No Lovelier Death (8 page)

Bazza and Marie arrived twenty minutes later. Unusually, Bazza had a protective arm around his wife. Under the summer tan she looked nervous and distracted. When Winter asked her whether the Fareham custody suite still had a poster up for last Christmas’s CID bash, she didn’t bother to raise a smile. A night in a custody cell had clearly concentrated her mind. She wanted to get home, she said. She wanted a long hot shower, a decent cup of coffee and a chance to work out what to say to the Aults. But until SOC released their house, even that wasn’t an option.

‘Where will you go?’

‘The hotel, mush.’ It was Mackenzie. ‘Where do you think?’

The Royal Trafalgar was on the seafront. Drug money had restored the place to its pre-war glory. To date, it was Mackenzie’s biggest stake in the city.

Ignoring the offer of coffee and a doughnut, he told Winter to sit down. The swelling on his face had begun to subside and he’d abandoned the swath of crêpe bandage around his head. Blood had crusted around the wound on his scalp and there was more damage to the knuckles of his left hand. Southpaw, Winter remembered.

‘Listen, Paul. We have a problem, all of us. What happened last night was totally out of order. The more I think about it, the worse it fucking gets. You don’t pay good money for an address like that to have a bunch of arsehole kids come and wreck it. And I’m certainly not having some numpty or other dumping bodies beside my pool. Neither should my missus have to put up with a night in the fucking cells. Respect is where this begins and ends. Peter Ault’s a good bloke. I gave the guy my word of honour. I told him I’d look after things and I’ve completely fucking blown it. He’ll be back any day, poor bastard. By then, my old mate, I want a name.
Comprende
?’

‘Name, Baz?’ This was a new Mackenzie. Accepting responsibility. Administering justice.

‘Yeah, name, mush. Or maybe names. I’ve no fucking idea but just sort it, OK? You told me once you were the best fucking cop this town had ever seen. You told me you’d taken more scalps than any other Filth that ever lived. So now’s your chance to prove it. You might start with Matt Berriman, the kid who hauled those animals off me. I used to know his mum. She had a Somerstown address unless she’s moved.’

Winter was missing something here, and he knew it. He eyed the TV for a moment. Maybe going back to bed hadn’t been such a great idea.

Marie stirred. She was standing by the window now, gazing out at the harbour.

‘One of the bodies by the pool was Rachel,’ she said quietly. ‘We somehow assumed you knew.’

SUNDAY, 12 AUGUST 2007.
16.03

Sam Muirhead and her parents were late getting to the Bridewell. Faraday and Suttle had been waiting fifteen minutes by the time they arrived. The Custody Sergeant brought them into the office he’d made available, and Suttle fetched more chairs while Sam’s mother offered her apologies

‘We stopped on the way for a bite to eat. It’s been a bit of a trial, I’m afraid.’

The father was a thickset man with a firm handshake and a weathered, outdoors complexion. He wanted to know why his daughter had to go through the whole thing again. She’d been as helpful as she could. The detectives in Reading had been pleased with her statement. Surely she could be spared another interview?

Faraday asked them all to take a seat.

‘Your daughter knows about Rachel?’

‘Yes. It was on the news coming down. Sam’s pretty upset, to be frank.’

There was a silence, broken in the end by Sam. She was a tall girl with a long pale face, and she had her mother’s auburn hair. Faraday sensed she’d been crying.

‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ she said quietly.

Faraday explained that the interview would take place in one of the special suites across the corridor. Sam said no to the offer of legal representation and shook her head when Suttle suggested her mum or her dad sit in.

‘Let’s just do it. Then we can get home.’

In the interview suite Suttle cued the audio and video tapes. Faraday, after a snatched conversation with the D/I in Reading, knew exactly where to start.

‘I understand you knew Rachel pretty well.’

‘We were best friends.’

‘For a long time?’

‘Yes. Years and years.’ She sniffed and tipped her head back. ‘We were like sisters really. That’s what other people said and in a way it was true.’

‘So what sort of girl was she?’

‘She was brilliant. Brilliant as a friend. Brilliantly clever. Brilliantly kind. Brilliant in all kinds of ways.’

