Beyond Reach (11 page)

‘I think I’m in love,’ she said. ‘Does that make up for anything?’

‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. Baz could probably wear the odd shag or two. It’s who you’re doing it with that matters. ’

She nodded, reflective, and plucked a straw from the nearby bale. ‘Do you know Perry at all?’

‘Not well.’

‘He’s sweet. Really sweet. I know he’s unpopular because he’s told me, but you know something? Guys like him are often misunderstood. You blokes are always so macho. Perry’s got a real feminine side, believe it or not.’

‘Sure. If you know where to look.’

‘That’s cheap, Paul. I’m serious. Do you think I’d go through all this for any guy that happened along? He’s got to be special. He’s got to want to understand me. He’s got to need me, trust me, become part of me. Perry does all that, has done from the start. That makes me lucky, doesn’t it?’

‘
Lucky?
’ Winter gazed at her. ‘You fuck off over to that hotel twice a week, you shag his brains out, you have a great time, all that I can understand. But why complicate it with all this
lucky
shit? Sex is one thing, love. Never complicate it by falling in love.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’ll hurt people. And one of them, in the end, will be you.’

‘You believe that?’

‘I do.’

She sucked at the straw a moment, then wound it round her little finger.

‘You sound like my mum,’ she said at last.

‘You’ve talked to her about all this?’

‘This morning, on the phone. I think she sussed what you must have told Dad. She thinks I’m bonkers.’

‘That’s because you are.’

‘No, Paul.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not. I just told you. Perry does it for me. Big time. Every time. More and more. How can I turn my back on that? He knows who I am, Paul. He knows who I am inside.’

‘Because you tell him?’

‘Because he’s clever, intuitive, just the way you are. Maybe it’s a police thing, a CID thing, maybe it comes with the job. He’s just brilliant at getting inside my head, inside my heart, getting me to open up, getting me to be
myself.
’

‘So you tell him stuff?’

‘Of course, all the time. No secrets, Paul. No hidey-hidey. That’s not our style.’

‘Right …’ Winter looked away. This was much, much worse than he’d imagined. Madison, true to form, had opened her up and helped himself. This was no longer a fishing expedition. This was damage limitation.

‘I’m going to be blunt, love. Your dad is appalled at what you’ve done.’

‘Because Perry’s a copper.’

‘Yeah. And that means you’re sleeping with the enemy. Like I said, he probably wouldn’t begrudge you the odd screw but this is way out of line.’

‘Why?’

‘Because people like Madison, people like I used to be, have an agenda. They can’t help themselves. It’s in their blood. It’s what they do.’

‘I’m not with you, Paul.’

‘Think about it. Think about your dad. Think about how he made his money. Think about what paid for all this.’ He nodded at the stables, at the pool, at the house, at the meadow. ‘Perry Madison, like it or not, wants -
needs -
to have all that off you. Not least because it will do his career a power of good.’

‘You’re telling me he’d put his career before what we have?’

‘I’m telling you he can’t help himself. He’s just programmed that way, Ez. Once a copper, always a copper.’

‘So what does that make you?’

‘A copper. Employed by your dad. Finding out stuff. Just like now.’

She was losing it again. Winter could see the flare of light in her eyes, the way her mouth had compressed. A princess, he thought. Exactly the way Bazza had said.

‘You think he’s set me up? You think he’s using me? You think I couldn’t see through something like that?’

‘I think he may be as infatuated as you are. For the time being.’

‘And then?’

‘He’ll screw you. Properly. And everyone else as well.’

‘How do you mean?

‘Your dad. Your mum. Me. And probably several hundred other people. All he needs is evidence.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of stuff that your dad’s been up to. Of stuff that you’d know about. Fuck knows, he might have got enough already.’

‘From me, you mean? You really think I’d tell him stuff like that?’

‘You might. If you were pissed or silly enough.’

‘Perry doesn’t drink.’

‘It’s not Perry I’m worried about.’

‘Thanks, thanks a lot. You think I’m some drunken old slut who can’t keep her mouth shut?’

