Turnstone (20 page)

The questions made her smile. She took the album and turned to a page near the back. It was an exterior shot this time, a close-up of the boat’s name, either the bow or the stern, the grain of the wood clearly visible beneath the layers of carefully applied paint, but once again Faraday was denied the whole picture.

‘
Kaburangi
?’ he queried.

‘It’s a Maori word. It means something you really treasure. Sam was born in New Zealand. We didn’t leave until he was nearly eight. He loved it there.’

She explained that his father had been a charter skipper, delivering yachts all over the world. He and Ruth had met in Australia and moved to New Zealand when she found out that she was pregnant.

‘You divorced?’

‘We never married. We just ran out of steam. He came back here and took a job in Cowes and in the end we followed.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Sam missed him so much. It wasn’t fair to stay out there. Here was much better from his point of view.’

Sam had seen lots of his father, staying over in Cowes with him and his new partner. That was where he’d learned to handle a dinghy. By the time he went to secondary school, he was regularly winning cups at local regattas.

The memories made her eyes swim and she looked down for a moment, embarrassed. They were on the second bottle of wine by now and Faraday’s awkwardness had gone. This time he made a much better job of saying he was sorry. Losing a twenty-two-year-old to a French social worker was bad enough. Having your only son die was unimaginable.

‘Where’s Chris now?’

‘In the Caribbean somewhere. He took a chartering job. I’ve been trying to get hold of him about Sam.’

Abruptly, she left the room again. He heard her blowing her nose, then came a series of kitchen noises. She was putting the kettle on. They’d have coffee. And then he would have to go.

He reached for the first album again. A section near the back was reserved for wildlife shots. Leafing through, he was trying to imagine her ten years younger when his eye fell on a bird. It filled the frame. It was on a pebbly beach at half-tide or less. There were growths of seaweed on the rocks and the mud flats behind still glistened in the low sun. The bird was a dark, mottled colour, perfectly camouflaged against predators, and Ruth had caught it exactly at the moment its head had turned. Most bird photographers judged the eye to be the test of a good shot. The eye was all-important. The eye was what you went for when you hunted for focus and resolution. Yet here was Ruth, breaking every rule, and coming up with a photograph that – to Faraday – exactly captured the essence of the bird. The sturdy little body bent forward, the tail tilted in the air, and a blur where the head should be. Like J-J, she should have put it in for a competition. And like J-J, she would doubtless have won a prize.

A movement at the door broke his concentration. Ruth was holding a tray and doing her best to peer over his shoulder.

‘It’s a turnstone,’ Faraday said. ‘I wake up to these little fellas every morning of my life.’

It was true. They lived on the mud flats below his bedroom window, dislodging stone after stone in the hunt for the food beneath. Watching them through his binoculars never failed to cheer him up. Their dedication. Their persistence. The joy he sensed in their brief moments of stillness after a particularly juicy beakful of lugworm. For his fortieth birthday, J-J had drawn him a turnstone and hand-coloured it in nuptial plumage before mounting it in a handsome frame. Four years later, it still occupied pride of place in Faraday’s study.

He told her about it now, J-J’s picture, and she knelt on the carpet before the hearth, easing down the plunger on the cafetière. Sam had been keen on them too. That first summer, in the evenings, he’d squelch across the mud flats, waving his arms, trying to catch them. He never did, of course, but he’d come back filthy, mud everywhere, trying to copy their call. She could see him now, back on the houseboat, sitting in the big wash tub, making his turnstone noise. It was loud and rattly. Trik-tuk-tuk-tuk, it went. Trik-tuk-tuk-tuk.

She poured the coffee, then turned her head away again, angry that she couldn’t hide her grief.

‘I’ve got turnstones,’ Faraday murmured. ‘You must come over to the house some time.’

Twenty

A call from Dawn Ellis awoke Faraday shortly after seven in the morning. He’d taken to sleeping with the mobile under his pillow and he rolled over with it clamped to his ear, trying to check the time. Saturday mornings used to be sacrosanct. Once.

‘We had a serious wounding last night. I thought you ought to know.’

