Beyond Reach (50 page)

‘That was it then, yeah?’ Winter yawned. ‘You just fancied winding them up?’

‘Big time.’ Sturrock nodded. ‘Big fucking time. That ever happen to you, man? Something happens? Bang? You’re in there? No fucking about? Just in there? Doing it?’ He smiled then wiped his chin. ‘Good bloke.’

‘Who?’

‘You, man. You. Good bloke.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah, just do it, man. Just get fucking in there. Know what I mean?’

Winter studied him for a long moment, watched his eyes slowly closing, his body slumping sideways on the sofa, watched the way he drew his knees up towards his belly, the way his hands found the warmth between his thighs. He’d seen this same pose a million times. On heavier nights he adopted it himself in bed. Umbilical, he thought, retrieving the glass and padding off in search of a blanket.

TUESDAY, 17 JUNE 2008. 07.12

Faraday was at the Wightlink terminal early, in time to make the 7.30 crossing to the island. The tide was high, and debris from the overnight storm washed against the stout timber pilings. Out in the Solent the ferry wallowed in the swell, setting off a couple of car alarms, and Faraday was glad to feel the nudge of the berthing ramp in Fishbourne Creek.

A maze of country lanes took him to Newchurch. He drove past the converted chapel, found a place to turn, and eased back until ‘Dimpsy’ was in sight again. Of the Land Rover he’d seen on his previous visit there was no sign. She must be taking the kids to school, he thought. He settled down to wait.

Tessa Fogle was back within minutes, taking him by surprise as the Land Rover clattered past. A child was sitting alongside her on the front seat and a single glimpse of the puckered face was enough to tell Faraday that the kid was Down’s syndrome. She parked on the grass verge outside the house and carried the child inside. Moments later she was out again, in the back garden this time, pegging out her washing. The clouds had parted in the backwash of the storm and a boisterous wind snatched at the line of tiny garments. The Downs child lingered in the open doorway, watching her mother, and Tessa scooped her up with her spare hand as she returned with the empty basket.

Faraday lowered his binoculars, still uncertain. He’d come over to keep his promise. As a human being he owed her some kind of warning. That the miracles of genetic science had, in all probability, put a name against the man who had raped her. That she’d been living with him all this time. That she’d carried his babies, made a life together, weathered the bad times, enjoyed each other. And that this idyll, if that’s what it had been, was over. Was that really his responsibility? To break the news a day or so earlier than strictly necessary? Or should he cut his losses, go back to being a cop, and leave Tessa Fogle to find her own way through the looming catastrophe?

Spotting a movement in an upstairs window, he reached for the binos again. She was standing beside the milky billow of net curtain, the child in her arms. She must have been singing to it because the pair of them were moving very slowly, almost imperceptibly, the child’s tiny moon face tucked against her mother’s cheek. If there was a single moment, a single image, to get Faraday out of the car and down the road to the front door then this was surely it. He watched them a moment longer, closed his eyes, muttered a prayer, then turned the key in the ignition. It wasn’t until he was back at Fishbourne, waiting beside the car for the next ferry, that he took the call from Parsons.

‘Mr Willard wants a meet with us first thing this afternoon.’ She paused. ‘Can I hear seagulls?’

 

Mo Sturrock didn’t wake up until gone ten. To Winter’s surprise, he showed no traces of a hangover. Neither did he address Winter as ‘man’. His memories of last night were admittedly vague but Winter’s suggestion of a mug of tea and a thick bacon butty won an immediate nod of approval.

‘Brilliant.’ He yawned. ‘And brown sauce if you’re offering.’

They were at the Trafalgar within the hour. Sturrock disappeared to the basement gym while Winter chased Bazza for a list of last-minute decisions for tomorrow. The Victory Gallery people were still waiting for a steer on Mr Mackenzie’s preferred choice of red wine. A teacher from Buckland wanted to bring her entire PSE team. And Fratton Park had sent their regrets. As far as the launch was concerned, Mr Redknapp, sadly, was otherwise engaged.

‘Fucking shame.’ Bazza had been looking forward to shaking the great man’s hand. ‘How’s Mo?’

‘Bloke must have two livers. The amount he got through yesterday would have slaughtered most of us.’

