Happy Days (5 page)

Suttle shook his head in what he hoped was a gesture of sympathy. Then he tried to soften the news with a clumsy piece of mime, popping imaginary tablets in his mouth and then cushioning his head on his folded hands. Your dad took some codeine, he was trying to say, and then went to sleep. J-J followed him, gesture by gesture, not remotely fooled by this charade. He studied Suttle for a moment or two then drew a bony finger across his throat and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

Suttle nodded, extending a consolatory hand, patting him on the shoulder. He had no choice. There were a million ways of breaking this kind of news, but few were as brutal and bizarre as this.

The kitchen was next door to the conservatory. Suttle took charge, re-warming the pot of coffee and finding a couple of cups. J-J had disappeared and Suttle wondered whether there was anyone else in the house. Faraday had sometimes talked of a Russian actress his son was shacked up with, and Suttle hoped to God she was upstairs. In the event, to his immense relief, he was right.

She’d obviously been asleep. She stood in the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She was slight, like J-J, but much shorter. The blue dressing gown she was wearing must have been his
because it came down to her ankles. Her eyes were enormous and lent her face the kind of startling beauty that would turn heads anywhere. Her feet were bare on the kitchen tiles and she’d painted a single toenail the colour of J-J’s T-shirt.

‘What’s happened?’ Her English was perfect, if heavily accented.

Suttle explained as best he could. J-J’s father had been found dead. He appeared to have taken his own life. In all these cases the police had to make enquiries. He was sorry to have brought news like this.

She nodded and extended a hand. She said her name was Ulyana. She seemed neither shocked nor surprised by Faraday’s death, and Suttle found himself wondering why.

‘Did you know him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’

‘Only a little –’ she shrugged ‘– but …’

‘But what?’

She glanced at J-J, obviously reluctant to go on, but her partner seemed to have ghosted away into a world of his own. He was gazing out through the conservatory windows. There were rags of cloud in the blueness of the sky over the nearby rooftops and his eyes were still wet with tears.

Ulyana angled her body towards Suttle, her face invisible to J-J.

‘He wasn’t well,’ she said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘He was very nervous, always, and very sad.’

‘This is recently?’

‘Yes. And before as well. For years, maybe, since I first knew him, but it got worse.’

‘And do you know why?’

‘No.’

‘Does J-J?’

‘I don’t think so. They were very close once. Now, not so much.’

Suttle nodded, realising that she was hiding her mouth because J-J could lip-read. He found a third cup and poured the coffee before returning to the conservatory. There were a couple of fold-up garden chairs and a battered old sofa, but it was impossible to get J-J to sit down.

‘Is he the only next of kin?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Does he have any relatives? Family members?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Could you ask him, please?’

Ulyana got to her feet. J-J took a step back, but she reached out to him, folded herself into his chest, gave him a long hug. Then she began to talk to him, a flurry of sign. There was obviously far more to the conversation than the simple question Suttle had asked, but finally she returned with an answer.

‘His mum’s parents are still alive.’

‘Where do they live?’

‘America.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘He doesn’t think so. There were never any aunts or uncles. Joe was … how do you say?’

‘An only child.’

‘
Da
. Yes.’

Suttle nodded. Under these circumstances J-J would have to come down to Portsmouth asap. There was a long list of stuff to sort out, beginning with the arrangements for the funeral. It would be good, Suttle said, if he had a bit of support.

‘Of course. I’ll come with him.’

‘It may take a while.’

‘Sure. I have a couple of auditions but …’ She shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished. She had her arms round J-J again, and for the first time Suttle caught the faintest hint of Faraday in his face, something vulnerable, something withheld.

‘You have a key to the house down there? Or do you want me to sort one out?’

There was a brief exchange of sign.

‘We have a key,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

Suttle checked his watch and then found a visiting card. He gave it to Ulyana and told her to phone him any time if she needed help. He took her mobile number and asked when they might be heading south. She thought tomorrow, when J-J had had a chance to properly understand what had happened. Suttle looked at her, disturbed by what she had said.

‘He’s going to be OK?’

She smiled and then took Suttle’s hand. ‘Come.’

