Happy Days (2 page)

Suttle studied the letter in the gloom of the hall, trying to get inside Faraday’s head, trying to imagine the pressures that must have led to a decision like this. The house was still a crime scene. There were still bends in the investigative road that demanded careful exploration. But this brief voice in the gathering silence surely pointed to Faraday taking his own life. Suttle slipped the letter back in the envelope and returned it to the hall table. He was still wearing the gloves when Parsons appeared.

He let her in and followed her down the hall. She saw the letter at once. Suttle explained what was inside. The mention of an eagle in the postscript drew an inquisitive frown. She wanted to know what it might mean.

‘No idea, boss. Maybe we should ask his son.’

Parsons nodded, said nothing. Suttle sensed she was irritated by this sudden turn of events and found himself wondering to what degree Faraday had written himself out of her script. His
illness had tidied him away. Faraday, alive, was no longer any concern of hers. Dead, on the other hand, he could be a real problem.

‘I talked to Personnel just now,’ she said. ‘They think we’re in the clear.’

‘In the
what
?’

‘In terms of procedure. We organised the counselling. We insisted he stayed the course. We were in touch with his GP. I just had to remind myself. That’s all.’

Suttle digested this news while Parsons bustled up the stairs and took a look at the bedroom. She was a small, squat, big-chested woman who rarely let emotion trouble her unswerving progress towards ACPO rank. Among some of Suttle’s older colleagues she’d become a byword for the kind of career pushiness that the bosses sometimes mistook for talent. Within seconds she was back at the top of the stairs.

‘Horrible,’ she said briefly. ‘I think we’re pretty safe with a Cat 2 death. Call the OCU.’

A Category 2 death is one stage down from an obvious homicide. Suttle needed a D/S from the Operational Command Unit to make an assessment of the facts. As he put the call through he was aware of Parsons leaving. She had a scheduled meet with the Police Authority at headquarters for half seven. With luck, she’d just make it in time for the pre-presentation drinks. Suttle heard the slam of the front door and then the growl of her new Audi TT before silence returned to the Bargemaster’s House.

Still in the big downstairs living room, Suttle looked around. Like every detective, it was his job to tease a story from a scene like this, to coax out a sequence of events that would explain the body upstairs. For a couple of years now he’d been driving the Intelligence Cell on the Major Crime Team and his special talent lay in the careful compilation of other people’s lives: what motivated them, what moved them out of their comfort zones, what made them angry, or hurt, or homicidal. To this
end, before the Scenes of Crime blokes arrived, he knew he should be conducting a quick intel search, lifting all the usual stones beneath which most people hid their secrets: PCs, laptops, mobiles, landline messaging tapes.

That would mean another trip upstairs to Faraday’s bedroom. His PC was on the desk beside the window. His mobile was probably up there too. Both might yield vital clues as to exactly why he’d necked a bottle of decent wine, swallowed a load of tablets and called it a day. That’s where Suttle should go. That’s what he should do. But the thought of the body on the bed was too much for him. It wasn’t death that put him off. It was the fact that this needless collision with the buffers had happened to someone so close, and yet so distant. The real enigma, he sensed already, was the terrifying cul-de-sac Faraday had chosen for himself. Why had the guy been so desperate? And so alone?

The state of the body upstairs plus the post on the doormat suggested that Faraday had been dead for a couple of days. Suttle gazed down at the sofa, trying to picture how it must have been before he climbed the stairs that final time. The abandoned glass on the carpet had held alcohol – Suttle could smell it. He stepped across to the audio stack and hit the eject button on the CD player. He hadn’t a clue about Mahler’s Ninth Symphony so he reloaded the player, turned up the volume and waited for the opening bars.

The music was quiet at first, barely a whisper, but then came a passage on the violins full of sadness and regret and loss, and it was suddenly all too easy for Suttle to visualise Faraday stretched on the sofa, a glass of something consolatory in his hand, his eyes closed, his letter typed, his mind drifting off towards God knows where. The music gathered speed, bracing itself for the next hurdle, but the aching sense of desolation was still there, and Suttle shook his head, reaching for the stop button then turning away towards the big picture window with its semi-curtained views of the harbour beyond. If you listened to
this kind of stuff too often, did topping yourself begin to make some kind of sense? Was Mahler a co-conspirator in Faraday’s death? Had he orchestrated a lifetime’s disappointments and somehow led him to his end?