‘He’s suffering?’

‘Not at all. In fact he’s on that bloody rowing machine again. Dunno how he does it.’

‘And the
News
?’

‘Sorted. Big feature piece on Thursday. They’re coming to the launch as well. Be nice to them, Baz. Those bastards eat politicians.’

‘You think that’s what all this is about? Me and politics?’

‘I know it is, Baz. That nice Marie never lies.’

 

Faraday met Helen Christian in the car park at Kingston Crescent. The FLO was already working on another murder in the west of the county and was about to leave for a squad brief in Southampton.

‘This won’t take long, love. Ten minutes tops.’

She accompanied him back to Major Crimes. When they got to his office he shut the door. On the assumption that this was about Guy Norcliffe, Helen started telling Faraday about last week’s interview. The kid had given them a full account of the days he’d spent with his kidnapper. Nothing in that account had offered
Causeway
anything useful in the way of new lines of enquiry and the investigation, for the time being, appeared to have stalled. She began to talk about Esme and Stu, how they’d decamped back to their house in the Meon Valley, when Faraday interrupted.

‘I’m interested in Mo Sturrock,’ he said. ‘You remember him?’

‘Of course.’ Helen looked blank. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘He’s working for Mackenzie now. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the youth offending field?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘He’s brilliant with kids, I watched him. Stu’s aren’t delinquents, far from it, but Sturrock’s got the knack, you can tell. That’s rare in blokes, believe me.’

Faraday didn’t doubt it. He wanted to know whether Sturrock had ever stayed over at the Mackenzies’ place.

‘Yes. A couple of times at least.’

‘And what did he do about a toothbrush?’

‘I think Marie’s got spares. She’s like that. She’d have sorted one out for him.’

‘And you think it might still be there? For the next time he stays?’

‘I’ve no idea. You could try Winter if you don’t want to talk to Marie.’ She paused, staring at him. ‘Why? What’s this thing about?’

 

Winter was at the Victory Gallery with Bazza and Sturrock when he took Faraday’s call. Mackenzie had settled on a fruity Australian red and they were in the process of putting a bottle to the test. Winter stepped through to the outdoor viewing platform. From here he had a perfect view of HMS
Victory.
The last person he expected to be talking to was Faraday.

‘Boss?’

Faraday asked him about Sturrock. Did he keep a toothbrush at 13 Sandown Road?

‘Haven’t a clue, boss. You want me to check?’

‘Please. And phone me back.’

‘What’s the urgency?’

‘Asap.’

‘For a
toothbrush
?’

Faraday had gone. Winter returned the mobe to his pocket and lingered by the rail for a moment, staring at the huge triple-decker. Faraday was looking for DNA, he knew it. He returned to the museum, made his excuses, and walked back through the dockyard. A cab from the rank outside the harbour station took him to Craneswater. Marie was in the kitchen, doing the ironing.

Winter asked her whether she kept toothbrushes for the kids.

‘Yes, of course I do. Esme’s hopeless that way. Always forgets to bring them.’

‘You’ve got one for Guy?’

‘Absolutely. It’s green if you’re interested.’

‘What size is it?’

‘Small. Obviously.’

‘Do you mind if I take it?’

‘Take Guy’s toothbrush? Why would you want to do that?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Is this important?’

‘Very.’

‘And you’re really not going to tell me why?’

‘No.’

She shrugged, then abandoned the ironing. At the door, she paused.

‘I’ve got an adult-size one if you want it. Mo’s been using it.’ She looked at him a moment longer. ‘No?’

 

Parsons and Faraday drove to Winchester for the meet with Willard. The Head of CID’s office was on the third floor. Parsons bustled up the six flights of stairs, trailing Faraday in her wake. Faraday liked to set key moments in his life to music. For this afternoon he’d already chosen a passage from Berlioz’s
Symphonie Fantastique
: ‘The March to the Scaffold’.

Willard’s office was big enough for a long conference table but he had no intention of leaving his desk. The windowsill behind him was piled high with old copies of
Yachting Monthly.

‘Gail?’ There was a briskness to Willard’s manner that Faraday recognised only too well. This wouldn’t last long.

