No Lovelier Death (37 page)

‘Do we know why?’

‘Not yet.’

‘And what about Suttle?’ Willard this time. ‘Has he talked to Winter about what we discussed the other day?’

‘Yes. He saw him this morning.’

‘And?’

‘Unproductive, I’m afraid. Winter told him to fuck off. They’re Suttle’s words, not mine.’

‘No deal? He won’t play?’

‘No way.’

‘How disappointing. I somehow expected better of the man.’ Willard glanced towards Parsons. ‘So what do we do with him now?’

‘We wait, sir.’ Parsons sighed, reaching for her files. ‘And we see what develops.’

Faraday sensed the meeting was over. In a couple of hours’ time they’d doubtless reconvene and he was curious to know how Parsons might conjure some kind of optimism from the frenzy of the last six days. The media, at least, appeared to be losing interest. He hadn’t heard mention of a reporter or a TV crew for twenty-four hours now and he for one was glad that the world was moving on.

The DCI was on her feet when there came a knock at the door. It was Jerry Proctor. He’d just taken a call from a contact at the Forensic Science Service.

‘And?’ Faraday caught the lift in Parson’s voice.

‘They’ve got matches on the semen samples from Rachel Ault. I’m not sure where it takes us, boss, but I thought you ought to know.’

‘Go on then.’

‘The semen in her vagina came from Matt Berriman. The stuff in her throat belonged to Gareth Hughes.’

Parsons digested the news. As did Willard.

‘But I thought those pictures from the bathroom showed us—’

‘They did, sir. Odds on, that was Berriman.’

‘So how come … ?’ Willard glanced at Parsons.

‘I’ve no idea.’ She was still looking at Proctor. ‘They’re sure about the science?’

‘Totally, boss. They’re talking odds of a billion to one. I asked the same question myself.’

‘And there’s no possibility that the samples got wrongly labelled up? At our end? After the PM?’

‘Highly unlikely. Jenny Cutler’s the best.’

A silence. Then she looked round at Faraday.

‘Joe?’

‘No idea, boss. Interesting, though.’

 

Suttle had also heard the news. Minutes later he was sitting in Faraday’s office. It was Faraday who shut the door. His desk was piled high with paperwork.

‘You think we ought to talk to Berriman again?’

‘Why would we do that?’ asked Suttle.

‘Because of the forensic.’

‘But where would that take us, boss? We sussed they had sex in the bathroom days ago, when we got the pictures off Hughes’s mobile.

Now we know he fucked her properly after the hors d’oeuvre. In my book that’s good manners.’

‘He lied to us in interview.’

‘No he didn’t, boss. I checked the transcript. We asked him whether he had sex in the bathroom and he blanked us, told us it wasn’t any of our business. In any case having sex with an old girlfriend isn’t illegal, is it?’

‘That’s true.’ Faraday nodded at the door. ‘I just had a meet with Parsons. Willard was there. Nice and cosy. We talked about Winter.’

‘And?’

‘To be frank, Jimmy, no one knows what to do with him. It’s more than awkward.’

‘Because he’s having a sniff?’

‘Of course. Given the relationship with Mackenzie, I’m not blaming the man. Far from it. I just wish we had a better handle on him.’

‘But no one ever did, boss. You can’t say any of this is a surprise.’

‘No, you’re right, but you know something else?’ He frowned. ‘For all our resources, all the blokes we can muster, all the effort we put in, all the strokes we can pull, even then Winter’s probably got the drop on us. Why? Because he doesn’t have to wade through all this shit every morning.’

He waved a despairing hand at the clutter on his desk. Suttle, for once, wasn’t having it.

‘You’re right, boss,’ he said. ‘But then he doesn’t have to take any of this shit to court, does he?’

FRIDAY, 17 AUGUST 2007.
11.47

The Aults spent most of the morning at Sandown Road. Belle Ault, with some reluctance, began to clear up the kitchen but her husband told her not to bother. He’d managed to find a recent copy of Yellow Pages and rang a series of industrial cleaners until he found a company who could start at once. They turned up within the hour in a smart new van, two middle-aged women and a Polish adolescent they called Jozef. Jozef was wide-eyed at the state of the place.

