No Lovelier Death (39 page)

‘So where do I find her?’

The frown put years on Connor’s face. He reached for a plastic spoon and gave the congealing beans a poke. Watching, Faraday wondered whether he might be older, not younger, than fourteen.

‘You want an address, like. Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That might be hard.’

Faraday nodded. He knew exactly where this conversation was going.

‘How hard?’

‘Fucking well hard. And fucking dodgy too, a sort like her.’ He stared at Faraday.

‘So what’s stopping you?’

‘Nothing, mush.’ He was sitting on his hands again. ‘But yer gotta have a little earn, ain’t yer?’

 

On the mobile Matt Berriman had told Winter he was busy. When Winter persisted, he finally agreed to meet. He was working in the university library. Around half five, if Winter was offering, he could do with a lift back to Eastney.

He emerged fifteen minutes late in the company of a striking-looking girl with long brown legs and a fall of jet-black hair. He said goodbye to her on the pavement beside Winter’s car. She had a throaty laugh and reached up to kiss Berriman on the lips before she strode away.

‘Italian.’ Berriman folded his long frame into the passenger seat.

‘Here for the summer.’

He wanted to know what was so important it had kept Winter at the kerbside. There was no hint of apology.

‘We need a little chat. It’s about the party. The Old Bill are getting warm. Better now, with me … eh?’

Winter drove down to the seafront. The incessant rain had stopped at last but the chill in the wind had kept the beach virtually empty. He found a parking space beyond the pier and killed the engine. Two middle-aged women were trying to master rollerblading on the promenade. Skating skirts at forty was a bad idea.

‘Well?’ Berriman was watching them too.

‘It’s about Rachel, son.’

Winter had never called him son before. Berriman didn’t much like it.

‘Matt’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘If it’s OK with you.’

‘Sure, son.’ Winter shrugged. ‘No offence. Listen, we need to make one or two things clear. I’m not a copper, whatever you think. That’s number one. Number two, Mackenzie pays my wages. You might think that’s got nothing to do with you but you’d be wrong. Why? Because Mackenzie likes you. And because he also owes you. He doesn’t want to see you in trouble. And that goes for me too.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘The worst.
Serious
shit.’

‘To do with Rachel?’

‘Yeah. And the boy Hughes.’ Winter glanced across at him. ‘Are you with me now?’

Berriman nodded, then reclined the seat a couple of degrees and closed his eyes.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘You shagged Rachel in the bathroom that night at the party. She did you a favour or two first but then you got it on properly, the way you used to, the way she preferred it. Afterwards, you sent the pictures you’d done earlier to Hughes. Am I right?’

‘Go on,’ he said again. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Rachel went off with Hughes a bit later. She must have got into a ruck of some kind because she was bleeding around her mouth. Maybe Hughes saw those pictures. And maybe he took offence. Why? Because Rachel didn’t much like oral sex, not the full deal. So a bit later they’re next door in Bazza’s kitchen, just the two of them. Rachel’s pissed. Hughes is fucking angry. Rachel wants to make it up to him. And he knows just what she can do to say sorry. Am I getting warm?’

This time Berriman didn’t react. His face was a mask. His head was tipped back in the plushness of the passenger seat. He might have been asleep.

‘You followed them next door, son. I don’t know exactly when but my guess is you got there to find them at it in the kitchen. The light would have been on. Hughes was standing in front of the fridge, leaning on it, his hands out straight. From outside that kitchen door you can see in but at first you haven’t got a clue what’s going on because he’s in the way. But then you start wondering why his shorts are round his ankles and why Rachel’s on her knees in front of him. And then you get it. Because you can’t fucking ignore it. And then it gets a whole lot worse because Hughes goes the whole way and you know that’s just totally out of order. Why? Because she hates it. Because she’s always hated it. Which means he’s kind of taken advantage … and that wasn’t something you could live with, son. Not after you’d just shafted him with those pictures.’

‘So what did I do then?’ Berriman’s eyes were closed. ‘If all this isn’t total bullshit?’