Faraday consulted his notes then looked up. ‘You mentioned the swimming club this morning. Care to tell me about that?’

‘It was something she started young, really young. We were at primary school together. She was swimming even then, you know, proper swimming, not just messing around. She got spotted. A coach from Northsea came along. I think she signed her up, I’m not sure.’

The Northsea Club was Pompey’s pride and joy. Based at the Victoria Baths, it won honours at every level and had produced a string of contenders for the UK national squad. Rachel, said Sam, had found herself training six days a week, two sessions a day. Her commitment had been awesome. Just like Matt’s.

‘Matt who?’

‘Matt Berriman.’

‘The Matt Berriman who was at the party? The lad who helped the neighbour next door?’

‘Yes.’ She seemed surprised. ‘He and Rach have been together for years. Ever since they both started at the swimming club. I’m sorry … I thought you knew that.’

‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘Tell us more.’

‘Well …’ She was trying to remember. ‘He was a bit older than Rach when they first met. I think he was already at secondary school. St Mark’s.’

St Mark’s was a troubled comprehensive that straddled the fault line between Portsmouth and Southsea. Socially, Matt and Rachel would have been on different planets.

Faraday studied her a moment. PNC checks on Berriman at Newbury custody suite had revealed a recent conviction for a motoring offence: 132 mph on the M27 in a borrowed BMW.

‘You know Matt?’

‘Of course. We all do.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Big. Tall. Ripped.’

Faraday glanced at Suttle.

‘It means fit, boss.’

‘Thank you.’ He looked back at Sam. ‘So they were training together? Twice a day? Saw lots of each other?’

‘Absolutely. And as they got older they began to go away together.

There’s a place up in the north somewhere, Sheffield maybe. They do special training weekends if you’re really good. Rach and Matt were both in the national team. They went to London too. She lived for those weekends. She said they were brilliant.’

‘They had a relationship?’

‘Definitely. Full on.’

‘How old was she by then?’

‘Fifteen. Rach swam the longer distances, I don’t know exactly which race. Matt was a sprinter. That suited him, believe me. He did everything flat out. He was just immense. One time we were all on the beach, pitch black, and someone dared him to swim round the pier, and he just did it - just stripped off to nothing and did it.’

Faraday frowned. Round Southsea Pier couldn’t be more than a couple of hundred metres. Nothing surely to a swimmer like Matt?

‘It was December. Christmas Eve.’

‘Ah …’

Sam, for the first time, smiled. The smile widened into a grin. Memories of the young Matt Berriman had brought her to life.

‘So how long did this relationship last?’

‘Until six weeks ago.’

‘Really?’ Faraday leaned forward. There’d been no mention of this from the Thames Valley D/I. ‘So what happened?’

‘She met Gareth.’

‘Gareth Hughes?’

‘Yes. I’ve known Gareth for a while. We’re in the sixth form together at PGS.’ She hesitated. ‘Or we were …’

Faraday scribbled himself a note. Portsmouth Grammar School, like the Girls’ High, was fee-paying.

‘Tell me about Gareth.’

‘He was different to Matt, nowhere near as sporty. He wasn’t spastic, nothing like that, and he wasn’t a boff either, but he was much more …’ she frowned, hunting for the word ‘…
sensible
than Matt. There’d been some problems between her and Matt. Rach was trying to nail down all the stuff she had to do for the Oxford entrance exam and Matt definitely wasn’t helping.’

‘Like how?’

‘Like he’d buy tickets for a big festival, the whole weekend, expensive tickets, tickets he could no way afford, and when Rach said she couldn’t spare the time he’d get really … you know … difficult. He really knew how to make her feel guilty too, and in the end she’d always give in and then regret it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was just getting wilder and wilder. He was into all kinds of stuff. He just had to try everything, which obviously made things hard for Rach.’

‘And the swimming? The training?’

‘That was the other thing. Matt had pretty much given up. Rach was the same, though for different reasons.’

‘And did she get into Oxford?’