‘What happen?’ he asked one of the women.

‘Youth, love,’ she replied.

They started work at once under Peter Ault’s direction. He’d already piled smashed or unwanted items by the front door and he took them on a tour of the house, room by room, indicating exactly what else needed disposal. Minutes later the growl of a truck announced the arrival of the mini-skip he’d also ordered. The driver dumped the skip in the drive, leaving Belle Ault to worry whether it would be sufficiently big. Already, it was plain that she’d had enough. When Marie rang her mobile with the offer of coffee next door, she willingly accepted. When the offer was extended to her husband, he shook his head.

By noon the kitchen was spotless. The two women departed in the van to pick up a new drum of disinfectant from the company depot while Jozef found his way to Albert Road to buy them all a spot of lunch. Alone in the house, Peter Ault retreated to his study. With a stiff broom he swept the broken glass into a pile beside the door. It was raining by now and when he’d finished with the broom he stood by the window, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jeans, staring out. The study was at the side of the house and overlooked the garden. Below, slightly to the left, was the gazebo. Of the list of jobs he’d compiled when they’d moved in last year, it was close to the top. The wood was rotting round the window sills and the roof leaked. It needed some serious TLC and a lick or two of paint.

Something cheerful, he’d thought at the time. Maybe sky blue and yellow. Seaside colours.

‘Mind if I come in?’

He spun round. He hadn’t heard the footsteps on the stairs. Mackenzie was standing in the open doorway gazing at the pile of glass at his feet. The neck brace gave him a slightly comical look.

‘Make yourself at home,’ Ault told him. ‘You’ll excuse the mess.’ Mackenzie wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not. He’d come to sympathise, he said. And to say sorry.

‘Don’t.’

‘But I mean it, Peter.’

‘Don’t,’ he repeated. ‘It’s over. Finished. One moves on.’

‘Yeah, but … the state of the place … Coming back like this …

That lovely girl of yours …’

Ault nodded. He’d spread the photos from the smashed frames across the desk. Most of them featured Rachel.

Mackenzie was repeating the offer of a bed for the night. Or several nights. Or for as long as he and Belle needed it. Situations like this, he said, you needed mates around you, support, conversation.

‘We have all that already.’

‘Of course you do. But I mean close … handy … so you can keep an eye on things …’

It was an unhappy phrase. Ault hadn’t been a lawyer for nothing.

‘From next door you mean? Over the garden wall?’

‘Exactly.’

‘The way you promised before we went off on our travels?’

Mackenzie tried to nod then winced with pain.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Like I said before, I’m really sorry.’

‘I’m sure you’re sorry. But sorry’s not much use, is it? Did you know about this party?’

‘No. She never mentioned it, Rach.’

‘Were you here when it happened?’

‘Only at the end. I did what I could. Took a hiding for my troubles.’

‘Oh? I didn’t know that.’

‘Yeah.’ A tiny movement of Mackenzie’s head. ‘It was Rach’s Matt who dragged those animals off.’

‘Rach’s Matt?’ Something else he didn’t know.

‘Yeah. Matt Berriman. I still owe the boy.’

Ault lapsed into silence, lifting a particular photo then letting it fall to the desk again. At length, he wanted to know about the drugs.

‘What drugs?’

‘The police seem to think there was cocaine on the premises. Lots of it. Dirt cheap.’

‘Yeah?’

‘You’re telling me you didn’t know about that either?’

‘Of course not. If I didn’t know about the party, how the fuck could I know about any cocaine?’ Mackenzie fought to control himself. ‘You think they were down to me? All those giveaways?’

‘Giveaways?’ Ault’s eyes gleamed behind the heavy glasses. ‘When you say you know nothing?’

It was a trap, artfully laid. As Mackenzie well knew.

‘The police told me,’ he said defensively.

‘Did they?’

‘Yeah. Listen, I’m through with all this shit. The fact is I came over here to say sorry. Think what you fucking like but I meant it when I said you could stay. Where I come from, we can recognise a mate. Is that a bit strong? Or are you getting the drift?’

