The Take (18 page)

‘Of course. He examined me.’

‘Without gloves?’

‘Yes, and every time –
every
time – he insisted on an operation.’

‘Then and there?’

‘Absolutely. He used to get me up to the hospital, the Advent, for consultations, but every time it would end in the operating theatre. I think he must have had the theatre pre-booked. It got so I’d automatically pack my overnight case every time. He made a joke about that, too. Me and my little case. Like I was his girlfriend on some sordid date.’

‘And these were serious operations?’

‘Serious enough to need anaesthetic.’

‘Did he explain them? Justify them?’

‘Not really. Information wasn’t something he was ever really into. He probably thought I was too thick to understand. No, he just went ahead and did whatever he did.’

‘And this went on for …?’

‘Seven years.’ She offered Winter a small, bitter-sweet laugh. ‘You’re talking to the world’s expert on ankle stirrups and those dilator things. Ever wondered how vulnerable that might make you feel? Someone like Hennessey poking around inside you?’

‘But you stayed with him,’ Winter pointed out. ‘You put up with it.’

‘Of course.’ Nikki shrugged. ‘But then he was a doctor. And doctors are people you can trust.’

Winter looked away for a moment. He’d phoned Joannie in Hove first thing this morning, just to check how she was getting on. Her mum had taken the call, explaining that Joan wasn’t too good. Rough night. Little sleep. And a constant, nagging pain in her tummy. She hadn’t gone as far as spelling it out, but the inference was plain enough. Her daughter should be tucked up at home under proper medical supervision. Not abandoned by a husband too busy to care.

‘Doctors can be bastards,’ he said softly. ‘Take it from me.’

Nikki gazed at him, seeming not to understand. The nod was automatic. He might have said any bloody thing.

‘This Hennessey,’ he continued, leaning forward, trying to get her to concentrate, ‘have you seen him at all recently? Heard from him?’

She gave the question some thought. Then she shook her head.

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. I’d remember that, wouldn’t I?’

Winter imagined she would, but wasn’t happy with the answer. There was something in there, something opaque he couldn’t penetrate. He tried again, mentioning Hennessey’s interest in the marina. Had he ever talked about having a yacht?

‘Never. He went to the races. He talked about that all the time. But not boats, no.’

‘And he hasn’t tried to get in touch with you? The last couple of weeks?’

Nikki threw back her head and laughed.

‘Socially, you mean? For a chat about old times?’ The laughter died. She leaned forward, suddenly intense. ‘There’s a guy you ought to talk to, Mr Detective. My poor old dad might have mentioned him, I don’t know, but I’m going to write down his name for you. You’ll find him in the big hospital in Portsmouth, the QA. He saved my life after the last time Hennessey had a go at me. I’d come back home from London. I had a pain like you wouldn’t believe. I was screaming half the night. I was climbing the walls it was so bad. The GP put me in an ambulance and got me down to the hospital and this guy sorted me out. Go and see him. Ask him what he found. And then ask him what it adds up to.’

Winter watched her reach for his pen and pad and scribble down a name. Alan Ashworth.

‘And you’re still telling me you haven’t seen Hennessey since? You’re absolutely sure about that?’

‘I’m telling you, I’d see him in hell first. That man is evil. He’s been inside me. He’s robbed me. He’s pillaged me. Bits of me have gone for ever, Mr Detective. I can’t tell you what that feels like.’

Winter, slightly chastened, reached for the bottle again, but it was empty. Then he turned back to Nikki, struck by another thought.

‘That song you did last night. Who was the friend who died?’

Nikki stared into her glass.

‘Me,’ she said softly.

Sixteen

Friday, 23 June, afternoon

Faraday finally got to see Willard shortly after lunch. The Detective Superintendent’s office lay in the Major Crimes Suite, a heavily secured first-floor complex at the rear of Fratton police station. Five-digit locks barred entry to the suite, home to a sizeable task force of specially selected detectives who devoted themselves exclusively to long-running major crime investigations. To warrant the attentions of these men, you had to have murdered, raped or got yourself involved in a serious drugs or robbery scam.