‘Yeah. In fact she got a scholarship. That’s why her dad gave her a car.’ She began to sniff and then fumbled for a Kleenex. ‘Shit, this is really hard.’

Faraday gave her a moment or two to blow her nose. Then he wanted to know about the party. Whose idea had it been?

‘Rach’s. She just wanted a bunch of friends around, people who maybe didn’t know Gareth that well.’

‘So how did she sort out the invites?’ It was Suttle this time.

‘She’s got a page on Facebook. You can have a best mates list. You can tell everyone whether you’re in a relationship or not. You can do all kinds of stuff. She just sent word round all her mates.’

‘Including Matt?’

‘Must have. Matt had been on her Facebook page, obviously. Rach was incredibly bright, like I’ve said, but I think she just forgot to take him off the list. Either that, or she couldn’t bear to. She could be really silly sometimes about that kind of stuff, really soft in the head.’

‘So that was how he got to find out about the party? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes. Must have been.’

‘And how was the invite worded? Do you know?’

‘I can’t remember. You could check it out. It was something about Rach’s new squeeze. She made a joke of it really. It was just supposed to be really casual, a chance for people to come and crash for the night, you know. Big old house, loads of space, DVDs, music, stuff to drink. It was no big deal, honestly …’ She tailed off.

‘Do you think Matt might have spread the word? Because of Gareth?’

‘Out of jealousy, you mean? I’ve no idea. He could have done, I suppose, but it would surprise me because he’s not that organised really. With Matt it was always last-minute stuff … impulse … you know what I mean?’

‘But did he miss her? To your knowledge.’

For the first time there was hesitation in her face.

‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘He did.’

‘He wanted to get back with her?’

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘She told you that?’

‘I knew.’

‘How?’ Faraday this time.

The wariness again. A longer silence.

‘Because he told me.’

A week ago, she said, she’d bumped into Matt at Gunwharf. He was with a couple of mates. He’d sent them packing and insisted on buying her a coffee. He’d just been done for some stupid driving offence and the woman he’d borrowed the car from had gone bonkers.

‘Why?’

‘He’d taken the car without asking. And he wasn’t insured.’

Faraday made a note. The pull on the M27, he thought.

He looked up. ‘You were having coffee …’

‘Yes. That’s when Matt told me he wanted him and Rach to get it on again. He was really wound up about it. He said she was the best thing that had ever happened to him and next time he wouldn’t … you know … mess it up.’

‘He thought there’d be a next time?’

‘Definitely. But that’s Matt. He makes things happen.’

Makes things happen.
Faraday leaned back in his chair, gazed up at the ceiling.

‘Let’s go back to the party. Rachel got the place sorted before everyone arrived?’

‘We both did. Gareth helped. We locked the bedrooms upstairs, put little notices on the doors, hid stuff we didn’t want to leave lying around.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Family bits and pieces, games consoles. Rach’s dad’s a bit of a wine expert. He had crates and crates of really expensive stuff downstairs in the cellar. Gareth went and bought a padlock and put it on the door at the top of the cellar stairs.’

‘Who were you worried about?’

‘No one in particular. No one we really knew. But any party you sometimes get walk-ins off the street. It’s best to be careful, especially in a house like that.’

‘But you’d no idea so many people … ?’

‘Absolutely not.’

The party, she said, had kicked off around nine. Friends had wandered in from Southsea Common. Most of them had been drinking since six or seven. It was a warm night.

‘You’re telling me they were drunk?’

‘Happy. Gareth had made a kind of punch thing with lots of fruit and stuff in it and we had a couple of crates of WKD. Some lads from the rugby team turned up. Three of them had cases of Stella. It was cool. No trouble. Good vibe.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Like I said, it was fine to begin with. One of the rugby guys had brought some laughing gas and a bunch of balloons. We were just fooling around. Then Matt turned up.’

‘What time was this?’

‘It’s hard to say. Maybe around ten. Maybe a bit earlier.’

‘He was by himself?’

‘No. He had some other guys with him - friends, I guess. None of us had a clue who they were.’

‘What kind of guys?’

‘Chavs. Definitely. Maybe St Mark’s boys. I’ve no idea.’