‘No, it’s much worse than that. I believe you. I think you’re in love.’

She looked at Winter for a long moment, trying to find a way out of this conversation, trying - somehow - to turn it all around.

‘And if I told you Perry’s planning to chuck it all in? Resign? Call it a day?’

‘I’d say he was lying.’

She shook her head very slowly, back in control. She even smiled.

‘You’re wrong, Paul. Perry doesn’t lie. Not to me. Not now. Not ever. It’s something we pledged to each other. No lies. Only the truth. Does that make sense to you?’ The smile widened. ‘Probably not.’

WEDNESDAY, 21 MAY 2008. 16.36

Jeanette Morrissey was at home by the time Faraday returned to Paulsgrove. He’d met Steph Callan in the car park at the Marriott Hotel and they’d driven up together for the interview. The atmosphere in the Mondeo was icy.

It was a while before Mrs Morrissey came to the door. There was a new-looking Fiesta parked outside.

‘Can I help you?’

Jeanette Morrissey was tall and slightly gaunt-looking. Her face seemed to have missed out on the recent spell of decent weather and there was a deadness in her eyes as she took in the strangers on her doorstep. She’d met Faraday over the death of her son but showed no signs of recognising him.

Faraday offered his warrant card and introduced Steph Callan. He knew at once that this woman had been expecting a knock on the door.

‘Have you come about the camper? Have you found it?’

Faraday suggested they step inside for a chat. The front lounge was chilly. A cat was curled on one end of the sofa and Faraday saw Callan’s attention caught by a line of photos on the mantelpiece above the flame-effect gas fire. The lad looked younger than his fifteen years. There was something slightly feminine about the softly curled hair and his face was lightly dusted with freckles. He wore a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses and in all four shots the smile had the same guileless innocence.

‘This was your son?’ Callan didn’t hide her interest.

‘Tim? Yes.’

‘Lovely-looking boy. It must have been heartbreaking, what happened to him.’

‘It was. It was horrible.’

The cat fled the sofa the moment Faraday sat down. In the car he’d agreed that Steph Callan would take the lead. She settled herself on the other end of the sofa and produced a notebook.

‘You may be aware of an accident up on Southwick Hill Road …’ she began, ‘last Saturday night.’

Mrs Morrissey said she’d heard about it. A man off the estate had been killed.

‘May I ask you what you were doing on Saturday night?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was -’ she frowned as if trying to remember ‘- I was here, at home.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Watching TV mostly. It’s all rubbish on Saturday night, but to be honest I was exhausted. I work at the health centre. We’re on the go all the time. It’s just non-stop.’

‘Was anyone with you?’

‘No.’

‘Did you make any phone calls?’

She looked up at the ceiling a moment, concentrating hard. Then she nodded.

‘I phoned my friend Katie. She’s just come back from Greece. We had a bit of a chat. She had a lovely time out there. It was nice talking again.’

‘What time was that?’

‘I don’t know …’ She shrugged. ‘Eight? Nine? I’m sure you can check if you want to.’

She gave Callan the number. She knew it by heart. Callan wanted to know what time she went to bed.

‘Early. I watched the news at ten then went straight upstairs. Like I say, I was just exhausted.’

Callan glanced across at Faraday. He motioned for her to carry on. She turned back to Jeanette Morrissey.

‘And you went straight to sleep that night?’

‘Yes. Out like a light.’

Callan nodded, scribbled herself another note.

‘Tell me about the following morning.’

‘Sunday? I woke up as usual, had a bit of a wash, went downstairs, made myself a pot of tea. Just the usual things.’

‘So when did you realise the camper had gone?’

‘When I pulled back the curtains in the front room. I leave it right outside the house. At first I didn’t believe it. In fact I got dressed and went out to check that I hadn’t parked it somewhere else.’

‘What time was this?’

‘About nine o’clock. On Sundays I have a bit of a lie-in.’

‘Was there any glass in the road outside? Any indication that someone might have broken a window to get into the van?’

