Beyond Reach (17 page)

At last, he reached for his glass. Winter watched him take a couple of swallows then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d known from the start that Bazza would take to this guy. He was authentic. He was rough around the edges. Beyond the macho bluster he was a bit of a dreamer as well, but he obviously had the bollocks to speak his mind.

‘There are kids in this city who might put all that to the test.’

‘I know. I worked here.’

‘And you think you could hack it?’

‘I know I could. I’m not talking about the job now, if there is a job; I’m talking about my own experience. What works on the island works in Pompey. If you don’t believe that then you might as well chuck it in.’

‘Tesco’s? Stacking shelves?’

‘Never.’ He laughed again. ‘I haven’t got the brain.’

 

Detective Chief Superintendent Willard descended on the Major Crime suite shortly after lunch. Faraday, summoned from his office, found the Head of CID in conference with Gail Parsons.

Willard was a big man, physically imposing. He’d earned a career-long reputation as a copper’s copper and now found himself in charge of Hantspol’s detectives. Promotion had given Willard a taste for expensive suits plus the beginnings of a national profile and Faraday knew that he now had his eye on an ACPO job. Assistant Chief Constable in a decent force could open all kinds of interesting doors once he’d done his thirty years.

For now, though, he was preoccupied with
Melody.
Major Crime had taken a great deal of stick from the media when the hunt for Tim Morrissey’s killer had stalled and now was the time to put the record straight. Willard had always been extremely sensitive to criticism of any kind, especially from the press.

‘Well done for boxing off the hit-and-run, Joe.’ He waved Faraday into a seat at the conference table. ‘Tell me about Munday’s mother.’

‘She lives up on the estate. Munday was there pretty much when it suited him.’

‘You think they were close?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir. She’s a smackhead. Most of the time she’s out of it.’

‘Who broke the news?’

‘Steph Callan sent a FLO round. Three in the morning.’

‘One of ours?’

‘No. She’s on the Road Death team.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She went to the mother’s address with the death message but couldn’t get any sense out of her. She went back next morning to pick the woman up for the ID but she was all over the place, totally strung out. It got so bad that the FLO was tempted to try and score some morphine from the one of the techies.’

‘At the hospital, you mean?’

‘Yes. She had to drive her over to Winchester to ID the body.’

Willard shot a glance at Parsons, digesting the news. Then he turned back to Faraday.

‘So who was supplying the gear on the estate?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir.’

‘You think it might have been her son? Munday?’

‘It’s possible. I don’t know.’

‘But she’s vulnerable? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Definitely.’

At last Faraday sensed where all this was leading. Willard wanted more names for
Melody
, more kids who might have helped take Tim Morrissey to the grave, more evidence to fuel a round of high-profile arrests to counter the impression that Major Crimes were off the pace. And, in her current state, some of that information might well come from Munday’s mother.

‘You need to talk to the FLO, Joe. Get her back in there. Shake a few trees. Tell her to have a poke around.’

‘What happens if the Road Death lot kick up? I get the impression they’re under the cosh just now.’

‘Put in one of our own FLOs. In that kind of state, Mrs Munday won’t notice the difference.’ He paused, then bent to his briefcase and pulled out a file. Faraday caught sight of an operational name on the cover - S
-
something
.
‘Gail tells me you’ve just come back from leave. Montreal? Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good time?’

‘Wonderful.’

Willard caught the heaviness in Faraday’s voice but let it pass. His fingers toyed with the file for a moment then he pushed it across the table.

‘Gail also says you’ve got time on your hands, Joe, so this one’s for you. Cold case. Operation
Sangster.
Take a look and tell me what you think. I’m back in the office on Monday. Ring me.’

 

Winter found Marie at the Royal Trafalgar. Mackenzie had recently installed a modest gym in the hotel’s basement and Marie, who rarely bothered with lunch, was working out on a second-hand rowing machine Bazza claimed to have acquired from a health spa in Albert Road that had gone bust.

Like her daughter, Marie put a lot of thought into what she wore for these sessions. Now in her late forties, she’d managed to keep her figure, and the tan leotard clung to the firm swell of her breasts as she pushed hard against the footplate at the end of the slide. Winter stood beside the open door a moment, wondering why Bazza would ever waste a second with anyone else. Even Misty Gallagher couldn’t hold a candle to this woman.

