Blood And Honey (17 page)

He told her briefly about Joannie, his wife. Afloat on an ocean of morphine, she’d sailed off to God knows where. To be honest, he said, he thought he was heading the same way. Worse still, the thought was beginning to frighten him.

Maddox chuckled. One finger was tracing patterns across his face.

‘There’s always an alternative,’ she murmured. ‘Believe me.’

‘No chance. They wrote her off the moment they saw her.’

‘I meant you.’

‘Oh yeah … ? He looked at her. ‘Like what, exactly?’

‘Like we do a deal.’

‘A what?’

‘A deal. You sort out Mr Wishart and I mend your head.’

‘How?’

‘Trust me.’ She propped herself on one elbow. ‘No queues. No waiting lists. No angst about the men in the white coats.’

‘Are we talking sex here?’

‘No.’

‘Shame.’ Winter gazed at her a moment. ‘What is it, then? What’s in it for me?’

‘You get your head back. And maybe other bits of you, depends on how good a subject you are. And if you’re
really
lucky—’

Winter’s mobile began to ring. He fetched it from his jacket pocket, checked the number. Jimmy Suttle.

‘So where were you?’ Suttle demanded.

‘When?’

‘This afternoon. At the Bridewell. I waited the best part of an hour.’

It dawned on Winter that they’d agreed a session in the interview suite with the girl, Cécile.

‘I thought I’d leave it to you,’ Winter said at once. ‘How did it go?’

‘It didn’t. She never showed. Thanks for the support, though. Appreciate it.’ Winter heard an explosion of laughter in the background. Pub, he thought. Then Suttle was back on the phone, more acid than ever. ‘So where do we go next, then? Blag a couple of Easyjets off Cathy Lamb? Fly down to Courchevel? Take our ski gear? Try our luck with Maddox again?’

‘No need.’ Winter began to chuckle. ‘I’m looking at her now.’

‘You’re
what
?’

‘Forget it, son. Bell you later.’ About to end the call, he put the mobile to his ear again, still laughing. ‘Ever had hummus?’

Tuesday, 24 February 2004

The Major Crimes Suite at Kingston Crescent was virtually empty when Faraday arrived the following morning. He paused outside the office shared by the two Management Assistants. Their door was open.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘Newbridge. Nick turned up a really tasty lead and Mr Willard’s gone for broke, thrown everyone at it.’

‘Tasty how?’

‘Nick thinks it may be some kind of media tiff, maybe a revenge killing. We don’t know the details but Nick says we’re talking household names. The press and telly are all over it. The boss thinks it’s Christmas.’

Faraday was trying to imagine a professional falling-out serious enough to warrant a double homicide. On the face of it a line of inquiry like this would seem farfetched but the more he’d seen of TV recently, the more he’d begun to wonder about the blurring of the line between fact and fiction. People thrived on the bizarre. They’d do anything to get noticed. So maybe Nick Hayder was right. Two bodies would certainly compel attention.

‘He’s on the mobile? Willard?’

‘Was ten minutes ago.’

Faraday walked down the corridor to his office. Tracy Barber appeared from the tiny kitchen at the
end. She was carrying two cups of coffee and had a packet of Jammie Dodgers tucked under one arm.

They settled in Faraday’s office. Barber broke out the biscuits while Faraday talked on the phone to Willard. The Detective Superintendent, it appeared, had made himself at home in the Control Room Support Vehicle. This mobile unit carried an awesome range of kit and was a prized force resource. If you were looking for evidence that Willard had struck career gold, then this was surely it.

‘The Isle of Wight, sir,’ Faraday reminded him. ‘Bloke with no head.’

Willard, in the excitement of the last twenty-four hours, seemed to have forgotten about Tennyson Down. Faraday updated him on yesterday’s developments. This morning he was proposing to drive up to London and talk to Chris Unwin’s mother. DC Barber had already made contact and Mrs Unwin would be available at noon.

‘Do it.’ Willard was juggling this conversation with at least two others. ‘What about Colin Irving’s lad?’

‘Webster? He’s still on division, sir. And that’s probably where he belongs.’

‘You don’t need help?’

‘Not so far.’

‘Good. Keep me briefed.’

The line went dead. Barber was looking troubled. She and Faraday had talked about Darren Webster on the ferry back last night and she’d done her best to defend the young DC. Now it was all too obvious that she’d wasted her breath.

‘You don’t think you’re being a bit harsh on the lad? Ambition’s not a crime.’

