One Under (53 page)

‘Like Mark would definitely be sectioned but that he’d be out again before long. And then everything would kick off, just like before. Andy knows about this stuff. He deals with these people all the time. I’m telling you, he
knows
.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘He told me I was in the shit because of what I’d done. I’d already helped someone try to commit suicide. I’d go to court for that, maybe go to prison.’

‘You believed him?’

‘Yes. Then I asked him what we were going to do. I remember he was looking at me. Then he shook his head. Nothing, he said.’

‘
Nothing?
’

‘Nothing. I told him Mark would die and he just nodded. Then he said it was up to me. If I wanted a life, if I wanted my kids, if I wanted us to start all over, get it together, be friends again, try really hard, then we had the chance. But if Mark was still around, if they got him out of that tunnel, then it was all over.’

‘He said that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you?’

‘I just … I just … ’ She shook her head again, covered her face with her hands. ‘I just … oh Christ … oh God … help me … help me please … ’

Barber moved to stop the tape but Faraday caught her eye and shook his head. There was a moment of total silence. Then, for the last time, Jenny’s head came up.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I killed that man.’

 

Faraday organised the meeting in Barrie’s office. Barber was there, and the two DSs from the Incident Room, and Jerry Proctor appeared seconds before Barrie made a start, asking Faraday to summarise developments.

For the time being, Faraday explained, Jenny Mitchell had been arrested on suspicion of aiding another to commit suicide. After discussions with the Crown Prosecution Service, a formal charge would doubtless follow but the immediate priority was a decision over her husband. Andy Mitchell, on his wife’s evidence, had played a key part in Duley’s death.

Barrie wanted to know more about Jenny Mitchell.

‘Why didn’t she tell us earlier? Get it off her chest?’

‘Because her husband told her she’d be complicit. He’d spelled out the probability of a criminal charge. He’d told her she’d be looking at a heavy sentence. She’d be lucky to see her kids grow up.’

‘She’s right.’ He nodded. ‘Assisting suicide carries fourteen years. So how come she coughs it all now?’

‘Because she knows the marriage won’t work. Regardless. ’

‘She blames herself for that?’

‘Partly. I think she’s horrified, too, by what happened that night with Andy. She’d never seen that in him. She’d never believed he could be so … ’ Faraday shrugged. ‘ … Ruthless.’

‘But she went along with it.’

‘She did, sir.’

‘So what does that make her?’

‘Guilty. Which is why she opened up. There wasn’t a problem. She just gave it to us. All we had to do was listen.’

‘Sure. I understand that. But why now?’

‘Because we turned up. And because … ’ Faraday broke off, not knowing quite how much weight to put on the other factor.

‘There’s something else?’ Barrie was getting impatient.

‘Yes, sir. She told me she got a little parcel a couple of days ago. It had been sent to the wrong address. Turned up late.’

‘What was it?’

‘An audio cassette. Duley must have posted it on the Sunday, before he turned up at her mum’s flat. There was a piece of Bach on it. Part of the St Matthew Passion. She says she’s been playing it ever since.’

‘And so … ?’

Faraday gazed at him a moment, then shrugged, gesturing round.

‘And so here we are, sir.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Case closed.’

 

Winter was tucked up at home in Blake House when his mobile rang. It took him several seconds to place the voice. The woman from the undertakers, he thought.

‘Sue,’ he said. ‘You’ve got some news for me.’

‘I have. It’s about your Mr Reid.’

She talked for perhaps a minute. Winter reached for a pen, scribbled himself a note on the back of the
Daily Telegraph
. By the time he concluded the call, he was out in the kitchen, hunting for the Scotch. He poured himself three fingers, caught his image in the big mirror back in the living room, raised the glass in a toast, then stepped out onto the balcony. A group of partygoers were locked together in a riotous conga, weaving along the promenade beside the harbour. He beamed down at them, gave them a little wave. Then he got his mobile out again, thumbed one of the stored numbers. It answered almost at once.

‘Jake, son?’ he said cheerfully. ‘We need another meet.’

