Beyond Reach (5 page)

‘You think there’s linkage here? Someone paying off a debt?’

‘That has to be our supposition.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Parsons wants the job in-house.’

‘Sure. But who are we looking at? Tim Morrissey was a mouse. He never ran with the kind of guys who’d sort Munday out. In fact he never ran with
anyone
.’

It was true. Part of the tragedy of the Guy Fawkes night stabbing was the choice of victim. Morrissey, by all accounts, had led a blameless life. Quiet, studious, mad about modern jazz, he devoted most of his spare time to polishing his keyboard skills on a borrowed piano. His mother, Jeanette, kept recordings of his wilder riffs, and Faraday had heard them. The kid was seriously talented. He was also determined to make something of himself. Two reasons why he’d attracted Munday’s attention.

Faraday watched Suttle hunting for the sugar bowl. Before he met Steph Callan again, he needed to be absolutely sure of the sequence of events that had preceded Morrissey’s death. At forty-eight, his memory was beginning to let him down.

‘Munday had been giving the lad a hard time … right?’

‘Absolutely. Morrissey was an easy target. Munday dominated a bunch of kids off the Paulsgrove estate. They thought he was God. A couple of them were in Morrissey’s year at school. The kid was a boff. He read books. Loved his mum. Stayed in at night. Wanted to make something of his life. Big mistake.’

Faraday reached for his tea. One of the things about Munday that had stuck in his mind was the allegation that he and some of his scrote apprentices had cornered Morrissey behind the parade of shops at the heart of the estate. They’d forced the lad to the ground and Munday had stamped on his hands. The damage, mercifully, had been less severe than you might have expected but the message was clear. Think you’re special on that fucking piano of yours? Think again.

‘And we’re saying Morrissey had no mates who might have fought back? You can’t think of
anyone
who might have had it in for Munday?’

‘No. That’s why the lad came to us about the stamping incident. It was his mum’s idea, had to be, but Morrissey named names. Which is probably what got him killed. Remember?’

‘Yeah.’ Faraday nodded. Munday’s little gang had all been arrested and interviewed after the stamping, but denied any involvement. Forensic evidence from footware had later tied two of the kids to Morrissey but the case had gone nowhere.

Faraday was eyeing the cheerful chaos of Suttle’s kitchen, last night’s dirty dishes still piled on the draining board. One day back into the Job and already he felt knackered.

Suttle settled himself on a stool by the breakfast bar. In truth, he hadn’t had a serious look at Munday since
Melody
began to wind down after Christmas. Early spring had taken him onto other killings, other jobs. Since then Munday could have got himself into all sorts of situations, pissed off trillions of people, probably had. If the hit-and-run had been deliberate, then the guy at the wheel might never have heard of Tim Morrissey.

‘You’re saying it needs more work, more intel?’ Faraday said.

‘Only if it gets sticky. And this Road Death skipper, he’ll know that.’

‘It’s a woman. Steph Callan.’

‘Her, then. These people deal with hit-and-runs all the time. You plough into someone, you’ve had a drink or two, there’s no way you’re going to hang around. A tenner says they’ll crack it on the forensic. Trace the vehicle. Get an address. The bloke’s been sitting there for days expecting the knock on the door. Bosh. Job done. Who needs intel when it’s that simple?’

Faraday nodded. He was thinking of Steph Callan’s face when she left his office. He’d treated her like some rookie probationer. He’d slipped effortlessly into Parsons’ mindset, playing the Major Crime sleuth, assuming complications that simply weren’t there. Suttle was doubtless right. A couple of beers too many. An empty road. A face in the windscreen. A bump or two underneath. A glance in the mirror. Foot on the throttle. Gone.

‘Boss …’ Faraday became aware of Suttle looking at him.

‘Yeah?’

‘How was Montreal?’

‘Crap.’ Faraday drained his mug. ‘But thanks for asking.’

 

Winter was late getting to the youth club. He’d had a ring round first thing, talking to mums, stepdads, brothers, sisters, occasionally even the kid himself. Conversations never got beyond a sleepy grunt but that didn’t matter. In essence the message was simple. Somers Road. Half nine. Be there.