Parsons summarised what she called ‘the Mo Sturrock situation’. She was scrupulously fair. On the one hand he was obviously prime suspect for the
Sangster
rape. On the other, he and the victim had been living together for half a lifetime and seemed to have survived the experience. In one sense, the relationship clearly worked. But that would make Mo Sturrock no less guilty.

‘You agree, Joe?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘And you also agree we have to secure a swab?’

‘Yes.’

‘I understand Suttle’s suggesting some kind of subterfuge. A house call. A cover story. Yes?’ Faraday nodded. ‘Gail?’

‘I’d advise against it, sir. If Sturrock’s guilty it gives him a week to get away. In my view we need to keep him in custody until we get a result. There’s a real chance of flight.’

‘I agree.’ He sorted through the correspondence on his desk until he found a long white envelope. Faraday found himself looking at an invitation to the launch of something called the Offshore Challenge. It came from Tide Turn Trust and Mackenzie had scrawled a personal line across the bottom.
All welcome,
he’d written,
Even you.

‘I also got this last week.’ Willard opened a drawer and showed Faraday a DVD. ‘It contains footage from our little expedition to Poole. Mackenzie has been kind enough to share it with us.’ He glanced at Parsons again. ‘Gail?’

‘The launch party starts at ten, sir. It’s scheduled to go on until lunchtime. They’re serving canapés and wine.’

‘And Sturrock?’

‘He’s doing the main presentation along with a PTI from the Navy.’

‘Guest list?’

‘The usual suspects, sir. The great and the good.’

‘Media?’

‘The
News
. BBC South. A couple of radio stations. And there’s a rumour about someone from the
Guardian
turning up.’

‘Excellent.’ Willard turned back to Faraday. ‘You’re still SIO on
Sangster
, Joe. I want you to arrest Sturrock at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I want you to do it on the premises, that’s to say within the venue. When the gentlemen of the press ask you why, you tell them what you’ve just told Sturrock. We’ve arrested the man for sus rape and attempted murder. If they want more put them onto me.’

Faraday nodded. He should have seen this coming. After years of dogging Mackenzie’s footsteps, after years of watching the man get richer, the Head of CID finally had a chance to post a small but very public victory. The would-be politician, the self-styled King of the City, had just hired a suspected rapist to head his precious Tide Turn Trust. The perfect chance for Willard to rain on Mackenzie’s parade.

Willard was beaming. ‘Any comments, Joe? Any thoughts of your own? Any other way we might deal with this?’

Faraday had the toothbrush in his pocket. One glance had already told him that it couldn’t possibly have been Sturrock’s. Wrong size. Wrong state. Some child had been using it for years. Pointless, therefore, to test it for Sturrock’s DNA. Winter again. As devious as ever.

‘Well?’ Willard wanted an answer. ‘You’re up for this?’

Faraday nodded. He felt strangely light-headed.

‘My pleasure, sir. As always.’

WEDNESDAY, 18 JUNE 2008. 04.56

Tessa Fogle woke early. The window was half open and the curtains stirred in the wind. It was barely dawn and the room was still shadowed in the thin grey light. She rolled over, reaching for Mo, but he wasn’t there. She frowned, then rubbed her eyes. Recently, since his banishment on gardening leave, he’d made the occasional early-morning expedition, following the bridle paths across the neighbouring fields. He said it helped him clear his mind, get things in perspective. He also liked the silence.

She drifted into sleep again, wondering about the photos from last night. The photographer from the
News
had been later than expected, turning up with the reporter who was writing the story. They’d taken lots of shots with all five of them, various informal family groups, and then they’d gone with Mo down to the woods at the edge of the village for a couple of more personal photos. He’d returned alone. When she asked him whether or not he’d seen the results, he’d shaken his head. He was nervous about tomorrow’s launch. There were still so many things that could go wrong. He’d retired early, pleading a headache. By the time she’d come up to bed, he’d been asleep.

She woke again to the sound of the phone. Mo had still to return. She thought he might be downstairs, might answer the phone, but it rang and rang. She pulled on his dressing gown and made her way down to the living area. Whoever was ringing wasn’t going to hang up. Finally, she lifted the receiver. To her horror, it was nearly half past eight. She had barely half an hour to get the kids to school.