She led the way back through the kitchen. At the foot of the stairs she paused and then nodded up towards the first floor. For the first time Suttle became aware of a line of carefully framed photographs flanking the stairs. There were more of them on the top landing, all in black and white.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Go ahead.’

Suttle edged slowly up the staircase, pausing beside each photo. They were all studies of children, some young, some less so. In every case the child was looking into the lens, their young face side-lit, and what came through every shot was a trustfulness tempered with something else. As he moved from picture to picture, Suttle realised that these kids came from a special place. Something was missing. You could see it in their eyes. There was a vacancy, a lack of engagement, but there was also a sense that the person holding the camera, the person talking to them, the person winning their trust, had somehow secured himself visiting rights.

Suttle knew that J-J had won a bit of a reputation in art photography. In this respect, and many others, Faraday had always been immensely proud of him.

‘J-J took these?’

‘Yes. There was a special exhibition. It was a couple of years ago. Joe came up. His girlfriend too.’

‘Gabrielle?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes returned to a shot of a young girl. ‘These kids are autistic. That’s the whole point. If you understand that, you understand J-J. The kind of man he is, the kind of
person
he is.’

‘You’re telling me he’s autistic, too?’

‘Not at all. I mean he reaches out. He shows himself. He’s never afraid. Like that you can get hurt, believe me.’

Suttle nodded. ‘And these kids knew that?’

‘Of course. Which is why these photos are so good. That’s his gift. His talent. You understand what I’m trying to say?’

Suttle nodded. He understood exactly what she was trying to say. Like his father, J-J had the gift of empathy. He could get into other people’s heads, other people’s hearts. What Joe Senior had found there had begun to distress him, but it was this talent, all too rare, that had made him such a fine detective.

‘There’s a couple of other things …’ Suttle said. ‘Do you think J-J has a contact number for Gabrielle?’

‘Of course.’ She looked surprised. ‘Didn’t Joe?’

‘I can’t seem to find one.’ It was true. Suttle had searched both Faraday’s address book and his email. All traces of Gabrielle seemed to have been erased.

‘You want to get in touch with her?’

‘Yes. She ought to know. She ought to be told.’

‘OK.’ She said she’d get the number from J-J’s mobile before Suttle left. ‘What else do you need?’

Suttle hesitated, unsure where investigation ended and intrusion began.

‘Joe wrote J-J a letter …’ he said at last. ‘I’m sure you’ll read it.’

‘I have. He showed me upstairs.’

‘You remember the line at the end? The postscript?’

She frowned a moment, then nodded. ‘You mean about the eagle?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t understand?’

‘No.’

‘You want to ask him?’

Without waiting for an answer, she took Suttle back to the conservatory. J-J, folded onto the sofa, was still watching the clouds. Ulyana signed to him. Suttle wondered which gesture meant ‘eagle’. J-J took his time replying, but when the answer came it seemed to transform him. He stirred. His bony fingers were a blur of sign. His thin body was perched on the very edge of the sofa. When the punchline came, he turned towards Suttle and grinned.

‘When he was a kid,’ Ulyana explained, ‘he and his dad played bird games. They’d go out all day, watching the birds. They had books, lots of books, and the books were all about birds. Sometimes there were programmes on the TV about birds. All the time, birds, birds, birds. That’s the world they made for themselves. Birds everywhere.’

‘And the eagle?’

‘It’s got to do with a poem.’

‘Which poem?’

‘He won’t tell me.’

‘Why not?’

She turned back to J-J and put the question. J-J shook his head, glanced up at Suttle and then put his finger to his lips.

‘He still won’t say?’

‘No. I think it’s private, personal.’

J-J was lip-reading. The nod was a nod of agreement. Then he stood up, extending his thin arms, and did a slow tight circuit of the conservatory, up on his toes, swaying and swooping, a performance no less startling for being so sudden and so ungainly. Suttle watched him, wondering if he’d pushed the conversation too far. He needn’t have worried.

‘He’s being an eagle.’ Ulyana was smiling. ‘He says it was his dad’s favourite bird.’