 

Jake Tarrant was already at the cemetery. Winter spotted the red Fiat from the back of his cab and told the driver to pull up alongside. Tarrant was sitting behind the wheel, absorbed in the sports pages of the
News of the World
. Only when Winter tapped on the window did he bother looking up.

After days of glorious weather, it was pouring with rain. Tarrant wound down the window.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘Are you going to let me in or what?’

‘Depends.’ His gaze held Winter’s for a couple of seconds, then a grin creased his face and he leaned over and released the lock on the other door.

Winter settled his bulk in the passenger seat. Rain was dripping off his nose. Tarrant studied him for a moment or two, then turned down the radio.

‘What’s this about? Only this is supposed to be my day off.’

Winter didn’t answer. An elderly woman was shuffling towards them from the bus stop. She was carrying a jam jar with a small posy of flowers. She turned in at the cemetery gates and made her way down towards the gloomy neo-Gothic chapel that dominated the acres of surrounding graves. Winter had always hated this place. On days like today, under a leaden grey sky, it was the perfect embodiment of everything he found depressing. The puddled drive. The lines of crumbling gravestones. The sodden turf. The dripping trees. Even the crem, thought Winter, would be better than this.

‘I’ve been thinking, son,’ he said at last.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. You remember what you told me the other night? Our little chat? About Givens?’

Tarrant nodded. ‘I was pissed,’ he said.

‘Of course you were, son.’ Winter patted him on the knee. ‘That’s why I took you seriously. Made a few enquiries. Like you do.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘The bodies in the fridge. The ones you popped bits of Givens into. You remember all that?’

Tarrant didn’t answer. He folded the paper and reached for the ignition key.

‘What are you doing, son?’

‘I’m going home. I don’t have to listen to this shit.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ He looked across at Winter. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to but, if you want the truth, I’m not really interested anymore. You play games, Mr W. You’re a clever bloke. You make me laugh sometimes. If you want to arrest me, help yourself. I’ll deny everything. Otherwise -’ He shrugged. ‘- Fuck off.’

‘Who said anything about arresting you?’

‘No one. But why else would you be here? Come for a chat, have you?’ He nodded at the paper. ‘Politics, is it? Cricket?’

Winter laughed. He wanted them both to take a little walk.

‘Where?’

‘Into there.’ Winter nodded at the cemetery gates.

‘Why?’

‘Come with me and you’ll find out.’

Tarrant had an umbrella in the back of the car. With some reluctance, he opened it, sheltering Winter as they made their way into the cemetery. Beyond the chapel, Winter could see the old woman, bent over a headstone. She must be drenched, he thought, stuck out in the rain like that.

At the end of the drive, past the chapel, the scatter of headstones began to thin. Finally, close to the encircling stone wall, they found evidence of recent digging. Winter stepped off the path and poked at a smear of yellow earth with the toe of his shoe.

‘Apparently they let everything settle before they bother with a headstone. Takes months.’ He turned to Tarrant. ‘I never knew that. Did you?’

‘Yeah.’ Tarrant was staring at the oblong of turf that marked the new grave. ‘Who’s in there, then?’

‘Bloke called Herbert Reid. One of your lot.’

‘He was down for the crem.’

‘I know, son. But it seems there was a bit of a domestic about the funeral arrangements. His son and daughter wanted the crem but his missus wasn’t having it. When she found out, she went potty, phoned the undertaker, insisted her husband deserved better. Apparently it took a month to sort out. His missus won.’

‘And he’s in there?’

‘As of the week before last. And not just him, son, eh?’ Winter grinned at him. He’d abandoned the shelter of the umbrella by now and was standing in the rain, his face tilted up, oblivious to the spreading dark stain on his shirt.

Tarrant said nothing, staring at the unmarked grave.

‘You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?’ he muttered at last. ‘This is Mr W.’s idea of a joke.’

‘No, son. It’s not.’

‘What do you want then? Money?’

‘You haven’t got any money.’

‘Yes, we have. We’ve got a hundred and eighty-five grand.’

‘That’s not your money. That’s Givens’.’

‘You can have half of it.’

