One Under (28 page)

‘Just relax, Sammy, eh?’

The car park on top of Portsdown Hill was full. Kids were mobbing an ice cream van parked in one corner while dozens of families picnicked on the acres of grass that rolled down towards the tiled rooftops of Drayton. The car park had been Winter’s idea. Nice views, he’d said. And a cornet for Sammy if he behaves himself.

Sammy was trying to get out of the car. Winter leaned across, grinned at him.

‘Childproof locks, Sammy. Nice touch, don’t you think?’

Sammy muttered something about needing a piss. Winter patted his thigh.

‘A time and a place for everything, son. Get this lot boxed off, and you can be on your way.’

‘What lot’s that?’

‘Just a couple of questions, Sammy. I got your message, by the way, and I wasn’t impressed.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes, you do, son. We were going to meet last night. The Anson. Remember? Only you belled a mutual friend of ours, didn’t you?’

‘I never.’

‘Yes, you did, Sammy. And when I turned up, you never showed.’

‘You went?’ He looked startled. ‘You went to the Anson?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘But he told me—’

‘Who, Sammy? Who told you?’

Sammy’s eyes flicked towards Faraday. He was frightened to even mention the name.

‘That friend of ours … ’ he muttered. ‘He swore blind you wouldn’t be there.’

‘Well, I was. Which just goes to show what bad company you’ve started to keep. Does the word “disappointment” ring any bells with you, Sammy? Or are you just stupid?’

Sammy ducked his head. He definitely needed a piss. He said he was getting desperate.

‘Of course you are, mate. Six pints at lunchtime? Knackered old bladder like yours? I’m surprised it hasn’t exploded. Listen … ’ He beckoned Sammy closer until their heads were nearly touching. ‘You want some advice? Whatever you do, don’t piss yourself in here. You know why? Because this car belongs to Mr Faraday and Mr Faraday’s my boss and he has a thing about strangers wetting themselves all over his upholstery. So get a grip, yeah?’ Winter’s hand found the top of Sammy’s thigh, and he gave it a little squeeze. ‘Deal?’

‘Yeah.’ Sammy nodded, crossing his legs. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘And another thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Forget about finding somewhere out there to take a leak. There are kids everywhere, Sammy, and Mr Faraday and me take our responsibilities very seriously. Are you with me?’

‘No.’

‘Indecent exposure, Sammy. Magistrates hate it.’

‘So where am I supposed to go?’

‘You stay with us. Help me out, Sammy, and I’ll find you a nice little pisser down the hill. Mr Faraday’ll drive you. Take no time at all. Now how’s that?’

Sammy had given up. His eyes were closed and his head was back against the top of the seat.

‘What you after?’

‘It’s about Mickey Kearns, Sammy. As you well know.’

‘I don’t know nothing about Kearns.’

‘That’s bollocks, Sammy. Try again.’

‘I’ve told you, Mr Winter, I’m out of touch. I wouldn’t know Mickey Kearns from a hole in the road. I’m too old for this game. It’s kids now. Fucking infants running around in four-by-fours. What would I know about them?’

‘Is Kearns running around in a four-by-four?’

Sammy’s eyes were open now, staring out at the view. Winter asked the question again. Then a third time. At length, Sammy nodded.

‘Is that a yes, Sammy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And what colour is it?’

‘Black.’

‘A black Beemer? Is that what you meant to say?’

‘I dunno. It’s just black. Brand new. Kid must have a death wish.’

‘Why?’

Another long silence. Sammy was sweating. Faraday could smell it. Winter changed tack.

‘Kearns took himself off to the Caribbean, didn’t he, Sammy? Him and another bloke, Duley? Just nod. That’s all you have to do.’

Sammy swallowed hard, then nodded.

‘Good.’ Winter was pleased. ‘That’s good. And Kearns had himself this little holiday with a pocketful of other people’s money, people like that nice Chris Cleaver, didn’t he? Sort of
working
holiday. Am I right?’

Another nod.

‘So what happened then, Sammy? Only it’s here that you’re going to have to help me out. Me and Mr Faraday, of course.’

Sammy appeared to have gone into a trance. The pressure of his bursting bladder had locked the muscles of his face. He even had trouble getting the words out.