A posting to a Major Incident Team was regarded as a top career move by many detectives, a chance to escape the treadmill of volume crime, but Faraday had never fancied it. All detection boiled down to teamwork and co-ordination, but blokes on the MITs of Faraday’s rank, Dls, rarely had the kind of freedom that came with the job at divisional level. Instead, wrestling with a stranger rape or a complex drugs case, they would inevitably be reporting to a senior investigating officer like Willard himself. Not that Faraday had anything against Willard as an SIO. He simply preferred running his own squad, drawing up his own battle plan, and if that meant missing out on quality crime, then so be it.

Willard had just come back from a civil unrest exercise over at the big force training HQ at Netley. In an earlier phone conversation about Hennessey, he’d agreed that they were now looking at a missing-person inquiry and asked Faraday to take formal charge. While the surgeon’s disappearance didn’t yet justify investigation by an MIT, it did need someone of Faraday’s experience at the helm. Cathy Lamb was doing a terrific job in the northern part of the city, but dumping this on her would be a lousy use of resources.

‘Agreed?’

Faraday nodded, thinking of Cathy in the car park. At full throttle she could be very impulsive, and Faraday had half-expected her to get to Willard first. For the fact that she obviously hadn’t, he was deeply grateful.

‘I talked to the SOCO about the Mercedes,’ Faraday said. ‘He’s got the arson investigator down from Chepstow and they had a good poke through the residues. He’s pretty confident about accelerants, but there’s nothing in there to suggest a body. The thing was gutted come the finish.’

‘House to house?’

‘I’ve had blokes on the estate all morning. So far it’s a blank. First most of them knew, the car was on fire.’

‘And the kids?’

‘Still at school. We’ve got names and addresses. We saw some of them last night.’

Willard, who made a speciality of doing at least two things at once, was looking at next week’s duty rosters.

‘How many bodies do you need, then?’

‘Half a dozen for now, and we can blitz it. Hennessey has a house in Beaconsfield and another rented place in the New Forest. Then there’ll be the consulting rooms in Harley Street and wherever else he worked.’

‘I thought you said he was struck off?’

‘He is, but it’s pretty recent. In my view, we need to start at the beginning again, the Marriott, and work outwards. Winter’s ahead of the game already, and I’ve told Cathy we’ll need to debrief him.’

‘She must love losing Winter.’ Willard’s eyes returned to the roster. ‘She’s down to the bone already.’

‘I know. I thought Dawn Ellis might help her out. She used to work from Cosham, so she knows the turf. Mates with Cathy, too.’

Willard took off his jacket and hung it carefully on the back of the chair at the head of the long conference table. Down the corridor, Faraday could hear a burble of conversation as the troops massed for the next big meeting.

Willard was asking about Winter. Why the compassionate leave?

‘Problem at home, sir.’

‘The wife?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘The usual?’

‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘She’s dying.’

Willard, in the act of stooping to retrieve a file from a drawer, paused. Dealing with sudden death was food and drink to a man like him, part of his job description, but Faraday had often noticed how different it was when death crept closer to home.

‘
Dying?
’

Faraday nodded.

‘Cancer,’ he confirmed. ‘We’ve given him seven days’ compassionate and, under the circumstances, I think he’s coping rather well.’

Winter was back at Jersey airport, waiting for his return flight to Southampton, by the time he put another call through to Joannie. Once again, it was her mother who answered, and this time she left Winter in no doubt about her real feelings.

‘You should have been here, Paul,’ she said at once. ‘It’s horrible leaving her alone like that.’

‘But she’s with you.’ Winter was outraged. ‘And anyway, it was her idea in the first place. Put her on. Let me have a word.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘
Gone
? Where?’

‘She went home this afternoon, around half-two. She didn’t want any lunch or anything. She just decided and that was that. There was nothing I could say, Paul. She just called a taxi and off she went. Imagine how that made me feel.’

‘And you’re sure it’s home she’s gone to?’

