The Take (24 page)

‘Really? You want me to go and talk to the person you phoned right afterwards? You want me to find him, like I’ve found you, and put these questions to him?’ He paused. ‘There’s an offence here. It’s called perverting the course of justice. I can put you away for this, Brent. And the next guy you talked to. And the guy after that. OK by you? Or shall we get back to your mate Matthew?’

Brent was weighing it up. Mateship meant a great deal to kids like these. The last people you did favours for were the filth.

‘I don’t remember,’ he said finally. ‘It might have happened but I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember what he said?’

‘I don’t remember nothing.’

‘You don’t remember a conversation that ended with a huge fucking bang?’

The word ‘fucking’ had the impact of the accident itself. It shook Brent but made him, if anything, even more determined not to remember. He was busy. The phone was always going. There were people in and out all the time, just like today. How the fuck was he supposed to remember a conversation that old?

‘Because someone got killed.’

‘Yeah?’ He looked down again, bit his fingernails. ‘Well, he never told me that.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

Brent wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t look Faraday in the eye. Instead, he just shrugged.

‘Fuck knows,’ he muttered.

Something snapped in Faraday. He got to his feet and stepped round the table. He’d had enough of trying to coax out the truth. He’d had enough of trying to funnel all his neat, textbook questions through the proper channels. There were moments that called for something a little more direct, and this, in front of a largish audience, was one of them.

‘Get up,’ he hissed.

One look at Faraday’s face brought Brent to his feet. He looked about ten years old.

‘Get back in the kitchen.’

Faraday followed him through to the area behind the counter. One or two of the women were shouting out now, telling Faraday to leave him alone, but Faraday ignored them. When the youth made a bid to escape, Faraday pinned him in a wristlock. The old woman in the kitchen was standing at the range, giving the chip pan a good shake. Faraday explained to her that he was police.

‘Brent here took a phone call a couple of weeks back. You’d have remembered it because it ended with a car crash. Literally. A big bang. He’d have told you that. I know he would. He’d either have told you then, or maybe later. Either way, it was news.’

The woman was still shaking the pan.

‘Yeah?’ she said.

‘Yeah. But Brent can’t remember that phone call any more, which is a shame.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because someone was killed.’

The woman put the hot chips to one side and adjusted the temperature on the oil. Only when she’d wiped her hands did she finally turn round. She wasn’t looking at Faraday. She was looking at Brent.

‘I read about that woman in the paper,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you tell him about the season ticket, you little tyke?’

Twenty-Two

Monday, 26 June, early afternoon

Ever patient, Paul Winter waited until McIntyre had drunk his fill at the Weather Gage before intercepting him en route to his car. He must have had at least three pints in that time because the old man was having difficulty working out which of the two keys on his Rover ring fitted the driver’s door.

Winter made his way towards him and touched him lightly on the sleeve.

‘Ronnie,’ he said with a smile, ‘a word.’

McIntyre was taking a while to put a name to the face. Winter spared him the trouble, adding that it might be wise to let the last pint settle before getting behind the wheel.

‘You’re police, of course.’ McIntyre frowned. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

Winter walked him to a bench on Point at the tip of Spice Island. From here, they had a grandstand view of the Gunwharf construction site. Tourists milled around the explanatory display boards, trying to superimpose the stylish computer-generated images of shopping malls and waterside apartments onto the muddy chaos across the tiny stretch of water. McIntyre watched them from the bench, as awkward and as stiff as ever.

‘Used to sail from there.’ He nodded in the direction of an area further upharbour. ‘HMS
Invincible
. He glanced sideways at Winter. ‘Falklands War.’

Winter let him ramble on for a while, making himself comfortable, setting down this unexpected conversation in a warm bath of reminiscence. How the bloody acquisition radars never worked properly. How the MoD consistently underestimated the Argie pilots. What a shock it was to see the first pictures of HMS
Sheffield
, adrift and abandoned, the victim of a single bloody Exocet.

‘French missile, of course,’ he added bitterly. ‘Never miss a trick, do they?’

Finally, he ran out of stories. There was a companionable silence. Then Winter began to talk about his wife. How she’d had grumbling little pains in her tummy. How she was never the complaining sort. How her GP had given her a couple of aspirin and a pat on the head. And how the bad news had come crashing into their lives, a direct hit from their very own little Exocet, the consultant consigning Joannie to the early grave she didn’t, for one second, deserve.

‘Bastards,’ Winter said softly. ‘Absolute bastards.’

‘Medics?’

‘This one, certainly.’

McIntyre blew his nose. He couldn’t agree more. He was desperately sorry to hear about Winter’s wife. His own dealings with Hennessey had opened his eyes. If you couldn’t trust a doctor, where would it all bloody end?

Winter nodded. Under the circumstances, he thought Nikki had coped incredibly well. Real strength, real character.

‘Of course, you’ve met her, haven’t you? So you’d know.’

‘Know what, Ronnie?’

‘Know what a man like that could do to her.’

‘Too right. And not just her.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You, Ronnie. You and your whole family. There must be times when’ – Winter hunted for the exact phrase – ‘you could do with a little compensation.’