‘Little fucker came back,’ he managed at last, ‘ … without it.’

‘Without what, Sammy? The shit that he’d gone to buy?’

‘Yeah.’ Sammy winced. ‘And without the money too.’

This news put a smile on Winter’s face. No wonder Kearns had made himself scarce. His smile grew and grew. He patted Sammy’s thigh again. He was extremely pleased.

‘So what do we think, Sammy? Or, let’s put it another way, what do all those investors think? No, better still, what does
our mutual friend
think?’

‘He copped for it. Big time.’

‘I bet he did. And there’s Mickey Kearns running around in his new four-by-four. Bazza wouldn’t have seen the joke, would he? His dosh buying Mickey’s wheels?’

Sammy groaned.

‘Mr Winter … ’ he began.

Winter ignored him. He wanted to know more about Bazza. Had he given Kearns a slapping? Only the details might be important.

Sammy shook his head.

‘Someone grassed Kearns up,’ he muttered.

‘Where? How?’

‘Out there. Wherever they went.’

‘But who’d do that?’

‘The other bloke.’

‘Duley? The bloke he went with? This Duley grassed Kearns up and Bazza lost his stake? Is that the story?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So what happened to Duley?’

‘They talked to him, Mr Winter. Oh shit … ’

‘When, Sammy? When did they talk to him?’

Winter was on top of him now, his face inches from Sammy’s. He told him they were nearly through. In a moment or two, he said, they’d be off down the hill. They’d find Sammy a nice little khazi, somewhere decent, and then he could have the piss of his dreams. Only first he wanted to know when they’d sorted Duley.

‘Couple of weeks ago. I don’t know the date.’

‘Long chat, was it? Somewhere nice and quiet?’

‘I dunno, Mr Winter.’

‘You do, Sammy, you do. You always say you don’t, but you do. Come on, son. One last big effort. Where did they talk to Duley?’

‘A caravan. I dunno. Oh, fuck … ’

‘A
caravan
? In the city, you mean?’

‘No. Somewhere else.’

‘Somewhere of Bazza’s?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Somewhere like Hayling?’

Sammy shrugged. His head was back against the seat and the muscles of his thin face were rigid with effort. Winter studied him a moment, then patted him on the shoulder.

‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘Much better than I expected.’

He leaned forward and muttered something to Faraday. Then came a click as Faraday released the child locks, and Winter reached for the door beside Sammy, kicking it open. Outside in the sunshine a bunch of kids were trying to fly a kite.

‘It’s fuck-off time, Sammy.’ Winter gave him a little push. ‘And tell our mutual friend where I dropped you, yeah?’

 

Faraday drove to Hayling Island, following Winter’s directions. To Faraday’s surprise, he didn’t want to dwell on the exchange with Sammy Lewington, to glory in the information he’d squeezed out of the man, even to claim a scalp. This is a very different Winter, he thought, and he’s still extremely angry.

Traffic was heavy onto the island, long queues of cars packed with families desperate to spend the rest of the day on the beach, and Faraday took a couple of short cuts to avoid the worst of the jams. Twenty minutes later, he was down in the south of the island, turning into North Shore Road. Beyond the row of big, detached properties on the left lay the gleaming blue spaces of Langstone Harbour. Faraday smiled to himself. He swept this same line of plump waterfront villas every morning with his binos from the upstairs study at the Bargemaster’s House. Ironic to think that one of them might hold the key to Duley’s death.

‘You’ve got an address?’

‘Last one on the left, boss. It’s a dead end after that.’

The last property looked like a building site. The house had been scaffolded and an area near the gate was piled high with bricks on wooden pallets. Heavy vehicles had turned the lawn into a parking lot, deeply rutted, and a sizeable mound of sand had spilled into a once-decent display of roses. Beyond the roses was a cement mixer and an assortment of timber.

‘There, boss. Has to be.’

Faraday followed Winter’s pointing finger. The property was thickly hedged on both sides. In the furthest corner, before the road petered out altogether, stood a white caravan.

Faraday parked beside the bricks and got out. Winter followed him round the side of the house and down the long stretch of ornamental garden until they were standing on the front wall at the water’s edge. As far as Faraday could judge, it was high tide. There was a strip of pebble beach and a wooden pier that sagged in the middle. A noisy group of Mediterranean gulls were sunning themselves on the end of the pier and Faraday caught a glimpse of a solitary shag further out on the water. Perfect, he thought.