‘I think you probably waited for a bit. I think you didn’t know what to do. I think you waited and I think that after a bit he headed for the door. Rachel was at the sink by now, gagging. Afterwards she had a glass or two of water. Hughes knew he hadn’t played a blinder. He
knew
he’d taken advantage. And so out he came. By that time you’ve had a good look at Rachel. Someone had given her a slapping. It’s obvious. And it has to be Hughes. He left the kitchen. To get back to the party, he had to pass the pool. That’s where you stopped him. I haven’t a clue what you said. You might have said nothing. Whatever happened, you smacked him. He went backwards, cracked his head, knocked himself unconscious. For good measure you stamped on him, stamped on his head, on his cheek, whack. Because he was trash. Because of what he’d just done back in that kitchen. Yeah?’

No response. Not immediately. Then Berriman opened one eye. ‘And what about Rachel?’

‘I dunno. Did you stick a knife in her? I doubt it. Did you sort Hughes out the way I just described? Yeah … definitely. In a court of law you’ll need a fucking good brief, son. Otherwise you’re looking at a long time in crap company.’

Berriman was frowning. ‘This stamping thing.’ One eye briefly opened. ‘Would that leave a mark?’

‘Yeah. Almost certainly.’

‘But they took my trainers. In fact they took the whole fucking lot.

So why haven’t they arrested me? If what you say is true?

‘A very good question, son. And one I‘m hoping you can help me with.’

‘Else?’

‘Else we’re back to square one. The people I used to work with aren’t dumb. They’re slow but they’re not stupid.’

Berriman nodded. There was a long silence. The women on the rollerblades were dots in the distance. Finally, Berriman struggled upright, adjusted the rear-view mirror to check his hair, and then opened the door.

‘You’ve still got my phone,’ he said.

‘I know, son. And you should be thinking about that too.’

 

The news from the Major Incident Room came to Suttle moments before he left the office. D/S Glen Thatcher, in charge of Outside Enquiries, had just been talking to one of the D/Cs working on the Danny Cooper killing. He’d been doing a follow-up on a call from a manager at G.A. Day, a big DIY store on Burrfields Road. The manager had been working through the night on Wednesday, battling to finish a stocktake before the accountant’s deadline the following morning. He’d left the building for a stretch of the legs and a fag around three in the morning. Standing beside the main gate, doing nothing in particular, he’d become aware of a car parked nearby. The car had attracted his attention because the interior light kept flickering on and off.

‘The manager got in touch this morning. His wife told him about Salcombe Avenue and he remembered the car.’

‘What time did he jack it in at work?’

‘Around half five. It was daylight. When he drove out onto the Burrfields Road the car had gone.’

‘The G.A. Day place is across from the allotments.’

‘Exactly.’

‘With Salcombe Avenue on the other side.’

‘You’ve got it.’

‘Did this bloke get a make at all?’

‘Yeah. He’s a bit of a car buff. Says it was an Alfa Romeo.’

‘Did he get a look at the reg plate?’

‘Afraid not … but here’s the good bit. One of the civvy indexers has a boyfriend in Traffic. Apparently a patrol got involved in a collision last night. They rear-ended a Peugeot up towards Hilsea. It seems they were chasing a car reported nicked and the Peugeot kept getting in the way. The boyfriend swore the target was an Alfa.’

Suttle nodded. The coincidence was interesting, little more. Thatcher hadn’t finished.

‘The traffic guys got details of the Peugeot driver,’ he said. ‘Take a guess.’

 

The indexer had left a number for her boyfriend in case anyone wanted to talk to him. Suttle returned to the Intelligence Cell and lifted the phone. The P/C’s name was Grant. He was downstairs in Traffic, preparing to go out on patrol. Suttle took the stairs two at a time.

Grant had been in Pompey for less than a year. Wednesday night he and his oppo had taken a heads-up from the force control room about a sus vehicle theft. He said someone had rung in about a couple of guys acting suspiciously on Southsea seafront. The car involved was down as an Alfa.

‘How did they know?’

‘No idea. You’ll have to check.’

‘So what happened?’

‘We clocked an Alfa in Stubbington Avenue. It was waiting to come out from Randolph Road. We’d taken the call literally minutes beforehand. Time-wise it looked quite promising.’