Winter had been back in his apartment at Blake House for the best part of an hour before he noticed the message-waiting light blinking on the answering machine. He finished his coffee and hit the replay button. It was a woman’s voice, faint, indistinct. The message lasted less than thirty seconds, but by the time it ended he knew exactly who it was. He reached for a pad and played the message again, scribbling down the numbers she’d left at the end. He’d no idea where the dialling code 00382 might take him, but that wasn’t the point. Five years ago this woman had helped save his life. Fingers crossed, she might just do it again.

Feeling infinitely better, he stepped onto the balcony and gazed out. The busy clutter of Portsmouth Harbour had always been his favourite view. This, as he’d told so many visitors over the years, was where you could take the real pulse of the city. The Gosport ferries churning back and forth across the water, the hourly FastCat heading for the distant smudge of the Isle of Wight, the occasional warship ghosting towards the harbour narrows and the open sea, the big cross-Channel boats, outward bound for Le Havre and St Malo. This ongoing carnival – part pleasure, part commerce, part defence of the realm – never failed to gladden him. It was evidence that this city of his, so crowded, so claustrophobic, so
insular
, also had another face. From here, in Gunwharf, it looked outward. There were ways you could escape, he thought. Which, under the current circumstances, was just as well.

He shed his jacket and sank into the plastic recliner he kept on the balcony. The sun was warm on his face, and he shut his eyes, yet again reviewing his options. Martin Skelley was a Scouse businessman who’d trodden a career path very similar to Bazza Mackenzie’s. Drug dealing in his early years in Liverpool had earned him a great deal of money, profits he’d sensibly invested in a delivery company called Freezee. Freezee had cashed in on the nation’s passion for crap fast food, and it was Skelley’s fleet of white Transits that now serviced cafés
and burger bars nationwide. Skelley bought the burgers pre-frozen for zilch money and delivered them – strictly for cash – to anyone who’d pay. The margins he worked on weren’t huge, but year after year the sheer volume of orders had grown to the point where he’d become a very rich man.

Like many ex-criminals, Skelley had retained a gut loyalty to a handful of mates he’d trust with his life, and one of them, it turned out, had found herself in possession of two and a half million quid’s worth of cocaine, an insurance policy Bazza Mackenzie had put by for a rainy day. The circumstances of this episode were complicated. They involved four bodies in a burned-out farmhouse on the Isle of Wight and had preoccupied Winter for much of the early spring. He’d won a kind of result in the shape of a
£
350K payout from Skelley’s mate – a businesswoman called Lou Sadler who ran a stable of eastern European toms from premises in Cowes – but Bazza had always considered the settlement a rip-off, and Winter knew only too well that one day he’d be after the rest.

That day, thanks to his political ambitions, had now arrived. Quite why he’d look to Skelley for the money rather than sell Misty’s house was anybody’s guess, but that – thank Christ – wasn’t the issue. In the shape of Martin Skelley, plus the forthcoming election, Winter had at last found a way of bringing his worst nightmare to an end.

His mobile was in his jacket pocket. Shading his eyes from the sun, still flat on his back, he accessed the directory and hit a number. Jimmy Suttle answered within seconds.

‘Paul?’

‘Me, son.’

‘I’m on the motorway. What do you want?’

‘A meet.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as.’

‘You’re kidding. I’m as busy as fuck. What’s it about?’

‘Skelley.’

‘Martin Skelley?’

‘The very same.’

There was a brief silence. Winter thought he could hear music in the background but he couldn’t be sure. Then Suttle was back again.

‘Where?’

‘Here. My place.’

‘Give me a couple of hours.’ The phone went dead.

PORTSMOUTH: FRIDAY, 14 AUGUST 2009

Winter was watching the early-evening news when Suttle thumbed the entry button at the main door downstairs. He got to his feet, made it to the hall, spared his video ID screen a passing glance and let Suttle in. The third can of Stella had definitely been a mistake.

Suttle knew at once that Winter had been drinking. They’d met a number of times since the early spring, in anticipation of exactly this moment, and Suttle was clearly impatient to get the thing sorted. Refusing Winter’s offer of a lager, he settled on the sofa.