook her head. Jessie departed for the canteen with an order for bacon sandwiches while Faraday and Belle followed the staff nurse. The room was furnished with families in mind. Two lines of mock-leather armchairs faced each other across a couple of feet of stained carpet tiles, while the corners of the room were piled high with toys. Faraday did his best to spare Rachel’s mother the sight of a line of stuffed panda bears.

Uncomfortable with the silence, she began to talk. The voyage, it seemed, had been the experience of a lifetime. The yacht had once belonged to Peter. It was called
La Serenissima.
He’d loved it to bits but it represented a great deal of money and he’d been gallant enough to sell it when they’d needed funds to buy the house in Sandown Road. The buyers had been very good pals of theirs, equally mad on sailing, and the husband - just retired - had decided to spend the best part of a year on a voyage around the world.

‘We were thrilled, of course. That was something that Peter himself had always had in mind. Then our pals threw a dinner party one night and they came up with this plan. They’d divided the voyage into a dozen or so stages. Each stage was in a little white envelope and after dinner we all drew lots to join them on the voyage. Peter’s face when she opened our envelope … Fiji to Auckland, via Vanuatu. It was a dream come true. We were so, so lucky.’

Mention of Vanuatu drew Faraday’s attention. Not so long ago he’d been in a relationship with an Australian video producer called Eadie Sykes. It hadn’t worked out between them, but Faraday had been left with a deep curiosity about Eadie’s birthplace.

‘Did you come across a place called Ambrym? Part of what we used to call the New Hebrides?’

‘We did. Beautiful spot. Enchanting. We anchored in the bay there. Peter caught a bucketful of mullet and we barbecued them that night on the beach. The stars. The heat. We were spoiled to death …’ She tipped her head back, instantly regretting the phrase, and Faraday found himself wondering how many more of these traps awaited her in the weeks to come. Readjusting after a trip like this would be difficult under any circumstances. To lose your home and your only child in the space of a single phone call was inconceivable.

She picked up the conversation again but her heart wasn’t in it. From Vanuatu, she said, they’d headed south on a course that would finally take them to New Zealand. There’d been flying fish and schools of dolphins. They’d been tracked by an albatross for an entire day and caught a faraway glimpse of a spouting whale. The weather had begun to get colder. They’d even discussed using sleeping bags at night. Then the phone had rung and it was suddenly time to go home. Home was another word she clearly found painful.

She fumbled for a tissue. Blew her nose.

‘How has your husband taken it?’ A woman’s question. Jessie’s.

‘Badly. As you’d expect. Rachel meant everything to him. I don’t know whether you’re aware of this but she’s not his daughter at all. She’s mine, from my previous marriage. But it was Peter who was always there for her, Peter who was the real daddy in her life, Peter who pushed her in the swimming days, Peter who dreamed about Oxbridge. All that’s gone now, just…’ she was looking blankly at the wall, the tissue balled in her fist ‘… gone. No wonder the poor man’s got pains in his chest. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t anyone?’

The question, unanswerable, hung in the air. At length Jessie suggested they rearrange the furniture, push two armchairs together, face to face, create a makeshift bed. She’d find a blanket, let Belle sleep a bit. She must be exhausted. Belle nodded. It had been a long flight.

Faraday got to his feet and went to look for the staff nurse. She found him a blanket and said that Peter Ault should be through by midday. The tests so far had revealed nothing. Faraday glanced at his watch. 09.56. Heading back to the family room, he became aware of vibrations from his phone. Jerry, he thought.

He was wrong. It was Suttle.

‘Boss? Is that you? We’ve got another body. Division phoned it in ten minutes ago. I’m going out there now.’

‘Where? Who?’ Faraday was lost.

‘A guy called Danny Cooper, boss. As advertised.’

 

It was Proctor who took Suttle out to Salcombe Avenue. A Scenes of Crime team was already driving down from Cosham and he needed to brief them before they started on the house.

‘So what happened?’

‘Apparently this guy’s got a girlfriend. She doesn’t kip there every night but she turned up first thing because they were going to Liverpool for a couple of days.’

The girl, he said, had a key to the house. She’d let herself in and made tea before taking a cup upstairs. When she got to the bedroom, she thought something was wrong because the door was open and she could see a pillow on the floor. The pillow was covered in blood.

‘And?’

‘She found him half in bed, half out. Multiple stab wounds. Blood up the walls, all over the sheets, everywhere. His throat was cut as well. Very Gothic.’

She’d freaked out, he said, and run over the road to a neighbour. The woman had come back to the house to check for herself then phoned 999. A traffic car got there first, sealed off the road, did the business. The call came to Major Crime just after nine o’clock.

‘How do we know it’s Danny Cooper?’

‘Driver ID in his wallet. Plus there’s mail downstairs that suggests the house belongs to him. His cards have gone and there’s no money around so we can tick the robbery box. You’re asking for a lot of grief, though, just for a couple of quid.’

Suttle agreed. He was already thinking about Jax Bonner. ‘Means of entry? Anyone found a knife?’

‘Too early to say. The only people to have gone up there are the two women and the P/C. Jenny Cutler’s still duty callout so we’re expecting her in a couple of hours. My lads will be in there once they’re suited up.’

Jenny Cutler was the forensic pathologist who’d attended the scene at Sandown Road. One strike for continuity, thought Suttle.

He wound down the window. The turn into Salcombe Avenue was barred by blue and white
No Entry
tape. A wave of his warrant card took them past the outer cordon.

Proctor found a space for his Volvo. A Scenes of Crime van was parked at the other end of the road. The rear doors were open and a couple of Crime Scene Investigators were stacking walking plates against the wall of the end house. For the next day or so, with the exception of the pathologist, the house would be exclusively theirs.

Proctor set off down the road. Suttle was about to follow when another figure emerged from a nearby Audi. DCI Parsons was dressed for one of her more important meetings and Suttle found himself wondering who’d merit the beautifully cut two-piece business suit ‘Boss?’ He stepped across.

Parsons was gazing at the activity at the end of the road. She told Suttle she’d been en route to a seminar at Bramshill when she got the call from Willard. He wanted a steer on whether or not this was linked to
Mandolin
.

‘You want me to action that, boss?’

Parsons nodded. She’d been looking forward to Bramshill for weeks. She’d been booked in for lunch with a prominent American criminologist and she’d even read the bloody man’s newly published autobiography. Now this.

Bramshill was the nation’s police college, a honeypot for officers with Parsons’ scale of ambition.