Suttle didn’t know. More importantly, he was honest enough to acknowledge that neither Hantspol, nor the Coroner’s Office, nor any other branch of the judicial system had a reporting form with room enough for this kind of speculation. To understand Faraday when he was alive was challenge enough. To make sense of a death like this was, to be frank, beyond him.

Out on the grey shadowed spaces of the harbour a single swan was flying low, heading for the open sea. Suttle watched it for a moment or two then pulled the curtains back. He’d had enough of this gloomy half-light, of Mahler, of empty glasses and of the lifeless corpse in the bedroom above. He checked his watch and began to turn away from the window, but as he did so he caught sight of another letter. It was lying on the window sill. The masthead was all too familiar. Hantspol.

He picked up the single sheet of paper. It had come from a woman in the Personnel Department. She was pleased at the progress D/I Joe Faraday appeared to be making and noted that he had nearly a year to serve before he could retire on a full pension. Under the circumstances, she hoped he’d agree that a return to Major Crime would be inappropriate, but another vacancy had come up and she had great pleasure in making the formal offer. An interview would be unnecessary. The job was his for the asking.

Suttle checked the date. The letter had been written barely a week ago. Add the delay for second-class post and Faraday must have been living with this career-end curtain call for no more than a couple of days. He’d no idea what Theme Champions’ Coordinator on the Safer Portsmouth Partnership actually entailed, and Faraday had probably been equally clueless, but it was all too easy to imagine the eternity of meetings that lay ahead. A body like this would speak the language of the new
policing. The language of Service Performance Indicators and Victim Focus, of the Outcomes Matrix and the Neighbourhood Policing Offer. After years and years of life at the coal face, of multiple homicides and complex stranger rapes, of high-profile kidnaps and simpler acts of mindless brutality, what would any half-decent copper make of a letter like this?

From Hantspol’s point of view, of course, it made perfect sense, the gentlest of landings after a bumpy ride. But for someone with blood in their veins, someone with an ounce of self-respect, someone who thought that coppering had some faint connection with justice rather than collective hand-holding, the thought of becoming a Theme Champions’ Coordinator would have been the kiss of death.

The latter phrase drew a shake of the head from Suttle. He returned the letter to the window sill. A knock at the front door took him down the hall. There were two figures waiting to come in. He didn’t recognise the D/S, but the duty D/I had decided to come too. Nick Hayder was probably the closest Faraday had to a friend in the job, a like-minded forty-something who rarely let sentiment get in the way of the facts. On this occasion, though, he looked shocked.

‘What’s going on?’

Suttle explained. Hayder nodded, made no comment, accompanied the D/S upstairs. Then came another knock on the door. Hayder, it seemed, had already contacted Scenes of Crime. There were two of them, a Crime Scene Investigator and the Imaging Specialist who’d tote his cameras up to the bedroom and put the lot on DVD. They both knew Faraday well. They took an appraising glance around the big living room and then followed Suttle up towards the bedroom.

Suttle had been through this routine on countless occasions. Normally, whether they were dead or alive, you were dealing with strangers. You stepped into the wreckage of their lives and did what you had to do. You were respectful and businesslike, but behind closed doors you often lightened proceedings with
a muttered quip or two as the occasion suggested. Not this time. The CSI, a guy in his forties who’d had a great deal of time for Faraday, took one look at the body and left the image specialist to get on with it. There were windows to dust for prints, items to seize for analysis, the PC and Faraday’s mobile to bag for the techies at Netley. Soon, the doctor would arrive.

On the landing Hayder was conferring with his D/S. Back downstairs in the living room, Suttle waited for them to finish. He’d found an old address book in a drawer and was leafing through it, amazed at how few friends or family Faraday appeared to have had. He was transcribing J-J’s contact details when the CSI returned from the bedroom. He needed to know how far D/I Hayder wanted to take this thing. He’d boshed the bedroom and the bathroom and checked out the other windows upstairs. No signs of forced entry. Nothing remotely suspicious. Suttle shrugged. This was Hayder’s decision, not his. As far as he was concerned, the story told itself. Faraday had slipped his moorings. Maybe death had been a kindness. Maybe the voice in the letter to J-J had it right. Maybe that’s exactly the way he’d wanted it.

The CSI, drawn and pale, agreed. He said he’d check around downstairs just in case and then use the last of the daylight to have a nose outside. But, unless D/I Hayder had views to the contrary, he saw little point in turning this thing into a major production.

Suttle nodded. The two men looked at each other. In all probability Faraday had jacked it in. There was nothing left to say.

