One Under (42 page)

‘So where does Andy Mitchell belong in all this?’ Barber wanted to know more.

‘Andy’s big time now. He’s made it. He’s up there. He counts these people as friends. Jenny? You tell me. She likes Old Portsmouth, I know she does. There’s nice friends for her kids to play with, decent primary when they get to go to school, all that. But I’m not sure she buys the rest of it.’

Faraday nodded, savouring a mouthful of HSB. Duley, he thought, would have been a breath of fresh air. And, for a month or two, perhaps more than that. Maybe, deep down, she misses him.

Ellie Holmes had finished her pint. Barber checked her watch, shot Faraday a look, said she had to go. Faraday nodded, then reached for Ellie’s glass.

‘Another?’ he offered.

She shook her head, waited for Barber to leave. Then she gestured Faraday closer.

‘I want to be fair to Andy,’ she said. ‘But there’s someone else you really ought to talk to.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Peter Barnaby. He’s a consultant over at St James’. Lovely man.’

St James’ was Portsmouth’s psychiatric hospital, a rambling Victorian throwback set in acres of grounds on the eastern edge of the city. Faraday passed it every day on his way to work.

Barnaby, Holmes explained, had been a keen supporter of Landfall. Indeed, in the early days, when the organisation had been a twinkle in Andy Mitchell’s eye, it was Barnaby who’d turned all that conceptual bollocks into a solid proposal that could pass muster with the funding people.

‘Peter’s been working with this client group for years. He’s seen the same old faces up at St James’, the druggies and the dropouts and the guys who can’t pass a woman in the street without doing something totally inappropriate. Care provision was hopeless. Therapy was a joke. He knew there had to be a better way and, bless him, he thought Andy was the man to make it happen.’

When Landfall applied for charitable status, she said, it was Barnaby’s name on the board of trustees that swung the application. And when Andy Mitchell passed the bucket round for funding, it was Barnaby, once again, who knew which doors to knock on.

‘The guy’s a leader in his field. If you’re talking severe behavioural problems, Barnaby’s the man they all listen to. He had a lot riding on Landfall. In a way, it was his baby.’

‘Had?’

‘Yeah.’ Holmes was chewing gum now, and Faraday could smell the spearmint on her breath. ‘He resigned from the board a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Why?’

‘No one really knows. There’s lots of gossip but that’s standard MO in the voluntary sector. Situation like this, people can’t wait to put the boot in. We’re talking serious character assassination. Blood all over the fucking carpet.’

‘Whose blood?’

‘Young Andy’s. This is gossip, right? There’s talk of embezzlement, care workers helping themselves to client funds. That’s pretty small scale but perfectly possible. Some of the people he deals with are completely out to lunch. They wouldn’t have a clue what’s in their wallet. Then there’s the heavier stuff - false invoicing, dodgy maintenance contracts on the properties, work ticketed but not done. Add it all up and you might be looking at five figures. Easily.’

‘Has anyone done anything about all this?’

‘Not to my knowledge, no, but Peter resigning made a bit of a splash. Even the fucking suits might take notice now.’ She laid a hand on Faraday’s arm and gave it a little pat. ‘That’s a nice car young Andy drives. And kids are expensive these days, aren’t they?’

 

An X-reg. Volvo estate was parked outside Givens’ flat when Winter and Dawn Ellis arrived. The tailgate was open and Winter could see a stack of cardboard boxes inside. He got out of the Peugeot and bent to inspect the contents of the nearest box, recognising items from Givens’ kitchen.

A shadow fell over him.

‘Can I help you?’

Winter turned to find himself looking at a tall individual in jeans and a faded check shirt. He had yet another cardboard box in his arms and he bent to lodge it in the back of the Volvo before inspecting Winter’s warrant card.

Winter was looking at the new box. More of Givens’ stuff.

‘And you are?’

‘My name’s Wilson. I own this property. I’m the landlord.’

‘And all this?’ Winter nodded at the boxes.

‘Belongs to Mr Givens. I’d have been prepared to cut him a little more slack but I understand there isn’t much likelihood of him coming back.’