The minibus had been Marie’s idea. Before Christmas, once Winter was sure the Tide Turn Trust would get the thumbs up from the Charity Commission, she’d leant on Bazza to acquire appropriate transport. At first, Winter had thought it was a neat idea. Appearances were important to kids and a decent set of wheels, badged with the Trust’s logo, would give the operation a bit of class.

In the event, though, Bazza had talked to a couple of headbangers who ran a forecourt operation in Fratton Road. They’d just taken a minibus in part-payment of a credit debt and were happy to offer it on extended lease. The fact that this loan was free remained Bazza’s little secret, but the moment Winter set eyes on the vehicle he knew he’d been had. Almost 146,000 miles on the clock. An ominous rumbling from the prop shaft. And - worst of all -
THE WEE GREEN BUS
scrolled below the windows. In a former life this wreck had belonged to an infants’ school in Aldershot. Winter’s plea for a respray fell on deaf ears.

Now, he parked up outside the youth club in Somerstown. The plan was to ship half a dozen tearaways to the bowling alley in the city centre. These kids were serial truants, abandoned by their schools and by various welfare agencies, and in a more perfect world Winter would have dreamed up something vaguely educational to occupy their tiny minds. His experience over the last couple of months, though, had taught him a great deal. Anything that smacked of learning, or self-betterment, was a no-no. To produce even a flicker of interest, there had to be the promise of a laugh.

But even this, to Winter’s intense irritation, sparked its own problems. He’d tried the swimming pool first, negotiating a one-month discount for his unruly flock on the strict promise of good behaviour. The first time they’d gone to Victoria Baths, a stormy Wednesday morning in March, one of the boys had hidden in the women’s changing rooms, taking photos of the shower area on his phone. Shots of a naked middle-aged woman had made it onto Facebook, all the more regrettable because she happened to be a visiting fellow at the nearby university. Her lectures were packed out for weeks, but by that time the people who ran the swimming pool had given up on Tide Turn Trust. After the mobe shots had come an incident with the vending machine in the lobby, shaken to death by a couple of the handier lads, followed the next week by an enormous turd, deposited in the deep end by a promising young arsonist from Buckland. In his exit interview as the supervising adult, conducted in a windowless room at the Civic Centre, Winter had blamed unmanageable expectations. The phrase had meant fuck all but when it came to voluntary-sector bullshit, Winter was learning fast.

After the swimming pool there’d been other initiatives, equally disastrous. The outing to the Farlington Bird Reserve to stone a couple of mating swans. The canoeing expedition on the harbour that ended with a ride in the coastguard helicopter. The flick-knife initials gouged into an eighteenth-century mess table aboard HMS
Victory.
On each of these occasions Winter had once again carried the can, patiently explaining that these YPs were the victims of a society that neither understood nor cared about the loveless anarchy that passed as their home lives. They had to be brought inside society’s tent. They had to be shown what a decent life could offer. They deserved a second chance.

YPs was social-worker-speak for Young People. As a cop, Winter had spent most of his adult life chasing these toerags around the estates and in his heart he knew exactly how to gain their attention, but brute force, sadly, was no longer an option. And so, like every other adult, he was obliged to shower them with treats and hope for the best. It didn’t work. And more to the point, it was beginning to drive him insane

By ten o’clock no one had shown up. Winter sat at the wheel, drumming his fingers to his favourite Neil Diamond CD, wondering how long he should give it. Part of the problem was the parents. In most cases the dads were long gone, leaving a small army of single mums desperate to make ends meet. Most of them worked at dead-end jobs, battling to stay afloat. A handful were on the game, pulling half-decent money. One or two had given up completely, shoplifting at lunch time to meet the smack bills. Winter was way past blaming any of these women. All he knew was that they’d long ago given up on their scrotey kids.

By ten fifteen, with nothing to show but a couple of drunks emerging from the bushes across the road, Winter had decided to call it a day. He’d drive the Wee Green Bus back to the Royal Trafalgar, park it outside Mackenzie’s office window and leave him with the keys. The next time Bazza fancied solving the nation’s social problems, he could fucking do it himself. Winter was reaching for the volume control on the CD machine when he caught a flicker of movement in the rear-view mirror. A yellow saloon had rounded a corner up the road. It looked like an Escort. The rear tyres spun as the driver accelerated hard and then it began to weave as the brakes came on. Winter twisted round in the seat, his heart sinking. In the car were kids, four of them. The driver was so small he probably needed a booster seat. Their silhouettes, all too familiar, explained why he’d been waiting so long.