Faraday felt a deep chill, a coldness that reached way down inside. For some reason he wanted to defer the name. The name would be the worst news. He knew it would.

‘Where did it happen?’

‘Paulsgrove. You know that little cut off Alloway Avenue? Up near the shops?’

Faraday knew it only too well. Anson Avenue was only two streets away. He lay back against the pillows, listening to Dawn detailing the injuries. Knees pulped by a heavy concrete block. Lacerations around the head and shoulders. Ambush injuries. Pay-back injuries.

‘Scott Spellar,’ Faraday muttered. ‘Has to be.’

Two of the four beds in the ward were empty. Scott Spellar lay in the corner, the bedclothes tented over his shattered legs. His face was bruised and swollen. He didn’t seem to recognise Faraday at all.

Faraday drew up a chair and sat down. The boy’s eyes had closed already, a gesture of infinite weariness, and Faraday looked at him for a long moment. The ward sister had shown him the X-rays from last night. In eighteen years, she’d never seen worse.

As gently as he could, Faraday tried to coax from the boy an account of what had happened. At first he refused to talk, even to acknowledge Faraday’s presence. Then, half sentence by half sentence, a sequence of events began to emerge. He’d been drinking with some mates in a local pub. They’d played pool, had a laugh or two. Afterwards, he’d got a burger from a van. He’d been eating the burger, en route home, when the guys jumped him. There were three of them at least, maybe more. He could smell the drink on them. They’d dragged him into an alley and wrestled him to the ground. One of them had stood on his feet and another had sat on his head while the third guy did the business. He didn’t think it had taken very long but he couldn’t be sure. When he came round, it was raining.

He stared up at Faraday.

‘What’s up with my legs?’ he said. ‘No one’ll tell me.’

Faraday, lying, said he didn’t know. Care at the hospital was great. He’d be up and about in no time.

Scott’s eyes were closed again. He didn’t believe him and he didn’t care. When Faraday asked for names, he shook his head. When he asked whether he knew them, he shook his head again. The denials meant he’d had enough.

Faraday bent towards him. Motive could wait. He wanted to find out first about Winter.

‘Who?’ The boy could barely muster the breath to answer but the shape of his lips told Faraday everything he wanted to know.

‘Winter,’ Faraday repeated, ‘Paul Winter. The CID bloke who talked to you down at the Bridewell. After your dad died.’

Slowly, it dawned on Scott that Winter was the detective who’d made him trade details of Marty Harrison’s drugs operation in return for his own freedom.

‘Fat bastard,’ he mouthed.

‘You remember him?’

Scott nodded. Then his tongue came out, moistening his lips. His teeth were a mess, three of them broken, a couple missing altogether. Faraday reached for the beaker with the plastic straw on the bedside cabinet but Scott shook his head.

Faraday glanced round for a moment. The ward sister was watching him from the nursing station. She tapped her watch and splayed both hands. Ten minutes. No more.

‘Did you agree to work for Winter?’

‘No way.’

‘Did he approach you again? After the Bridewell?’

‘Yeah.’

The boy’s face twisted in pain for a second or two. Then he shifted his body weight beneath the sheets.

‘I wanted my money off him. We had coffee. He said for me to talk to Marty, get in touch with him, like.’

‘And did you?’

‘Joking. I didn’t want no more Marty.’

‘But he still tried to persuade you? Winter?’

‘Yeah. And I played along, like.’

‘Why was that?’

‘He still owed me.’

‘He was paying you?’

Scott took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. Then the spasm passed.

‘Yeah, but it was my money all along.’ He stared up at the ceiling. ‘Know what I mean?’

Faraday bent towards him, trying to follow the logic.

‘You’re telling me Winter was paying you with your own money? The money from your bedroom? And you’re saying he still owes you?’

Scott nodded, his battered face grey with pain.

‘Two hundred quid,’ he muttered.

Paul Winter was sorting out an overnight break-in at a video store when Faraday caught up with him. Fratton Road was thick with Saturday shoppers and Winter was less than thrilled at surrendering part of his weekend to tossers who thought that nine boxes of worn-out videos were worth nicking. Faraday led the way to his car.

‘Get in,’ he said.