He said he’d been on to Givens’ employers at the hospital. Reading between the lines, he’d concluded that the man had gone well and truly missing. Last month’s standing order for rent hadn’t been paid because his account was evidently empty, and there didn’t seem much prospect of payments in future. Rather than let the situation drag on any longer, he’d decided to look for a new tenant.

‘So where’s that lot going?’

‘To the hospital. Apparently a friend of his has volunteered to look after it. A Mr … ’ He frowned. ‘ … Tarrant?’

Ellis and Winter followed the Volvo to St Mary’s. Young Simon was on a half day and Jake Tarrant was by himself in the mortuary. He opened the door when Winter rang the bell, peering into the hot sunshine. Wilson was already piling the cardboard boxes on the tarmac beside the Volvo. The contents of Givens’ wardrobe lay heaped on the back seat.

‘What’s all that?’

‘It’s Givens’ gear.’ Winter was laughing. ‘This must be novel for you, son, this kind of delivery. It’s normally just the body, isn’t it?’

Winter and Ellis helped Tarrant carry the boxes into the mortuary. Tarrant told them to use the big post-mortem room for the time being. Ellis, who loathed mortuaries, lodged her box on one of the stainless-steel tables and looked round. On the window side of the room were two sinks for scrubbing up and a litter of surgical instruments awaiting a sort-out. She looked at the scalpels and forceps, the big blunt-ended scissors and a single thin stainless-steel probe. Tarrant joined her, laden with two more boxes.

‘What’s that?’ She pointed at something that looked like a power tool.

‘It’s a bone saw. We use it for taking the skull off.’

‘Nice. And what’s this lot doing here?’ She was looking at a row of pot plants on the window sill.

‘My babies.’ Tarrant dumped his boxes. ‘This place might be knackered but the air con still works a treat. Seventeen changes of air an hour. The plants love it.’

Winter was at the door with the last of the boxes. The tables were full now, so he left it on the side beside a pile of yellow bags marked DANGER OF INFECTION.

‘What happens to those?’ Winter was looking at the bags.

‘Clinical waste. Goes for incineration.’

‘So you still use this place then?’

‘Only for fridge storage and the odd bit of tidying up.’

‘Tidying up? What’s that about?’

‘We take bodies from QA after post-mortem. They’re shipped down here in packs of ten to make it easier at their end. Mondays are favourite, start of the week. The state of some of them … ’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not saying reconstruction’s easy, not after a full post-mortem, but you deserve a bit of dignity, don’t you?’

Some of the bodies, he said, still had their eyes open. Same with mouths. Then there was the issue of hair.

‘Hair?’ Winter was fascinated.

‘Yeah. Do it properly, and it should be towel-dried and brushed back. Some of the people we’re getting now, they look like they’ve been left out in the rain.’

‘So you tidy them up? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah. Of course. Bit of respect.’

‘And that happens here?’

‘Yeah. Normally it’s just a cosmetic thing. Takes no time at all. Though sometimes you get a really shit job from QA so you have to take them to bits and go through the whole reconstruction thing again. That’s rare though, to be fair.’

Winter nodded. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d watched Jake Tarrant slice up a body for the Home Office pathologist. His skills were awesome, especially when it came to putting everything back together again.

‘You still do that? Hands-on post-mortems?’

‘Up at QA.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘But not here, obviously.’

‘No. Like I say, this place is just a dump bin. Overspill from QA.’

‘How many can you take?’

‘Thirty-six, max.’

‘And it’s normally full house?’

‘Give or take. At the moment we’re looking at thirty-one. ’

‘Easy though, eh? Not big eaters, are they?’

Ellis, who’d been listening to the conversation, turned away in disgust. Winter and Tarrant exchanged glances. This was no place for a veggie.

Winter wanted to know what happened to the bodies after they’d arrived from QA.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Nosiness, mate. Comes with the job.’

‘Sure.’ Tarrant shrugged. ‘We check with the undertakers. We need to know whether they’re down for the crem or for burial. If they start asking about body size we know they’re going to the crem.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Affects the amount of gas they use. Big buggers take a bit of burning. You’d be a nightmare, mate. Take it from me.’

‘And you’re saying most go for cremation?’ Winter ignored the dig.

‘Ninety-five per cent. Burial’s rare.’

