The Take (13 page)

‘Yeah. Anthropology.’

Shelley could barely get the word out. There was something more than panic in her eyes. She looked terrified.

Lee turned back to Dawn.

‘How come we’ve never met before, then? Friend of Shel’s?’

‘Different course,’ Dawn said at once. ‘Different part of town.’

‘Where do you live, then?’

‘Fareham.’

‘
Fareham?
’ He put his hand on her arm a moment. ‘You could do with a real drink, not a bloody coffee. What’s there to do in Fareham?’

‘Plenty. If you know where to look.’

Lee raised an eyebrow, more interested than ever, then circled an arm around Shelley. Dawn saw the way the girl physically flinched at his touch, slipping off the barstool and wriggling free.

‘Gotta go,’ she muttered, draining the last of the Becks. ‘Late already.’

Lee glanced at his watch and nodded. Then returned to Dawn.

‘Get Shel to drop you an invite to one of our little parties.’ He grinned down at her. ‘You’ll love it, you will.’

As soon as they’d gone, Dawn moved to a table in the window, watching them walk down the road, back towards Shelley’s flat. Despite the suit and the sun tan, Lee couldn’t quite eradicate the trademark Pompey swagger. He walked from the shoulders, his hands plunged deep in his trouser pockets, and when he came across an empty can, he couldn’t resist sidefooting it through someone’s open front gate.

Beside the BMW he stopped and unlocked the door. Shelley had disappeared. He shouted something at her, then ducked into the car. Rawlinson Road was one-way, the traffic flow heading south. As Lee stopped opposite Jimmy’s, Dawn fumbled for a pen. T456GHB.

Eleven

Wednesday, 21 June, late afternoon

Winter had been home less than ten minutes when Faraday phoned. He hated the bungalow without Joannie. The spaces she’d made her own – the kitchen, her chair in the lounge, the spare room at the back where she stored her trophies from the car-boot sales – were suddenly empty without her physical presence. Winter knew only too well that this was a reality he was going to have to get used to, but the fact remained that it spooked him.

Faraday wanted to know how Joannie was getting on. He sounded warm and supportive, even mellow.

‘Fine, boss,’ Winter said at once. ‘She’s asleep at the moment, tucked up in bed.’

‘And does it help?’

‘What, boss?’

‘Being at home?’

Winter said yes. Faraday had been absolutely right. The news had gutted them both, but a trouble shared was a trouble halved. If Joannie was awake and standing beside him now she’d be the first to agree. Having the old man around had done her the world of good.

Winter caught sight of a prescription on the mantelpiece. She’d forgotten to take it to Brighton. He’d have to send it on.

‘Boss,’ he began, ‘this Hennessey thing. I’ve been thinking. If I manage to make it back over the next couple of days, what’s the strength?’

Faraday told him to forget it. He’d been talking to Cathy. As strapped for bodies as ever, he doubted whether she could spare him for even a couple of phone calls on the Hennessey business. Compassionate leave was different. Looking after your dying wife was a priority. Unlike the hunt for some half-arsed surgeon who may or may not have disappeared.

‘By the way,’ he added, ‘the Gunwharf Quays people seem to have got themselves in the loop. You wouldn’t have any ideas about that, would you?’

‘Gunwharf Quays?’ Winter was thinking about Pete Lamb. ‘Haven’t a clue, boss.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely. Prices like that, they’re way out of my league.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of you buying in. I was asking you whether you’d been talking to the Gunwharf lot. A yes or no will do.’

Winter ignored the question. He was determined to make the Hennessey inquiry official.

‘Remember Charlie Oomes, boss? That was no expense spared, wasn’t it? Or is my memory playing tricks?’

Charlie Oomes was a London businessman whom Faraday had tried to put away for charges connected with a particularly intractable murder. At the time, everyone had said that Faraday was off his head even to think about going after Oomes, but Faraday had ignored them all.

‘That was different,’ Faraday muttered.

‘You’re right. You were the guv’nor.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know. But it’s like you and your missus. I know how you must have felt now.’

‘About my wife?’

‘About Oomes. It’s a gut thing, isn’t it? An instinct? You know the guy’s got himself in the shit and it’s just a question of trying to work out how.’

Winter began to go through it all again – the mistakes Hennessey had made, the women he’d maimed, the retribution that doubtless awaited him – but he could tell that Faraday’s heart wasn’t in it. If Winter was really determined to return to work, then God knows there was plenty for him to do. By Cathy’s calculations, the current caseload was unprecedented, a breaking wave of volume crime that threatened to swamp them all. Under these circumstances, an allegedly missing surgeon was the last thing on her mind.

Winter nodded, telling Faraday he was sorry to bend his ear. He was probably right about Hennessey, and in any case it was all academic because he had his hands full with Joannie. He’d been right about her, as well. They’d sort it out together. Just like Faraday said they should.

‘Anything else I can do to help?’