Winter was still musing about establishing patterns. These guys were into bulk theft, chiefly teenage horror. Did that make them middle-aged retards or adolescents off the Buckland estate or what? Faraday ignored the sarcasm. Winter had been winding him up for too long.

‘Tell me about Scott Spellar.’

Winter was eyeing a fat blonde on the pavement with two kids and a doll in a triple buggy.

‘Gone to ground,’ he said. ‘Haven’t heard a peep.’

‘Wrong. He’s in the QA, as of last night, and he won’t be playing football for a while.’

‘Oh?’

‘So who put him there? Any ideas?’

Winter shrugged. The blonde had crossed the road. When she turned to grin at him she gave him a little wave. It was the wave that did it for Faraday.

‘I asked you a question. It would be nice, just for once, to get an answer.’

‘I haven’t got one. Because I don’t know.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

The question hung between them while Faraday wound the window down. Winter’s aftershave was overpowering.

‘You seized the eight hundred quid from his bedroom,’ Faraday went on, ‘and the boy says you kept two hundred back.’

‘He’s right.’

‘So why didn’t you give him the lot? Like I asked?’

‘Because he’s a scrote. And scrotes need incentives.’

‘Incentives to do what?’

‘Grass.’

‘So you
did
try and turn him?’

‘Of course I did. That’s my job. You know this city. Without informants, we’d be fucked. Unless you think there’s a better way.’

Faraday looked across at him. Winter was still staring out at the swirl of shoppers on the pavement. He seemed a million miles away.

‘We took the two hundred quid back up to Anson Avenue,’ he said at last. ‘Dawn came with me.’

‘Was Scott there?’

‘No. Some twat mate of his.’

‘And you were two-handed?’

‘Yeah, me and Dawn.’ Winter smiled. ‘You wanted the money witnessed, boss. I was just following orders.’

Faraday tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

‘So where’s the money now? The two hundred he never got?’

‘It’s back in the crime property store. Check, if you want.’

There was a long silence while Faraday fought to contain his temper. Winter, as ever, had covered his arse. The best Faraday could do now was take the money to the hospital himself. That way, at the very least, he’d make sure the boy got it. Two hundred pounds might make a big difference if you were in a wheelchair for six months.

Winter was staring out through the windscreen. The smile had gone.

‘Paulsgrove’s no mystery,’ he said softly. ‘They sort things out themselves up there. The kid got a smacking. That’s the end of it.’

‘But from whom? Who did it?’

Winter shot him a look that was close to pity.

‘Do you want a list? We pulled young Scottie at the weekend, right? We banged him up in the Bridewell and half of Paulsgrove were banged up with him. That’s what happens on a Saturday night. That’s where they all end up. They’re not stupid, these people. They knew we were talking to him. They knew he ran all kinds of shit for Harrison and half of them had him well sussed already. They knew we had him by the balls. They knew he could have gone down for murder. So instead, he chose to grass up Harrison. There’s a price for touting round his way. And he’s just paid it.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘As simple as that. The moment he started telling us about his little trips to London, he was stuffed.’ He nodded at Faraday. ‘We both put him in that hospital, boss, you as well as me.’

Against her better judgement, Cathy Lamb phoned Pete at his mother’s house. It was nearly eleven o’clock. He’d just got up.

Recognising her voice, he began a conversation but she cut him short.

‘Has my boss been on to you? Joe?’

‘No.’

‘He wants to pick your brains about the Fastnet. He’s got some weird idea about carting a body along and he needs someone to tell him he’s talking crap. He seems to think you’re some kind of expert.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I meant the Fastnet.’

‘Really?’

Despite herself, Cathy laughed. She’d had a couple of conversations with Pete’s mum about her new lodger and she couldn’t believe he’d suddenly learned to do the washing-up. Not only that, but he’d volunteered for the shopping as well.

Pete was asking about Faraday. What, exactly, did he want?

‘An hour of your time and a look round a Sigma. Can you handle that?’

‘No problem.’

‘You want me to give you his mobile number?’

‘No thanks. I’d prefer to do it through you.’ He paused. ‘If that’s OK.’