‘Never said it was, Tracy, but the boy lied. Thought he’d get away with it and didn’t. That makes him
arrogant as well as stupid.’ He tucked an
A–Z
into his briefcase. ‘Twenty years ago he’d have been back in uniform for a stunt like that.’ Faraday glanced at his watch. ‘We off then?’

After making contact on the phone, Tracy Barber had arranged to meet Ellie Unwin at the family health centre where she worked as a practice nurse. The centre was a low, modern-looking complex tucked away behind a shopping mall in the middle of Lewisham. The tiny car park was full and Faraday had to drive around the neighbourhood for a while before he spotted a space. Back at the health centre one of the receptionists showed them into a small, bare office which evidently served as a crash pad for the stroppier clientele. Apart from a table, three chairs and a handbasin, Faraday could see nothing breakable.

‘The mid-afternoon drunks are the worst,’ the receptionist said cheerfully. ‘You lot won’t turn out any more for harassment so we stick them in here with a pile of comics and keep our fingers crossed.’

Ellie Unwin joined them minutes later. She was a tall, attractive woman in her late forties who seemed strangely suited to the uniform. She had full lips and a slightly nervous smile. Tracy Barber eyed her with interest.

Faraday explained briefly that they were trying to trace her son. They’d be grateful for his full name and date of birth.

‘Chrissie? Why?’

‘At this stage, Mrs Unwin, I’m afraid I can’t say.’

‘Is he in trouble?’

‘We hope not.’ He smiled at her, then asked again for a date of birth.

‘Twenty-first of October 1976.’

‘Full name?’

‘Christopher Dudley Unwin.’

‘And when were you last in contact?’

She looked at Faraday a moment, then found a perch on the table and frowned. DC Barber was making notes.

‘A while back,’ she said finally. ‘In fact last summer. July? August? He was up here for some concert or other. Dropped in to see Julie’s new baby.’

Julie was her daughter. She had two young kids of her own and still shared the house with her mother. One day, said Mrs Unwin, she might get the place to herself but she wasn’t counting on it. With kids these days, babies seemed to be a lifestyle option.

‘Have you been in touch with your son since August? Talked on the phone at all? Got a letter? Postcard?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘And he’s my stepson, not my natural son. Not that that should make a difference, of course.’

Faraday and Barber exchanged glances. DNA from Mrs Unwin might have been a useful match for the body in the fridge.

‘What about his father?’ It was Barber.

‘We divorced ten years ago.’

‘Are you still in touch?’

‘No.’

‘His natural mother?’

‘She died years ago. Fell off a mountain in Scotland.’

Faraday, making notes, looked up. Helpful DNA simply wasn’t available.

‘So you haven’t seen Chris since last summer. Is that normal? Not being in touch for so long?’

‘Oh yes, yes, perfectly normal. Chrissie goes months and months and no one hears a peep.’

‘Don’t you wonder where he is? What he’s up to?’

‘Of course I do, always have done, but it makes no difference. He’s twenty-eight now but even when he was younger he just upped sticks and did his own thing. Free spirit, Chrissie. Can’t ever pin him down.’

‘Do you have an address for him, Mrs Unwin?’ It was Barber again.

Ellie Unwin nodded. The address was in her book at home. She could phone through and ask Julie to look. She went back to the treatment room to make the call. When she returned, she handed Tracy Barber a slip of paper.

‘Sorry about the writing,’ she said.

Barber peered at the address, then handed it to Faraday. Number 267 Bath Road, Southsea. Faraday tried to visualise the street, one of a number that straddled the border between Southsea and Portsmouth. Terraced houses, he thought. Nightmare parking and far too many students.

‘Has he lived there long?’

‘Quite a while, I think. Couple of years maybe.’

‘Does he live alone?’

‘Depends. Sometimes he gets lucky but nothing seems to last.’

‘You mean relationships?’

‘Yes.’ She looked from one face to the other, apologetic. ‘To be honest I’m a bit out of my depth here. Chrissie and us … we’re not really that close. It’s not like me and Julie …’

‘So he may have moved on?’

‘Yes.’

‘Without you knowing?’

‘Yes.’

Faraday nodded, wondering if something similar would ever happen to himself and J-J. Just now it
seemed inconceivable but more and more families appeared to be coming apart at the seams.

‘What about Chrissie’s grandmother? We understand—’

‘Loves her to bits,’ Ellie Unwin said at once. ‘She’s not a real granny, not a blood granny, but he worships her. Always has.’