‘Compensation?’

‘Revenge.’

McIntyre didn’t say anything. Instead, he was staring up the harbour, towards the jetty where his wife and daughter had waved goodbye the morning he’d sailed for the Falklands. He’d never had a moment’s doubt about the Task Force. The Argies had taken without asking. The islands were British. And British they would stay.

Winter wanted to know about the Weather Gage. Did Ronnie pop in there a lot?

‘Often enough. It’s difficult in the village now. People know about Penny going. You can imagine, can’t you? The gossips had a real field day.’

‘Whereas down here …’

‘Exactly.’ McIntyre offered an emphatic nod. ‘Nothing like a fresh start.’

‘And Parrish?’ Winter smiled. ‘Rob?’

‘You know him?’ McIntyre sounded surprised.

‘Of course.’

‘A good man. Enterprising. And a bloody good landlord too.’ McIntyre fumbled for his handkerchief again. ‘Makes it a pleasure to pop down of an evening.’

Winter let him wipe his nose. One of the Isle of Wight car ferries churned past, executed a deft three-point turn, and began to inch backwards into the terminal berth.

‘Do you have any financial relationship with Rob Parrish?’

Winter was still watching the ferry. He might have been asking about the weather.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Have you given him any money recently?’

‘Good Lord, no. Why should I?’

Winter left the question unanswered. Side by side on the bench, he could sense the sudden tension in McIntyre’s body. He glanced across, offered a reassuring smile.

‘Would you have any objection to showing me your bank statements?’

‘My what?’

‘Bank statements.’

‘That’s what I thought you said.’ He blinked. ‘What an extraordinary thing to ask.’

The response was wholly ambiguous. Winter put the question another way, patting him on the arm, ever friendly, ever supportive, a fellow victim at the hands of the bastard medics.

‘How much did you give him, Ronnie?’

‘What?’

‘How much is she worth? Nikki? How much did you give Parrish to sort out Hennessey?’ He paused. ‘I could get a court order on your bank statements. ‘It’s not a hard thing to do.’

McIntyre was staring at him. Three pints and this sudden change of tack had left him hopelessly confused. Was this man friend or foe? A harmless blip on the radar screen, or something infinitely more menacing?

Winter bent towards him.

‘Tell me, Ronnie. You’re not under caution.’

‘I’m not?’

‘No. We’re friends here. Trust me.’

He nodded, heartened by this small reassurance. Then he slumped again, completely defenceless.

‘You know, don’t you?’ He wouldn’t look at Winter. ‘You know already. I can tell.’

Winter didn’t say a word. McIntyre moistened his lower lip.

‘It was a loan,’ he said at last, ‘strictly a loan.’

‘How much?’

‘Twenty thousand.’

‘When?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.’

‘And you’ve still got the paperwork?’

‘I’m still drawing it up.’

‘You gave this man twenty thousand pounds and he didn’t sign anything?’

‘He will. It’s a formality.’

Winter shook his head. He couldn’t even begin to believe him.

‘So how do you know?’ he asked. ‘What’s the deal here?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘How do you know Hennessey’s dead? Where’s the proof? You spend twenty grand on the man. You want him good and dead. But how can you be sure?’

McIntyre stared at him for a long time. Behind the affronted expression, Winter could see all the misery, anger and emptiness of the last few years. Things had piled up. He’d been to hell and back through no fault of his own. And now, to cap it all, comes a conversation like this.

‘Put yourself in my place for a moment,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think that man
deserves
to die?’

‘Yes.’ Winter placed a hand on his arm. ‘But very slowly.’

For all his misgivings, Rick had agreed to accompany Dawn Ellis back to Kennedy’s place. It was half-past two in the afternoon. Dawn had made the call privately, standing alone on the pavement while Rick pretended not to watch from the car. She’d told Kennedy she was up for it, but she wanted to bring a friend. When Kennedy said no problem, she pointed out it was a male friend.

‘So what?’ he’d drawled. ‘Share and share alike.’

‘Share what?’

‘You.’

He’d laughed. Half an hour’s time would be fine. He’d get everything ready. Two guys, and they’d make it last the rest of the afternoon.

‘Any preferences?’ he’d enquired, still laughing.

She’d rung off without answering. Now, she and Rick stood on the pavement outside the house. Rick, under his weekend tan, was less than eager. A year of working with Dawn had made it obvious that she had designs on him and he wasn’t convinced that she hadn’t stitched him up. Women could be so devious that way. Men were an infinitely simpler proposition.

‘Who draws the line?’ he asked for the second time.

‘I do,’ Dawn muttered. ‘I told you just now. I’m the one with most to lose.’

She rang the doorbell, wondering where the next few minutes would take them. She was more convinced than ever that Kennedy was running a brothel, a knocking shop with a difference, offering students for sex. Girls like Shelley, skint most of the time, had a brain as well as a body and there’d be plenty of middle-class, middle-aged punters more than happy to pay Kennedy for the pleasure of screwing someone their daughter’s age. What she needed now was evidence, and a lead on exactly how Shelley Beavis fitted into Kennedy’s little enterprise.