‘Embalming?’

‘Even rarer. And barbaric, says me.’

‘So how long do you hang onto the bodies then?’

‘A week, maybe longer. Most funerals are organised within a fortnight.’

‘So the bodies go from here to the undertakers?’

‘That’s right. They’ve got fridges too, obviously, and chapels of rest, all that.’

‘So chummy dies. He has a PM. He gets sewn back up. He comes down here. Then the blokes from the undertakers call by and pick him up. Is that the way it goes?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the rest is down to them? The viewing of the body? The hearse? Organising the crem? All that?’

‘Yeah.’ Tarrant nodded, braced for the next question. ‘This is worrying, Mr W. Are you sitting an exam or something?’

Winter laughed, clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Fat chance, mate. Far too busy. Now then, this lot.’ He gave Dawn Ellis a shout. ‘Are you fit, love? Only we should make a start.’

Tarrant was staring at the boxes. He looked aghast.

‘Make a start on what?’ he said.

 

Faraday was on the phone to Jerry Proctor when one of the Management Assistants appeared at his office door. Something in her face told him it was urgent. He signalled her to wait, bent to the phone. He’d just given Proctor Jenny Mitchell’s address. He wanted someone round there sharpish to take a cast of the tyres on her car.

He brought the call to a close. The Management Assistant had someone on the line.

‘Who?’

‘A lady from Buriton. Her name’s Bullen. She says she needs to talk to someone in charge.’

‘About
Coppice
?’

‘I think so. OK if I transfer the call?’

Faraday nodded. When the call came through he was still trying to remember if the name Bullen had figured in the house-to-house reports. He thought not.

‘You are Mr … ?’

‘Faraday. DI Faraday. How can I help you?’

She explained that she’d been away for a while. Got back a couple of days ago. Half the village was talking about what had happened in the tunnel and a neighbour had kept a copy of the newspaper coverage. Last night she’d popped next door for a drink and had gone through the various bits and pieces. After some thought, and another look this morning, she’d concluded that it had to be the same person.

‘Who?’

‘The man in the tunnel.’

‘Of course. But the same as who?’

‘Young Mark.’ She excused herself for a moment to stifle a cough. ‘Mark Duley.’

 

It took Winter and Ellis most of the afternoon to trawl through Givens’ possessions. Tarrant was with them at the start, lurking on the edges of the post-mortem room, inventing little tasks for himself, watering his plants, tidying up stray items, offering to make coffee - any excuse to keep an eye on proceedings. Winter tolerated this covert supervision with the broadest of smiles, sharing discovery after discovery with Tarrant.

Early on, tucked down the side of one of the boxes, Dawn found the brochure for Venice. There wasn’t just one of them but three, different companies but all top of the range. She passed it to Winter, who showed it to Tarrant.

‘Your oppo Si says Givens wanted to take you all. Is that right?’

‘Yeah.’ Tarrant nodded.

‘Didn’t fancy it?’

‘Couldn’t get the time off.’

‘Shame, eh? Especially since he was paying.’

Winter put the brochure to one side without further comment. Minutes later, he found some correspondence tucked into another brochure, this time for a cruise round the Galapagos Islands. The company responsible was answering Givens’ request for a quote: two cabins on the Christmas cruise, one for two adults and a couple of kids, the other for a single adult.

Winter called Tarrant across again.

‘Was this for you lot as well?’

‘That’s what he wanted, yeah.’

‘What did Rachel think?’

‘She wasn’t fussed, to be honest. She gets seasick.’

‘But he was keen, wasn’t he?’ Winter’s finger found the quote at the bottom of the letter. ‘Thirteen grand’s a lot to spend on a Christmas present.’

‘He had the money.’ Tarrant shrugged. ‘He thought it might be a nice idea. I told you, Mr W., he was a generous bloke.’

‘Yeah but
thirteen grand
? He could have sent a card, couldn’t he? Taken you all down the pub?’

‘He didn’t drink.’

‘OK, then. MacD’s, Burger King, nice Chinese, whatever.
Thirteen grand?
You’re kidding.’

‘Not me, mate. Him. His idea. His money. Me? I just kept my head down, got on with the job.’