The gym was empty. One entire wall was mirrored and Winter was aware of Marie watching him as he walked across towards her. She slowed on the machine and then stopped completely, her head down, the leotard blotched dark with sweat. It was a second or two before she found the breath to talk. Her face was pinked with effort.

‘You want to be careful, my love.’ Winter settled on the wooden bench beside her. ‘I’d hate you to go pop.’

‘You would?’ She reached for a towel and mopped her face. As she did so Winter caught the hint of lemons, a fragrance so subtle Bazza would never have noticed.

‘I just met the man,’ Winter said. ‘And I think we’ve scored a winner. ’

He told her about Mo Sturrock. The guy was under professional sentence of death. Sooner or later, once they’d given up trying to nail him on countless other charges, his bosses would be giving him the boot for bringing the organisation into disrepute. Before that happened, it might be in everyone’s interests to put the man back to work.

‘Disrepute?’

Winter explained about the conference. In the six months that followed, Sturrock had received upwards of a hundred emails, all of them confidential, all of them applauding his impromptu speech.

‘Says who?’

‘Sturrock.’

‘And we believe him?’

‘We do.’

‘On what basis?’

‘Intuition, love.’ Winter tapped the side of his nose. ‘I might be a fat old bastard but not much gets past, believe me.’

Marie studied him a moment. Winter thought she was fond of him and he wasn’t wrong. Very slowly, she began to move herself up and down the slide.

‘Great,’ she said. ‘That makes three of you, then.’

‘Three what?’

‘Three mavericks. You, Baz and now this other guy.’

‘His name’s Sturrock.’

‘Sturrock.’ She nodded. ‘And you really think he can hack it?’

‘I do, my love. And you know what? We’ve struck lucky. A word in the right ear and he can start pretty much immediately. All we have to do is talk nicely to his boss.’

‘How much does he want?’

‘He was on forty-seven K come the finish.’

‘How much did you offer?’

‘Twenty-five for starters. Plus a performance review after six months.’

‘How do we measure performance?’

‘Body count. He gets a five-grand bonus for each of the little bastards he kills. Girls count extra.’ Winter shot her a grin. ‘Do I hear a yes?’

‘I’ll have to run it past Baz. The way he is at the moment, he won’t even listen. I’ve never seen him like this. Even that bloody woman upstairs can’t sort him out.’

Winter ducked his head, aware that Marie was watching him in the mirror again. Marie had never stooped to mentioning Chandelle before. Something must have really got to her, he thought.

‘Listen …’ he began. ‘What’s Bazza not telling us?’

There was a long silence. Then a soft laugh.

‘You want a list?’

‘I’m talking about the business.’

‘I know you are, Paul. I think about it all the time. That and one or two other things. But you’re right. I can read him like a book, believe it or not, and he’s definitely hiding something, something to do with Esme.’

‘Which she might have shared with lover boy?’

‘Yes.’

‘And which might screw us?’

‘Yes. Personally, I think that’s unlikely. I probably know Esme better than she knows herself. She can be far too emotional for her own good sometimes, just like her dad, but there’s something rock solid inside that no amount of booze or sex can ever reach.’

‘Just like her dad?’

‘Yeah … if only.’ She shook her head then extended a hand. ‘Help me up?’

Winter got to his feet and took her weight. She was tall for a woman, barely a couple of inches shorter than Winter. Lemons, Winter thought again.

‘You know where he is at the moment?’ Her eyes had a frankness he’d never seen before.

‘No idea, my love.’

‘Can’t even guess?’

‘No point.’

‘Then I’ll tell you.’

‘Don’t.’ Winter’s face was inches from hers. Over her shoulder, reflected in the mirrored wall, he had a perfect view of the door. The door had opened. Silhouetted against the harsh neon of the corridor outside was the familiar stocky figure, totally immobile. Mackenzie.

‘Fuck me. Not you as well, Marie.’ There was a cackle of laughter. He’d obviously been watching them.