‘Nothing, thanks, boss. But cheers, anyway.’

‘For what?’

‘Understanding.’

It was early evening before Dawn Ellis returned to the basement flat in Rawlinson Road. She rapped on the door, hearing music inside. There was no sign of the BMW.

Shelley Beavis looked half-asleep. Her hair was more tousled than ever, and she was wearing a long green T-shirt that came down to her knees. Her legs were bare except for a tiny anklet strung with turquoise and red beads. The last thing she wanted was another conversation with Dawn Ellis.

Dawn pushed past her, into the flat. The smell of weed was overpowering.

‘You can’t do this,’ Shelley was saying.

Dawn ignored her. She went quickly through the flat, making sure Shelley was alone. When she got back to the cavernous front room, Shelley was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the remains of a Mars bar.

‘He’s coming back,’ she said stonily. ‘You’ve got to get out of here.’

‘Why? He likes me, doesn’t he? Wasn’t that the vibe?’

‘He likes anyone’ – she looked up – ‘with tits like yours.’

Dawn stared down at her for a moment. Girls like Shelley Beavis made her feel powerfully maternal. She needed something wholesome in her stomach and a bit of a cuddle. She also needed talking to. There were sandals and a pair of jeans on the floor beside the bed. Dawn tossed them across.

‘Get dressed, love. I’ll take you for a drink.’

‘I don’t want a drink. I want to stay here.’

‘OK.’ Dawn shrugged. ‘We’ll just wait, then.’

She sat on the bed. A copy of
Loaded
lay open at an article on women’s favourite fantasies. Dawn began to read it, wondering what else you could do with a pre-warmed cucumber and a pot of Greek-style yoghurt, aware of Shelley struggling to her feet again. She had some difficulty with the jeans and abandoned the sandals for a pair of trainers. On the point of leaving, Dawn gestured at the magazine.

‘Yours?’ she enquired.

Shelley threw her a look.

‘You have to be joking,’ she muttered.

They went to a pub behind the seafront, Shelley’s choice. This time in the evening, it was full of visitors off the beach, families with kids who’d come in for the cheap food and Happy Hour drinks. Dawn found a quiet alcove near the back, knowing that this was the last place for a man with a Beamer and a nice Italian suit to be seen.

Dawn returned with the drinks.

‘Who is he?’ she asked.

Shelley didn’t want to say. She was mellowed out to the point of near silence and all that bothered her was all the crap that had gone down in Jimmy’s.

‘What crap?’

‘You and me being friends. You being at college. Studying whatever it was.’

‘You went along with it,’ Dawn pointed out. ‘Would you have preferred the truth?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

‘The problem? The problem is he fancies you.’

‘So what? I’m a big girl.’

‘Yeah, but …’ Shelley shook her head, then buried her face in her hands. ‘D’you know what that involves?’

‘Give us a clue.’

‘He’s mental, that’s what it involves. He’s off his head. And now I’ve got myself in this situation, having to go along with all this garbage about you being a student. He wants a number. He wants to phone you. You don’t need any of this. And neither do I.’ She reached for her pint and swallowed a long mouthful. The cider seemed to clear her mind. ‘So just …’ She made a loose, slightly apologetic gesture at the space between them. ‘Leave me alone, eh?’

Dawn didn’t say anything. A couple of dads were taking on their respective kids on the pool table. A potted cue ball brought a squeal of dismay from a small boy in glasses.

‘You still haven’t told me his name,’ Dawn reminded her.

‘That’s because I don’t want to. Can’t, more like it.’

‘
Can’t?
’ Dawn reached across and tried to touch her face where it was bruised, but Shelley recoiled. ‘Did he do that?’

‘No.’ She shook her head.

‘You’re lying.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are. His name’s Lee Kennedy. He’s got a house up in North End. Salamanca Road, number forty-five. He’s got previous for assault, three separate occasions, and a string of driving offences. The last guy he nutted spent a couple of days in hospital. This is just the official version. God knows what else he’s done.’

The realisation that Dawn already knew about Lee Kennedy brought the conversation to a halt. Shelley stared at her drink, refusing to say a word. At length, Dawn leaned over the table. She wanted Shelley to listen very hard because she was only going to say this once.

‘Have you read the local paper? We charged Paul Addison with grievous bodily harm this morning. He’s got himself bail, so he’s not banged up, but headlines like “Donald Duck Arrest – Lecturer Charged” aren’t going to do his career any good. I don’t know whether you’ve been in touch at all but in my book you haven’t begun to play fair by him. There’s stuff you haven’t told us, Shelley, and if you care about the guy, now might be a good time to start.’

Dawn sat back, reaching for her drink, taking her time. She hadn’t discussed her doubts about Shelley Beavis with Faraday, or even with Rick, because working practice made few allowances for hunches. They’d blame a conversation like this on her time of the month. Or worse.

‘Well?’