The doctor arrived within the hour. Suttle explained exactly how he’d found the body. Then he conferred briefly with Hayder and the D/S, and left them to it. Walking to his car, he suddenly realised how late it was. His wife, Lizzie, had long been used to the craziness of CID hours, but since the baby had arrived she’d been banged up at home on maternity leave, trying to coax some order into their domestic lives. Grace was
a delight but a handful. A sight of her dad from time to time would be a real help.

The moment Lizzie answered the phone, Suttle knew things weren’t going well. He could hear his infant daughter in the background. If she wasn’t asleep by now they were probably in for another sleepless night.

Lizzie wanted to know where he was. He could hear the anger in her voice. Lately, more and more, married life was like living with a stranger.

‘I’m at Faraday’s place,’ he said.

‘You stopped for a drink? Only Gill’s been on. She still wants to know where she stands. I told her I had no idea. This time of night, you’re probably both pissed. Am I right?’

Suttle was looking out at the gathering darkness on the harbour. He felt suddenly very old.

‘He’s dead, love,’ he said. And rang off.

PORTSMOUTH: THURSDAY, 13 AUGUST 2009

The news got to Paul Winter late that night. Suttle, he knew at once, was drunk.

‘Son?’ he said. ‘What are you telling me?’

‘He’s dead. Gone. He topped himself. He did it.’

‘But who, son.
Who
?’

‘Faraday.’

There was a long silence. Winter didn’t know what to say. The television was off. He was in his dressing gown. Intercepted on his way to bed, he could only stare out at the blackness of Portsmouth Harbour. Faraday?
Dead
?

‘For fuck’s sake …’ he murmured.

‘Exactly.’

‘How? When?’

Suttle did his best to explain. He was slurring. Badly.

‘Where are you, son?’

‘At home.’

‘You want me to come round?’

‘No.’

‘You want to come here? Take a cab?’

‘No.’

‘Then what do you want?’

There was another silence before the line went dead. Then a shiver of wind blew in from the harbour, stirring the yachts moored beside the Gunwharf pontoon. Winter could hear the
halyards rattling against the masts. He stepped closer to the window, the phone still in his hand, trying to understand what had just happened.

The last time he’d seen Joe Faraday was a couple of months ago. Jimmy and Lizzie had thrown a party to celebrate the arrival of their daughter, Grace. Winter, as godfather, had naturally been there, and he and Faraday had tucked themselves in a corner and sunk a couple of lagers. His ex-boss had seemed a bit vague, sure, and social chit-chat was something Faraday never found especially easy, but they’d talked about the new baby, about when Suttle might start thinking about the D/I promotion exams, and they’d shared one or two war stories from the old days on Major Crime. As far as the Job was concerned, Faraday seemed to have turned his back on all those years of nailing the bad guys, and when Winter had pressed him for some kind of explanation he’d simply shrugged and reached for another tinny. It felt like someone else’s life, he’d murmured. It had come and it had gone, much like everything else he’d ever touched, and he’d never been one for nostalgia.

At the time Winter had put this down to the Stella. Shortly afterwards their conversation had been interrupted by a mate of Lizzie’s, a looker with scarlet nails and a big leather belt. Winter couldn’t remember her name, but she’d introduced herself with a cheesy little flourish before towing Faraday across to the brimming display of canapés, and somewhat later Winter had spotted them leaving together. Good on you, he’d thought at the time. Enjoy.

Now, though, he began to wonder. As a D/C on division, he’d spent a couple of years working under Faraday, and later they’d been thrown together on a couple of Major Crime inquiries. Winter had always recognised his D/I as a fellow loner, and when he’d left the Job and journeyed to the Dark Side, Faraday had been one of his few ex-colleagues to spare him the time of day. For that Winter had always been grateful. The man had more in his life than canteen gossip. He’d taken the trouble to
try and figure out why someone as difficult and gifted as Winter would end up working for the city’s top criminal face, and when circumstances had occasionally brought them together, he’d never rushed to judgement. On the contrary, he seemed to understand the path that Winter had chosen. That, of course, was why Faraday had been a decent cop. He was patient. He listened. He watched. He resisted the obvious conclusions. He let events play out, sharpened his pencil, reviewed the evidence, set a trap or two, and then joined the dots. Winter had always admired this MO because it so closely resembled his own. But then he, Paul Winter, was a survivor. Whereas Faraday, all too clearly, was anything but.