‘Positive. Where else would she go? In the state she is? Honestly, Paul, I don’t know what’s got into you. One minute you’re—’

Winter cut the conversation off and checked his watch: 1639. The fast trains to Havant left Brighton on the hour. If she’d made the 1500, she might just be home by now. He dialled the number, letting it ring and ring, then did the calculation again. Maybe she’d missed the 1500. The state of Connex South, maybe they’d cancelled the bloody train. Either way, he’d put another call through as soon as he got to Southampton.

He glanced up at the departure board. The Southampton flight had yet to show a boarding gate. He pulled out the phone again, checking the number in his notebook. Nikki had told him that it was a direct line to the consultant’s desk at the QA. This guy was obviously important to her, a tiny ray of sunshine after seven years on the butcher’s slab.

Finally, the call was answered. It was the secretary again.

‘DC Winter,’ he announced briskly. ‘Is Mr Ashworth back yet?’

Dawn Ellis was in the CID office talking to Joyce when Faraday returned from seeing Willard. Faraday signalled that he wanted a word, and she followed him down the corridor to the office at the end. Joyce had already been at the big wall board with the dry-wipes and had listed the four DCs and the DS who’d comprise the Hennessey squad.

The skipper would be DS Grant Ferguson, an ex-Met detective who’d recently joined the force after running out of patience with the hassle of living in London. Quite what he was making of leafy North End, as busy and traffic-choked as Walthamstow, was still a mystery, but Faraday liked his working style. Ferguson had originally come from Aberdeen and managed to combine a combative punchiness with a gritty acceptance that things were always in the process of getting worse.

On the wall board, Joyce had also added a schedule for regular update meetings and, in red, the code to be used on overtime forms. Earlier, Faraday had noticed the difference a whiff of grapeshot had made to her. An enormous tin of chocolate digestives and several cartons of Red Bull had appeared in a cardboard box beside the electric kettle. Here was a woman, he thought, who just loved the prospect of battle.

Dawn was eyeing the names listed on the board. When she was fed up, she had a habit of biting her lower lip. Just now, she’d practically drawn blood.

‘Was Hennessey the bloke at the Marriott?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought that was down to Cathy?’

‘It was. There’s been a change of plan. We found his car last night, burned out near the Hayling ferry.’

‘So why has Cathy been bumped?’

‘Don’t ask. Winter’s on compassionate at the moment. That’s why I’m putting you up with Cath for a bit. It’s not permanent. Just to help out for a week or two.’

Dawn affected indifference.

‘Makes no odds to me, boss.’ She shrugged. ‘Shoplifting’s shoplifting, wherever it happens. Why should I complain about missing out on something tasty when I’ve got all those scrotes in Paulsgrove to look forward to?’

Faraday wondered briefly whether she was joking, but one look at her face told him she wasn’t. Not that he could do much about it.

‘What about the current stuff?’ he enquired. ‘Anything major to clear up?’

But Dawn still wanted to know about Cathy. Had she resisted the boarding party? Was she happy to have Hennessey nicked from under her nose? Faraday ignored the questions.

‘I was asking about loose ends,’ he insisted. ‘Anything I need to be aware of? Or is everything boxed off?’

Dawn finally abandoned the wall board. She had a small, private smile on her face that made Faraday feel briefly uncomfortable.

‘Nothing worth worrying about,’ she said.

The incoming flight from Jersey was late landing at Southampton, the result of an air traffic snarl-up, and it was nearly half-past five before Winter was able to try Joannie again on his mobile. The number rang and rang but there was no answer, and he was on the point of asking the neighbours to pop next door when his mobile began to trill. He checked the incoming number. It was Faraday.

‘How’s Joan?’

‘OK. Not too bad.’

‘Taking it easy?’

‘Pretty much.’ Winter was making for one of the exits. A Tannoy announcement on the concourse was the last thing he wanted Faraday to hear. ‘Hang on, boss. I’m in the kitchen. Reception’s terrible. I’ll just go out in the garden.’ Winter pocketed the phone. Outside, he hurried across the departures lane and into the car park, resuming the conversation once he’d caught his breath. ‘That should be better. Can you hear me?’