He turned back to look at the house again. A new conservatory had been added to the rear of the property and excavation was under way for what must soon become a swimming pool. Faraday gazed at the yellow digger perched on the edge of the hole, trying to visualise what this place would be like in a year’s time. With the swimming pool would doubtless come underwater lighting, an outside jacuzzi, non-stop cocktails and a huge sound system. The inhabitants of North Shore Road, he concluded, were in for a treat.

‘You’re telling me this is Mackenzie’s?’

‘He owns it, yeah. But it’s a present really.’

‘Who for?’

‘Misty.’

‘
Misty?
Last time I looked she was banged up with Mike Valentine. What happened to that?’

‘She dumped him. Ten quid says she’s back with Baz. This time he’s taking no chances. As you can see.’

They began to walk again. The caravan was locked, the curtains pulled on every window. Without a key and a Scenes of Crime search there’d be nothing to connect it to the beating that had put Duley in the A & E unit but its very isolation argued strongly in favour of Winter’s theory.

Duley’s name had gone in the frame for the loss of Kearns’ stake money. He’d been out on Margarita Island with the Buckland boy. He spoke the language, would have talked to the locals, might have done some deal to give himself a slice of the action in return for grassing Kearns. Given the pattern of recent investments, you were talking a substantial sum, tens of thousands of pounds. Losing that kind of money would hurt a great deal, offering every incentive - back in Pompey - for a serious conversation. The most creative of Bazza’s heavies was rumoured to favour a couple of Stanley knives taped together. That way, the slash wounds were said to be unstitchable. Where better to practise his skills than here?

Winter strolled away, leaving Faraday to plot the steps he knew he’d need to take next. Jerry Proctor’s team could bosh the caravan in a day, max. DNA that linked to Duley would explain the beating he’d taken. But that, alone, didn’t necessarily tie Mackenzie or his associates to the incident in the tunnel. For that to happen, there had to be additional evidence.

‘Boss … ?’

Winter was up by the house. Faraday found him standing beside a pile of discarded interior fitments, unwanted relics that still had to be skipped and disposed of. For a moment Faraday didn’t recognise the length of rope in Winter’s hand.

‘What’s that?’

‘Sash cord. It must have come out of one of these.’ Winter nodded at the wooden sash frames stacked against the wall. ‘Mist hates all this stuff. She’s into UPVC, big time. Always has been.’

Faraday was still looking at the sash cord. To the naked eye Winter was right. It looked a perfect match for the lengths of rope recovered from the tunnel. Lab analysis, Faraday thought. Just to make sure.

Winter was on the move again, picking his way through piles of rubbish, making for the cement mixer. The grin on his face told Faraday that
Coppice
was about to turn another important corner.

‘Here, boss. Look … ’

Faraday knelt to inspect the length of chain that secured the mixer to a cemented eyebolt nearby. Again, he couldn’t be sure, not without forensic examination, but experience told him to discount coincidence. Duley had been bound to the railway line with something very similar. Odds on, they’d find more anti-theft chain elsewhere on the site.

‘What’s left then?’ Winter was trying to tally the items recovered from the tunnel.

‘An angle iron.’ Faraday could see it in his mind’s eye, the length of steel that had kept Duley’s legs scissored open. ‘About this long.’

Winter gauged the space between his outstretched hands, then nodded.

‘Fence post,’ he said briskly. ‘Has to be.’

He frowned, eyeing the wreckage around him. Then he was off again.

Faraday followed him back towards the road. Wooden gateposts flanked the entrance to the property but the gate itself had obviously succumbed to one of Bazza’s many delivery trucks. As a makeshift solution, someone had wired together a series of iron stakes. Winter found them rolled up beneath the nearby hedge. Every night, he told Faraday, someone would be along to drag them out and secure the property.

Faraday bent to examine the stakes. Winter was right. They were angle irons, with punched holes for the wire, exactly the same pattern as the stake recovered from the tunnel. In a moment or two he’d have to set about organising search warrants for the caravan and an overnight guard for the property as a whole, but for now he couldn’t resist the obvious question.