He described backing into Randolph Road, then setting off in pursuit.

‘The problem was the car in between, the Peugeot. Fair play, the guy couldn’t let us past because it’s too narrow with all the parked cars up there but he had at least a couple of chances to pull over when we came to intersections and he never took them. Then, out of nowhere, bam, he hits the brakes. We had no chance. He must have known that.’

‘And this was Mackenzie?’

‘Yeah. I didn’t know him from Adam but my oppo told me about him later. Bit of a local face? Would that be right?’

Suttle nodded. A bit of a local face. Too right.

‘And the Alfa?’

‘Gone.’

‘So they might have been in convoy? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Easily. Though this guy Mackenzie wasn’t having it. Kept threatening us with his brief. Talked about doing us for harassment.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Are we through? Only my oppo will be waiting. ’

Suttle returned to his office. The shift supervisor in the control room at Netley checked the 999 log for last night’s activity. The call about the Alfa from Southsea had come in at 22.21. The caller had left a name and number. Dermott Callaghan, 02392 348567. Suttle lifted the phone again. For a long minute nothing happened. Then came an Irish voice, old, uncertain. Suttle introduced himself, explained the circumstances, said he’d like to come round.

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘Why?

‘To say thank you, Mr Callaghan.’

He took an address, grabbed a pad and collected his Impreza from the car park at the back. Southsea seafront was five minutes away. He parked across the road from the parade of converted hotels and boarding houses, and located the block of flats. Callaghan was only too happy to buzz him in.

There was no lift. Suttle took the stairs to the fourth floor. Callaghan was waiting for him on the top landing. He must have been eighty at least, a bent figure in a soup-stained cardigan with smoker’s fingers and wisps of snow-white hair. The effort to make it as far as the landing showed on his face. He was holding on to the banisters, fighting for breath.

The flat smelled of roll-ups and a weak bladder. Suttle began to wonder how often this old guy got out. Beside the window was an armchair surrounded by a litter of open newspapers. Across the room a new-looking TV was tuned to the evening news. There was a phone on the floor beside the armchair. A nearby ashtray was brimming with fag ends.

‘I do the horses most days.’ He’d sunk into the armchair. ‘Keeps me out of mischief.’

Suttle glanced down at the newspapers, all of them open at the racing pages, runners ringed in green.

‘And you ever get lucky?’

‘You’re talking to an Irishman, son. Luck doesn’t come into it. Me and horses …’ He started to cough. A box of tissues at his elbow. Balls of Kleenex at his feet.

‘So how do you lay hands on your winnings?’

‘Brett.’

‘Brett?’

‘Yeah. A lovely man. He collects for me, and does lots else as well.

Kind as the day is long, that fella.’ He nodded at the view. ‘Phoning your lot was the least I could do.’

Suttle stared at him then stepped across to the window. He could see his own car parked across the road, then the wide spaces of the Common, green after all the rain.

‘You’re talking about the car last night?’

‘Sure. It was Brett’s. That’s why I knew it was an Alfa. Black thing.

Light of his life, it is.’

‘What’s Brett’s surname?’

‘West. Mr West to you.’

‘What colour is he? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Not at all, son. He’s black. Just like that car of his.’ He paused, looking up at Suttle, his eyes milky with age. ‘You’re telling me you’ve found it? Only I’d like to tell him myself.’

 

Suttle phoned Faraday as he clattered down the stairs towards the street. ‘Boss? Where are you?’

‘In the car park. Off home.’ A pause. ‘Why?’

‘Something’s come up. I’ll be back in five.’

He drove fast, one eye on the mirror. He knew Brett West from way back. Brett West was the heavy who’d been waiting for him outside the club in Gunwharf the night he’d been in there with Misty Gallagher’s daughter. Brett West was the guy who’d stepped into Suttle’s path and pushed him backwards into the arms of two other blokes before breaking his jaw. Brett West worked for Bazza Mackenzie.

Faraday was back in his office by the time Suttle returned to Major Crime. One look at his face told Suttle he’d have preferred to have this conversation on Monday.

‘My son’s come down early.’ He nodded at the phone. ‘What’s up?’