‘No.’

‘You looked?’

‘Yes.’

‘And, thinking back, when you were lying in bed during the night, did you hear anything? A door closing? An engine starting?’

‘My bedroom’s at the back of the house. You get a lot of noise here at weekends, kids mainly. It’s quieter at the back.’

‘So you heard nothing?’

‘Nothing at all. Then next morning I got up, just like normal, and like I say … it had gone.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I went to the police and told them what had happened.’

‘You didn’t phone first?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because there’s no point. We get lots of trouble up here. I’m not blaming the police. They must be really stretched. But a case like this -’ she shrugged ‘- I just thought it would be quicker for me to come to you. The sooner you’ve got all the details, the quicker you might get it back. Isn’t that right?’

Callan said nothing. Neither did Faraday. Over the course of an extremely difficult year this woman had been in touch with the local police on countless occasions. She’d have made personal contacts, even friends. So why not lift the phone?

It was Mrs Morrissey who broke the silence. She wanted to know why she was having to answer all these questions. Callan explained about the accident. Evidence recovered from the scene suggested that a red VW camper van might have been involved.

‘You mean mine?’

‘It’s possible.’ Callan glanced down at her notes. ‘The man who died … Kyle Munday. I understand you knew him.’

‘
Of
him, certainly. He’s notorious round here. Nothing but trouble. A horrible, horrible man.’

‘He’d had dealings with your son … is that right?’

‘I wouldn’t call it dealings. Munday bullied him, hurt him, made Tim’s life a misery.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘No. And neither could you lot. And you know why? Because everyone on this estate’s terrified of him. Or was. And that’s why no one had the courage to come forward and give evidence. He ruled the place with that dog of his. He just strutted around like no one could touch him. Decent kids, grown-ups, people who should have known better, they all kept their heads down. When something like that happens, you give up. It’s anarchy. There’s absolutely nothing you can do. I can’t describe what that feels like. It’s like living in the Dark Ages. You’re totally, totally helpless.’

For the first time there was colour in her face. Faraday could sense the force of her anger. Callan too.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Morrissey,’ she said. ‘This must be very distressing. ’

‘Munday getting killed like that?’ She shook her head. ‘Not at all. If you want the truth, I was glad someone had the good sense to run him over.’

Another silence, longer this time. Then Callan cleared her throat.

‘As a matter of interest,’ she said, ‘how do you know he was run over?’

‘I don’t. I just assume that was what happened. And you know something else? I hope he took a while to die.’

 

Carol Legge had always been one of Paul Winter’s favourite contacts. A small, talkative Geordie, she’d become a legend in the city’s Child Protection Team. People who knew her well spoke of her instinctive ability to recognise when a kid was in trouble and of the knack she had of cutting through all the bullshit and getting to the truth. In this respect, and many others, she’d never let Winter down.

They were sitting in a café in Fratton Road. Carol, who adored cakes, had just demolished a hefty slice of Battenberg. Now she was showing Winter snaps of her latest grandchild. Winter went through the motions. What he really wanted to talk about was Tide Turn Trust.

Finally, he spotted an opening. Carol had spent most of the afternoon trying to sort out a feral seven-year-old who’d been squirting his kid sister with bleach. The mother, a career junkie, had given up, and the kids were currently in the care of the great-grandparents.

‘This is a couple in their seventies, pet. They’re that poor they can’t afford the daytime tariff on the electric. In the middle of the night it’s much cheaper so they do all their washing and cooking at three in the morning. Drives the bairns mad, especially when the lady of the house is getting up every hour to baste the chicken. It’s old school, isn’t it, pet? Mustn’t let the Lidl bird dry out.’

Winter told her about Tide Turn Trust. He’d been trying to baste this particular broiler for nine months. He’d chalked up the odd success or two, keeping kids off the streets, but the truth was the thing was driving him barmy. Time for someone else to take their turn at the stove.

‘This is Mackenzie’s little party piece?’

‘The same.’