Faraday told him about the burned-out Mercedes. The recovered chassis number had finally confirmed it was definitely Hennessey’s. The call from the manager at the Marriott had turned into a misper inquiry. As divisional DI he was now in the process of putting a squad together.

‘I’ve mustered five blokes,’ Faraday said, ‘but I’d appreciate a debrief.’

Winter’s heart sank. The last twenty-four hours had enabled him to draw a bead on the missing surgeon and everything he’d learned about the man had confirmed his instinctive belief that something had happened to the guy. The fact that no one else was remotely interested had been a bonus. It kept the hunt private, just himself and Hennessey. He liked that. He liked the thought that this had become a purely personal vendetta, a form of intimate hand-to-hand combat untainted by paperwork. It permitted him a very special kind of freedom. And one day, maybe sooner than anyone expected, it might lead to a settling of accounts. Dierdre Walsh’s account. Nikki McIntyre’s account. And even, in some deeply important way, Joannie’s account. But here, all of a sudden, was Faraday, the boss dog, about to piss all over his private lamp-post.

‘It’s difficult, guvnor,’ he said.

‘I know. This must be the last thing you need.’

Winter frowned, turning his back to shield the phone from the whine of nearby turbo-props. On the one hand, he needed to keep closing on Hennessey. On the other it was very evident that Faraday might get there first. Might there be some way he could dip in and out of the investigation? Strictly when it suited him?

‘It’s not just Joannie,’ he said at last, ‘it’s her mum as well. She’s staying with us now. You know how territorial they get.’

‘And?’

‘It’s OK so far, no big deal, but there’s going to be a problem when I start getting under her feet.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I might be more use to you. On the Hennessey job.’

Faraday didn’t sound convinced. Three days’ compassionate wasn’t very much when your wife was dying.

‘I know, boss, I know. All I’m saying is I’m up for it.’

‘Up for what?’

‘Hennessey. D’you mind if I discuss it with Joannie and bell you back?’

Faraday asked Joyce to sort out the briefing. Ferguson was already en route to Hennessey’s New Forest Cottage, armed with a warrant to search the premises. If there was any sign of a struggle, Ferguson and his accompanying DC would be sending for a SOCO and digging in for the full forensic trawl, including the running of any prints through automated fingerprint recognition, the computerised system which included the stored prints of all police officers.

The other two DCs, meanwhile, were next door in the CID office, working the phones in a bid to get the Beaconsfield uniforms organised. If the local guys up there could take a look at Hennessey’s house, maybe even ask a question or two locally, it might go a long way towards eliminating the possibility that he’d gone to ground at home.

Joyce stood by Faraday’s desk, translating his orders into busy little flurries of shorthand. Chances were that Ferguson wouldn’t be back from Newbridge until late evening – even later if he had to call in a SOCO. The guys next door had a stack of other phone calls to make. Faraday himself was still awaiting a fuller report from the Mercedes search. Might not the briefing wait until tomorrow?

‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ Faraday grunted.

‘Sure. But the sheriff never sleeps.’ She tapped her notepad. ‘Or are you telling me we’re headed for a Monday start?’

Faraday was looking at his wall board. At moments like this he felt like the high-wire act in some circus troupe, balancing available resources and overtime budgets against a particular set of demands. Misper inquiries were always tricky. A single phone call, and they could turn into a murder investigation. A chance sighting, and the subject might turn out to be alive and well, wondering what on earth all the fuss was about.

‘Well, sheriff?’

Joyce was eager for a decision. Faraday couldn’t make one. Apart from everything else, he’d rather been wanting to fence off the weekend for personal reasons.

‘Anything nice?’

Faraday gazed up at her. There was a fine line between presumptuousness and friendship, but the distinction seemed altogether lost on Joyce. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s American, thought Faraday. Maybe, where she comes from, it’s perfectly natural to turn your boss into your buddy.

‘It’s my birthday,’ he said with some reluctance. ‘I was thinking of popping over to France.’