The colour had drained from Shelley’s face. Unless she was an even better actress than Addison had suggested, Dawn swore she was hearing this for the first time. At last, she looked up. Her voice was barely audible.

‘No bullshit?’

‘Absolutely not. He’ll end up in the Crown Court. On trial.’

‘And after that?’

‘Depends. If it’s guilty, he’ll go down.’

‘Prison?’

‘Of course.’ She nodded. ‘Not nice at all. And probably not fair, either.’

‘You think he’s innocent?’

‘I didn’t say that. Ask me whether we’ve got the whole story, the answer’s no. So …’ She offered Shelley a cold smile. ‘Why don’t you make a start? Here and now?’

Shelley thought about the proposition, running a perfect fingernail around the rim of her glass, and Dawn watched her turning it over in her mind. She’d been right about the girl, she knew it. There was much, much more to come.

Finally, with some reluctance, Shelley shook her head.

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I just can’t.’

‘He frightens you, doesn’t he? This Lee?’

She nodded, totally candid at last.

‘He’d frighten anyone,’ she said. ‘In some moods he’s just off his head.’

‘And he hit you.’ Dawn nodded at her face. ‘Did that.’

‘Yes.’

‘You have a relationship with him?’

‘We shag, yes. I wouldn’t call it a relationship.’

‘So why not bin it?’

‘I can’t.’ Her fingers briefly touched her swollen cheek. ‘Not until he lets me.’

Dawn looked her in the eye. There were possibilities here, maybe even the beginnings of trust.

‘We can do things,’ she said slowly, ‘take certain steps.’

‘Like what?’

‘Witness support. Find you somewhere else to live.’

‘But you don’t know what he’s like.’

‘You’re right, we don’t, but our gang’s bigger than his, believe me.’

‘He’ll find me, I know he will, whatever you do he’ll find me. He’s that kind of bloke. He never gives up. Never. That’s what’s so scary about’ – she frowned – ‘this.’

‘What’s “this”?’

‘You and me being friends. He’s made up his mind about you. I know he has. That’s the way he goes about it.’

‘Goes about what?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘But I do, Shelley, I do.’

Dawn relaxed, studying Shelley over the table, making a decision of her own. Then she leaned forward again.

‘OK, then,’ she said, ‘we’ll play it a different way. Here.’ Dawn found a scrap of paper in her jeans pocket. She scribbled down a number and handed it across. ‘That’s my mobile. Tell him he’s welcome to phone. And tell him the interest is mutual.’

Shelley stared at the number, her eyes blank. The penny took longer to drop than Dawn had expected. Finally, she looked up.

‘That means you’re still supposed to be my friend,’ she said. ‘That means I’ve got to carry on pretending.’

Dawn nodded.

‘GBH can carry fourteen years,’ she said softly. ‘You ought to think about that, too.’

Cathy Lamb met her estranged husband, Pete, in the Wine Vaults off Albert Road. Casks of real ale lined the wall behind the bar and Cathy took the risk of investing in a couple of pints of Summer Lightning, just like the last time, back in the early spring, when she’d amazed herself at how easy it had seemed, and how natural.

Pete had found a table in the room next door. Nearly a year apart had changed him, Cathy thought. No longer haunted, no longer edgy, he had the look of a man quietly pleased to have found himself in one piece. He’d put on a little bit of weight, which suited him, and he seemed to have suddenly developed a taste for nicely cut shirts.

‘Cheers.’ Cathy lifted her glass. ‘Who does the shopping?’

Pete allowed himself a private smile.

‘Sexist question,’ he murmured. ‘And one you wouldn’t expect me to answer.’

‘Nice, is she? In the job, by any chance?’

‘I wouldn’t know, love. Who ever bothers with conversation these days?’

‘I’m a detective, Pete, remember? And detectives always think the worst.’

‘The worst?’ Pete offered her a quizzical smile. ‘If only.’

‘You mean there’s no one?’

‘I mean there’s no one important.’

‘And that’s the best you can do?’

‘Sadly, yes.’

Pete touched his glass to hers, an old gesture that brought this particular conversation to an end, and Cathy resigned herself to letting it go, surprised to realise just how badly she wanted to find out the shape this new life of his had taken. You can’t live with a man for so many years and not get to know him. Where was he getting it from? And how much did she matter?

He wouldn’t tell her. Instead, he wanted to know about this new job of hers. Who was working for her? Who was giving her hassle? And, most important of all, whether or not she’d be putting in for the next promotions board.

‘DI for keeps? You have to be joking.’

‘It’s a pain?’

‘It’s not that. It’s not even losing all the overtime. I expected that. I’ve watched Faraday long enough to know what goes with the turf. It’s just so’ – she frowned, hunting for the right word – ‘relentless. You think you’re getting on top of it. You scoop up a few villains, get a result or two, make a night of it in the bar, then next morning you wake up and start all over again. It never bloody stops. Not from either end.’