The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Ault eased the chair back from the desk and stood up. He gazed out at the rain then turned back.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Mr Mackenzie.’ The smile was icy. ‘Lots to do.’

 

Early afternoon, Suttle caught Winter as he was about to leave Gunwharf for the Royal Trafalgar Hotel. Winter buzzed him in on the entryphone, waiting for his footsteps down the corridor.

‘You’ve got a moment?’

‘Again?’ Winter stepped back into the apartment. ‘I’m gonna start charging you lot for my time.’

‘You’ve been interviewed already?’

‘This morning. My pleasure.’

‘And?’

‘You want to find yourselves some decent detectives. Preferably blokes old enough to shave.’

It turned out the Major Incident Room had sent a couple of the younger D/Cs to take a formal statement from Winter about Wednesday night. Someone had evidently done a risk assessment, given Winter’s track record with the squad, and the upshot was the dispatch of two detectives who’d never met him. That way, according to the lippier of the two D/Cs, there’d never be any suspicion of bias.

‘So what happened?’ Suttle settled himself on Winter’s sofa.

‘Read the statement. It’s not long.’

‘Surprise me. So what did you say?’

‘I told them what I told you. I had business with Cooper. He wasn’t in. I went round the back, just in case, but he still wasn’t in. That gives you the start of a timeline, doesn’t it? The kitchen door’s intact. Therefore it must have happened after I left. A breakthrough, son. And like I told your guys, you get that for absolutely free.’ He grinned. ‘Not going so well, is it?’

Winter was right, though Suttle didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. The noon management meeting had wound up after less than half an hour. Parsons had declared herself extremely happy with progress but no one was fooled for a moment. She’s feathering her nest, Proctor growled afterwards. She’s putting the best gloss on a pretty shit week and hoping to God Martin Barrie treats himself to an extra month in Minehead.

‘So what are you after, son? Only some of us have a living to make.’

‘It’s about that kitchen of Mackenzie’s. You dropped a hint, remember? About fast-tracking the forensic?’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes. As it happens, I listened for once. Fuck knows why.’

‘And?’

‘It turned out to be worth it. They matched two sets of prints to Rachel and Hughes. Hers were on a glass on the draining board. His were on the fridge. Watch me …’

Suttle got up and stepped into the kitchen. He leaned against Winter’s fridge, his outspread palms taking the weight of his body. Winter watched from the open doorway.

‘They got the prints from the PM?’ he queried.

‘Yeah.’

‘So the happy couple were in Bazza’s kitchen? Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where’s the proof it was that same night?’

Suttle pushed himself off the fridge. Déjà vu, he thought. Virtually the same question Faraday had asked.

‘She left blood on the glass as well as prints. Someone must have smacked her. Those results came through too. It had to be that night. Had to be.’

‘Young Rachel knew where Marie hid the key.’ Winter was frowning now. ‘She’d keep an eye on the place sometimes when they were away. I’ve heard Marie mention it. So she’s in the kitchen. She’s pissed. And he’s in there too. It’s babes in the wood. They’ve done a runner from next door and they’re all by themselves. So what happens next?’

Suttle said he hadn’t a clue. He knew Winter liked to pump up the pressure, hopscotch from one supposition to another, squeeze the known facts as hard as he could. It had been part of his MO as a serving detective. Some of his ex-colleagues used to ridicule the more ambitious jumps but Suttle had seen where some of these expeditions had led.

‘There’s something else …’ he began.

‘Like what?’

‘We sent off semen samples. They swabbed Rachel’s fanny and her throat, got a result from both.’

‘And they got matches too?’

‘Matt Berriman in her fanny. Hughes down her throat.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Busy girl then.’

‘You’d think so.’

‘Does Berriman know this?’

‘I expect he’d remember.’

‘Don’t fuck around, son. I’m asking whether you’ve put it to him.’

‘No.’ Suttle glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘But then we probably don’t see him as often as you.’

 

Gabrielle very rarely phoned Faraday during office hours. Faraday had never worked out whether this was deliberate, instinctive respect for his territory, or whether she simply had nothing to say that couldn’t wait.

He bent to the phone.

‘Where are you?’