The Escort squealed to a halt beside the minibus. Winter looked down at them, not bothering to open the window. His kids. All screaming with laughter, all giving him the finger. Winter took a deep breath, wondering where they’d nicked the car. Billy Lenahan, the midget at the wheel, was a legend for his hot-wiring skills. The girl sitting beside him, the girl he boasted about shagging every night, was allegedly his sister. Inbreds on wheels, thought Winter. Just what the fuck am I doing with my life?

Something snapped inside him. He’d had enough. More than enough. As the Escort roared off, he fired up the minibus’s engine, hauled the beast away from the kerbside, set off in pursuit. Ahead, the Escort had slowed enough to let him catch up. Then it was off again, the rear tyres trailing little plumes of blue smoke, the matador’s cloak trailed before the charging bull.

Winter fumbled for his mobile. Jimmy Suttle’s number was on his directory. Driving at this speed with one hand wasn’t easy. Suttle finally answered.

‘Paul.’ He sounded less than pleased.

‘Listen, son. I’m in Somerstown. I’m following a bunch of twat kids in a yellow Escort. You gotta pen? G Golf. Four-five-two. X-Ray. Hotel. Delta.’

‘I’m driving. I’m on a rest day. What’s wrong with a treble nine?’

‘Nothing, son. Except I don’t want the attention. Just do us a favour, will you? Ring it in. Otherwise these little bastards are going to kill some poor fucker.’

‘Shit, Paul, this is out of order. I’m with Lizzie. I’m doing seventy miles an hour. We’re off for a nice day out. What’s the problem with you?’

‘It’s not me, son. It’s got fuck all to do with me. Are you still there?’

The line had gone dead. Winter looked at the phone in disbelief. He even shook it. Looking up, he just had time to register the Escort stopped at a T-junction ahead of him. His foot hit the brake and the van started to judder. Then came the splintering of glass as the Wee Green Bus rear-ended the Escort.

Winter sat motionless at the wheel. The seat belt, mercifully, had done its job. From somewhere below his feet he could hear the steady trickle of liquid onto the road. For a moment he wondered whether it was petrol then decided it was probably coolant. The thought that he’d just knackered the engine brought a smile to his face.

One by one, the kids were emerging from the Escort. Billy Lenahan was holding the back of his neck. The girl beside him was examining a bruise on her arm. The two kids in the back were staring up at Winter. One of them had gone white.

‘Fuck me, Mr W. What did you do that for?’

 

Faraday had no problem agreeing to drive to Eastleigh, a red-brick railway town north of Southampton, for the meet with Steph Callan. After yesterday’s encounter, the last thing she needed was another trip to Major Crime. The inquiry into the hit-and-run now had a name: Operation
Highfield.

The sight of biscuits beside the Thermos of coffee brightened Faraday’s morning. She, like him, must have seen the advantages of starting their relationship afresh.

She thanked him for driving over, poured the coffee.

‘Scenes of Crime have recovered paint fragments from Munday’s jeans. We’re thinking red. We’ve also had a bit of a windfall.’ She frowned. ‘Or we think we have.’

She described the indicator recovered from the roadside after the crash. According to the stolen-vehicle examiner, the shape was distinctive. He’d accessed a series of websites and tied the item to a specific make and model. The shape of the indicator further offered a time window for the manufacture of the vehicle.

‘So what are we looking for?’

‘A VW van, or possibly camper van, built between 1980 and 1992.’

‘Red?’

‘Yes. And it gets better.’

Faraday found himself looking at a polythene evidence bag. Inside was a wiper blade.

‘A woman handed this in. She found it a couple of hundred yards up the Southwick Hill Road yesterday morning and made the connection with Munday. According to the council schedule, the road was last swept on Friday. Guy from our FCIU thinks it might have come off the target vehicle.’

‘FCIU?’

‘Forensic Collision Investigation Unit. The guys who spend their lives piecing these accidents together. His name’s Harry. He’s a sweetie.’ It was the first time Faraday had seen her smile. ‘If Dodman was right about Munday getting hit full face, it’s just possible his hands would have come out. It’s an instinctive reaction. You’re trying to ward off disaster.’