Cathy eased her chair back from her desk and stretched her legs. Her plans for a long walk on Hayling Beach were rapidly receding.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think that counts as overtime.’

Minutes later, Faraday appeared in the CID room. When Dawn Ellis inquired about Scott Spellar he simply shook his head and changed the subject. He wanted to know about developments over in Cowes. What had the marina people come up with?

Dawn reached for her notes. According to the management’s records,
Marenka
had berthed on the outer pontoon late on Friday, tying up alongside one of the Aussie boats. A trawl through the paperwork had unearthed the crew’s details and Alan Moffatt had come away with a handful of phone numbers, most of them in Sydney. The bulk of the Australians had flown home by now.

‘And?’ Faraday was impatient.

‘We’ve phoned them all, got hold of maybe half of them. Nobody remembers anything.’

‘
Nothing?
’

‘Lots about the storm. Nothing about
Marenka
.’

‘Nothing about the crew? Henry Potterne? Hartson? Nothing odd they were up to?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What about the Royal Corinthian? Dinner that night?’

‘Oomes had booked four covers for half eight. The waiter remembered two of them starting before the others arrived.’

‘What time did they get there?’

‘Soon after nine. The kitchen was still open. Just.’

‘Did anyone get a good look at the two who were late? Potterne especially?’

‘The waiter did, and I got hold of the people on the next table. The tables are quite close together. You can hear what’s going on if you’ve nothing better to do.’

‘What did they say?’

‘The guy I talked to remembered Potterne and Hartson arriving. He thought Potterne might have had a drink or two but he wasn’t outrageous or anything. In fact he was anything but.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He scarcely said a word. According to this bloke.’

‘Any marks on him? Bruising?’

‘Not that he remembered.’

‘Did he drink anything else?’

‘Plenty. I saw the bill. They had four bottles of wine between them. Plus lots of Scotch afterwards.’

‘Doubles?’

‘Yes, and trebles.’

Faraday wandered across to the window and stared down at the car park. As hard evidence this was worthless, but the pictures it conjured in his mind were all too vivid. If Potterne had really killed Maloney, and if Maloney’s body was still on that boat, then you’d very definitely be in need of a drink or two. Potterne, according to Charlie Oomes, had played the elder statesman aboard
Marenka
. He was the one with the ocean-going experience. It was his judgement they’d rely on in the Fastnet. The race was due to start in less than twenty-four hours. Yet here he was, quiet as a mouse, with absolutely nothing to say. How come he was so preoccupied? What kind of problem had he just given himself and the crew?

Faraday turned away from the window. Dawn Ellis was back on the phone, talking to the coastal radio station at Falmouth, trying to nail down radio traffic from
Marenka
. Cathy had abandoned her phone for the kettle.

‘Pete’s happy to have a meet about the race,’ she said. ‘But I don’t suppose he’d want to do it here.’

Pete Lamb turned up at Faraday’s house at lunchtime. He was nearly an hour and a half late, blaming the delay on his sports car. The temperature gauge was off the clock. He’d had a poke around under the bonnet and eventually found a leaking head gasket so in the end he’d had to abandon the bugger in Gosport and come over by ferry and cab.

Faraday accepted the apology with a grunt. Pete’s hands were spotless – not a trace of oil – but just now, a sloppy alibi for being late was the least of his problems. The results of the blood test were back from the lab, and according to Jerry Proctor he’d be lucky to escape with the sack. If the Police Complaints Authority had appointed an investigating officer who knew his business, Pete Lamb could be down for attempted murder.

Under these circumstances, Lamb seemed remarkably cheerful. Cathy had hinted at the onset of depression but Faraday had rarely seen him so buoyant. He was more than happy to help Faraday out. He’d brought a chart. Clear some space on the table and they could get going at once.

The chart showed the English Channel from Selsey Bill to way out beyond the Scilly Isles. A series of pencilled zigzags led from Cowes to the Needles passage at the western tip of the Isle of Wight. From there, the zigzags broadened, following the shape of the coast as far as the toe of Cornwall. Off Land’s End, the line angled north-west, coming to an abrupt end at a pencilled cross roughly a third of the way towards the Irish Sea. Faraday stared at the cross, fascinated.