‘I don’t want half of it. I don’t want any of it.’ Winter was looking hurt. ‘Do you think I’m that cheap? That easy?’

‘What then? What
do
you want?’

‘Nothing, really. Except to point out that you got it wrong. People think we’re stupid sometimes, thick. Fact is, old son, we’re not.’ He nodded down at the muddied turf. ‘It would take us an hour or so to have Herbert Reid out of there. Then another two days for a result on the DNA inside. Red bag, wasn’t it? I wonder which bit of Givens would blow it for you? Just think about it, eh? And don’t ever take us for fucking granted.’

Winter turned on his heel and began to walk back towards the gates. Tarrant watched him for a moment, undecided, then set off in pursuit. Winter had got to the chapel by the time he caught up.

‘You can have all the money,’ he said. ‘Every fucking penny.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I mean it.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ Winter stopped. ‘From anyone else that would be seriously out of order. You, son?’ He patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll do you a favour and put it down to inexperience. There are some seriously nasty people in this city. You’re not one of them.’

He started to walk again. This time, Tarrant let him go.

 

Faraday found Willard waiting for him in Martin Barrie’s office. The Detective Superintendent had called a special meeting of the
Coppice
management team for eleven o’clock and senior detectives were already drifting down the corridor outside.

‘Result, Joe.’ Willard was looking pleased. ‘It’s been a lot of resource to throw at a suicide but it sends a message, doesn’t it?’

Faraday wasn’t quite sure what Willard meant. They’d picked up Andy Mitchell at half past seven in Old Portsmouth, given him half an hour to sort out cover for the kids. Tracy Barber, who had been one of the arresting DCs, had told Faraday of the little faces at the window as their father walked away towards the squad car at the end of the close. The Family Liaison Officer would have been round there by now, but there was going to be a big hole to fill in the months to come. Two more kids without a home, he thought. Two more recruits to Pompey’s army of bewildered nippers.

‘Well, Joe?’ Willard was still waiting for an answer.

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Faraday was aware of Martin Barrie watching him. ‘We did what we did. I’m not sure “result” is a word that anyone should be proud of.’

‘You think we missed something?’ It was Willard’s turn to be puzzled.

‘Not at all. I think we did OK. It’s what happens next, isn’t it?’

This wasn’t at all the conversation that Willard had been planning to have. He stepped closer to Faraday.

‘It’s about consequences, Joe. Everything you do has consequences. You know it. I know it. Those nice Mitchells know it. Strap someone to a railway line and leave him for dead, and one day there’ll be a knock at your door. We’re in the justice business, aren’t we? Or have I got that wrong?’

‘Not at all, sir. Two kids without parents? Some bloke in pieces in the Buriton Tunnel?’ He nodded. ‘Definite result.’

The meeting began shortly afterwards. Barrie called on Faraday to summarise the state of play. Andy Mitchell, he said, had called his solicitor to Central and was digging in for the first of the interviews. After his wife’s resigned compliance, Faraday was anticipating a spirited defence. The only direct evidence against him was Jenny’s statement, and in Faraday’s experience, given the circumstances, Mitchell might well decide to deny everything. His wife, he’d claim, had entangled herself with a lunatic. The only way she could keep the lid on the affair was by helping the bastard to his death. Afterwards, with luck, there’d be no evidence of her involvement.

Heads nodded round the table. Mitchell, it was noted, had retained Bazza Mackenzie’s solicitor, Nelly Tien. She’d doubtless find a way of turning events to her client’s advantage. By the time Jenny Mitchell had confessed, it would have been too late to save Mark Duley. Mitchell had stayed silent ever since in a heroic attempt to keep his family together. Not a murderer at all, predicted Faraday, but a hard-working father, committed to helping society’s cast-offs, trapped into a lie by his faithless wife.

The tabloid potential of the eventual court case brought a contribution from Willard. For the last ten days he’d been fending off media interest in the case, feeding the Media Relations Department a series of bland press statements about promising lines of enquiry and unceasing effort. Now, before the media storm broke, he wanted to be quite certain that
Coppice
was reporter-proof.