She began to talk about the home on the Isle of Wight, how her son made the time and effort to keep in touch, dropping in whenever he could. When he was in his teens and his gran was living by herself in the big family house in Haslemere, he’d often take the train up there and stay for a couple of days. To be frank, she often thought that he preferred Granny’s company to her own.

‘Funny, really,’ she concluded. ‘These days Mum hasn’t got a clue who Chrissie is most of the time yet it doesn’t seem to make the slightest bit of difference. When I phone up the home sometimes, just to find out how Mum is, they’ll tell me Chrissie’s been over again. Apparently he’ll sit with her for hours, just nattering away to her. Maybe that’s the secret. Maybe we got a bit much for him. Maybe he prefers talking to a virtual stranger.’

Barber asked her whether she had any photos of her son. She thought about the question.

‘You mean something recent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Afraid not. The last one I can think of at the moment is when he was at school. That’s years ago.’

‘No holiday snaps? Nothing from a family get-together? Someone’s wedding, maybe?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Chrissie was never interested in that kind of do.’

‘How about Christmas? Did you hear from him then at all? Card, maybe? Text message?’

‘No.’ She was thinking hard. ‘Definitely not.’ She held her hands wide, embarrassed now. ‘I know it might sound odd but that’s the way it is. Chrissie’s fine. He’ll always be fine. I’m sure he gets into the odd scrape but that boy could charm his way out of a paper bag.’ The smile again, ever more anxious. ‘Know what I mean?’

The Eldon lies on the western edges of Somerstown, a pub favoured by a clientele that changes by the hour. Lunchtimes, it attracts barristers and the odd journalist from the nearby Crown Court. Sitting at a table in the window, Winter could hear the bells of the Guildhall clock as he tucked into a plateful of steak and kidney pie. Noon, he thought, reaching for the brown sauce.

He’d spent the morning with a solicitor from the CPS, tidying up details on a drugs case due in court early next week. Jimmy Suttle, fresh from a morning at his desk in the squad room at Kingston Crescent, would be joining him any minute. For the time being, though, Winter relished the chance to review the last twenty-four hours.

He’d been in the job since he’d left school. The transfer to CID had come relatively early, and twenty years as a detective had given him a profoundly cynical take on human nature. He’d met men who raped and tortured because they felt in the mood. He’d spent profitable hours befriending junkies who’d sell their kids for the price of the next fix. He’d stalked bent traders through jungles of paperwork to discover scams so elegant that they deserved a quiet round of applause. Yet never had he come across anyone quite like Maddox.

Even the name was a challenge. Was Maddox her Christian name? Was it the name of the dynasty that stretched back over generations of Wiltshire landowners? Did it appear in her passport and driving licence? Her bank statements and birth certificate? Or was Maddox a label she’d discovered under some stone or other, taken a fancy to, and now adopted for any purpose it might serve? Back last Friday at Camber Court, with Richardson’s flat being ripped apart by the search team, she’d identified herself as simply Maddox and refused to qualify it in any way. Four days later, as both detective and perhaps friend, Winter was no closer to pinning her down.

It was this elusiveness more than anything else that fascinated him. The way she looked, the way she walked, compelled attention. Pass her in the street and you’d pause to watch her go by. Beautiful? Of course. But something else, too, a sense of detachment, a sense of not quite belonging to the busy clutter of anyone else’s life. Whether or not this apartness was a front, a carefully rehearsed pose to keep the world at arm’s length, Winter didn’t know. Last night, in her flat, she’d seemed almost normal. Real bruises. Real pain. But the closer he’d come to her, the stronger grew his conviction that the real Maddox, whoever she might be, was still under lock and key. Naked, she was available to any man with eight hundred quid to blow. But even for that kind of money you’d get scarely a glimpse of the genuine article.

This notion of a counterfeit personality stirred him in all kinds of ways, some of them deeply personal. Winter knew a great deal about the business of camouflage, of adapting his accent, his manner, even his body language, in order to make himself at home in someone else’s head. That was the way you coaxed a
man towards confession and a ten-year sentence, and it helped immeasurably if you could pull off the trick without a moment’s self-doubt or compunction. A good detective could ghost his way into anyone’s life, and last night, for the first time, he’d realised that he shared this talent with the likes of Maddox. They both knew how to dissemble, how to bluff, how to hide. And they’d both, for a price, screw more or less anyone.