Marie’s eyes had closed. There was something infinitely secret about her smile and for a split second Winter thought he’d been set up. Then he recognised that this was for real. He turned round. Bazza was picking his way between pieces of gym equipment, his eyes fixed on Winter. At moments of extreme tension the blood seemed to drain from his face. Just now he was the colour of death.

His finger came out, jabbing and jabbing. ‘I don’t know what you’re fucking up to, mush, but don’t. You understand that? Not now. Not here. Not ever. You lay a finger on my missus and you’ll never walk again.’

‘Baz—’

‘Don’t Baz me. And don’t think I’m just blaming you.’ He spun round to find Marie stooping to pick up her towel. ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’

‘Home.’

‘Not yet, you’re not. Not until we’ve had a little sort-out.’ He turned back to Winter. ‘You cushty with what I just said, mush? Only it might get fucking messy if you’re not. Just say yes or no.’

‘Yes, Baz.’

‘Good. Something else. Last time we talked like human fucking beings you said you were going to get hold of a bloke called Faraday. About Madison.
Comprende?
’

‘Yes, Baz.’

‘And?’

‘He’s not been around.’

‘Well fucking find him, mush. Like now. Like this afternoon. Like tonight. You got that?’

‘Yes, Baz.’

‘Good. Then fuck off and leave us alone.’

Winter stole a look at Marie. In moods like this Mackenzie could be truly frightening but she seemed perfectly calm, weathering a storm that must have happened countless times before.

She began to say something placatory, oil on troubled waters, but Bazza wasn’t having it. As she tried to step over the rowing machine, putting distance between them, he grabbed her upper arm. She froze for a second, then turned on him.

‘I’m going to count to three,’ she said softly. ‘One … two …’ Bazza’s grip slackened. Free, she began to rub her arm. The flesh was reddening already. Then she took a tiny step forward and slapped Bazza hard across the face.

‘That’s what you should do to kids who cross the line,’ she hissed. ‘Just ask Paul.’

 

As Faraday had anticipated, the Road Death Investigation Team wanted no further involvement with Operation
Melody.
In Steph Callan’s judgement their Family Liaison Officer had done her best with Avril Munday and now she was deployed elsewhere. Since the weekend, the team had been involved in two more fatalities and their list of must-do actions was lengthening by the hour.

Faraday toyed briefly about some kind of appeal to Callan’s boss but knew she’d probably briefed him already. The turf war was over as far as Munday was concerned and it gave Faraday no pleasure to acknowledge that he’d been woefully off the pace. He could imagine the conversation the next time Steph and her mates found themselves in a bar. Headquarters made me tag along with an old dosser from Major Crime. Grumpy old bugger who couldn’t tell his arse from his elbow.

He lifted the phone again and passed the news on to Gail Parsons. They needed another FLO. She gave him a name he didn’t recognise.

‘Hannah who?’

‘Miles. She’s on attachment from Lyndhurst. Country girl. Be gentle, Joe.’ Faraday was left with the sound of laughter before the line went dead. He stared at the phone. Parsons seldom laughed.

Hannah Miles appeared at Faraday’s door within minutes. She was an elf-like blonde with a smile that warmed him the moment she stepped into the office. She was wearing a nicely cut linen jacket over a sky-blue T-shirt. In a world of deepening shadows, she seemed almost luminous.

‘D/I Faraday?’

‘Hannah Miles?’

They shook hands. Faraday nudged the door shut with his foot and found her a chair. She said no to coffee. DCI Parsons had given her the impression she was to babysit a junkie on one of the estates. True or false?

‘True, I’m afraid.’

Faraday explained the status of Operation
Melody
. Kyle Munday, the prime suspect for the killing of Tim Morrissey, was dead. Staying close to his mother might, in every sense, be a bit of a culture shock. Parsons’ cunning plan called for a degree of manipulation. This woman’s waking life was governed by heroin. Like every smackhead, she struggled to get by on a couple of fixes a day. Until last weekend she’d probably relied on her son to source the gear. She’d now have to find it from somewhere else. By playing the compassionate FLO, by getting in her face, Hannah could make life extremely difficult for Mrs Munday.