Footsteps came crashing down the stairs. Kennedy must have been in the shower. His shaved head glistened with tiny drops of water and he smelled of something from one of the more expensive bottles of
après-douche
.

‘Hi.’ He extended a hand towards Rick. ‘Awright?’

‘Fine, thanks. You?’

Rick walked straight past, ignoring the hand. Kennedy and Dawn exchanged looks.

‘Where d’you find him, then? Crufts?’

Kennedy was already leading the way upstairs, Rick and Dawn in pursuit.

‘Sorry about the short notice,’ she called. ‘My friend’s got a train at six.’

‘And you?’

She laughed. ‘I hate trains.’

Upstairs, four doors led off a carpeted landing. The walls were hung with Japanese-looking erotic prints, strangely tasteful. Rick paused to look.

‘Where did you get these, then?’

‘Paris. Friend of mine runs a market stall.
Loads
of oriental stuff. Like it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll bring you some back. Next time I’m over.’

Kennedy pushed his way in through a door at the end. The room at the front, thought Dawn, with the permanently pulled curtains. She hesitated outside for a second, checking with Rick. To her surprise, he was beginning to look interested.

The room was bigger than she’d expected. In the middle was a huge bed, king-size at least, with an assortment of pillows at both ends. There were no blankets, just a sheet. The ceiling was painted black, and from it hung a number of lights, all of them directional and all of them pointed at the bed. In a shallow semi-circle on the far side of the bed stood three tripods. There were cameras on each of them. Dawn was no expert, but you didn’t buy cameras like these at Boots. Maybe not simply a pimp, she thought. Maybe something else as well.

Kennedy had seen the surprise on her face.

‘Shel never mentioned it?’

‘Never.’

‘I’m amazed.’ He nodded towards the bed. ‘This is what turned her on to acting in the first place. Proper little drama queen.’ He pointed at the rug by the deep bay window. ‘Dump your gear there. Thank Christ it’s summer, eh?’

He loosened the knot on his dressing gown. Rick was watching his every move.

‘You mentioned money,’ Dawn began. ‘For what, exactly?’

Kennedy didn’t answer. Instead, he went to the only piece of furniture in the room, a chest of drawers that must have come from a half-decent antique shop. Dawn found herself looking at a selection of vibrators.

‘Help yourself.’ Kennedy winked at Rick. ‘First course is on us.’

Dawn didn’t move.

‘I’m serious,’ she said. ‘I want to know whether we get paid.’

‘The answer’s no.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re first-timers. It’s like football. This is a try-out. If you’re any good, then we might talk business. Either way you still get to have a good time.’

‘And you video us?’ Dawn was examining one of the cameras.

‘Not this time, no. Next time, maybe.’

The dressing gown was off now. Naked, Kennedy was bent over a small fridge in the corner. Rick eyed him for a moment, then glanced across at Dawn.

‘Say we’re good,’ he began. ‘Say we pass the screen test. What happens then?’

Kennedy turned round. He had a couple of Becks in one hand and a high-energy drink in the other.

‘On the house.’ He grinned.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘I know you did.’

‘Well?’

Kennedy passed Rick a Becks.

‘If you shag OK, there’s money in it,’ he said.

‘How much?’

‘Depends on sales. I pay a flat rate up front, plus a percentage of sales.’

‘Sales of what?’

‘Videos.’

‘You make videos? Up here?’

‘Of course. That’s the deal. That’s why I asked you over. If it’s cool, you get to be a movie star.’

‘How do we know how many you sell?’

‘You don’t. You take it on trust.’

‘Are you kidding? What kind of sales are we talking about?’

‘Depends how far you want to go.’ Dawn shook her head when Kennedy offered her the other Becks. ‘Something really tasty, we could shift thousands.’

‘Shelley?’

He grinned, and then nodded. ‘Thousands.’

‘So who cuts it all?’ Dawn gestured at the cameras. ‘Who does all the technical bits afterwards?’

Kennedy just looked at her, the Lucozade tipped to his lips. Then he glanced across at Rick.

‘Tell she’s a student, can’t you? Real turn-on, all these questions.’

Rick told him to ignore her. She was the only student he’d ever met who got all her essays in on time.

‘Good point about the editing, though,’ he went on, picking up Dawn’s thread. ‘Who does put these things together?’

Kennedy looked from one to the other, weighing them up.

‘You
are
up for this, aren’t you?’

‘Definitely.’ Rick nodded. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. I’ve got a mate who does video. He’s got all the gear, everything, he’s really good. I was just wondering …’ He shrugged. ‘If you ever wanted a hand …’

‘That’s cool.’ Kennedy was watching Dawn. ‘Actually I have got a problem. Bloke let me down big time. I’d been relying on him and he just won’t come through.’

‘And this bloke puts it all together? Whoever you’re talking about?’

‘Yeah, and he’s good. In fact, he’s cracking. Does it for a living, know what I mean? That’s what you need in this game. Good post-production.’ He nodded at the cameras again. ‘I can get the pictures OK but it’s what you do with them afterwards that really counts. This guy’s a genius. If only the bastard would come across.’