Beyond Reach (51 page)

‘Hello?’

A voice she didn’t know asked whether she knew a Mr Sturrock. She said she did. She gave her name.

‘This is the police in Ryde, Ms Fogle. I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

 

Guests started to gather for the Tide Turn launch around half past nine. Winter had left an attendance list with the security guards at the Victory Gate and slowly the first-floor gallery began to fill. Marie had insisted on a choice of coffee or fruit juice on arrival, resisting Mackenzie’s preference for a glass or two of wine, and now she moved from group to group, making introductions, welcoming familiar faces, warmed by the comfortable buzz of conversation.

Most of these people already knew each other. They met at function after function. Together, as she was beginning to understand, they formed that critical mass of movers and shakers that made any city work. Mo had likened it to what happened in a nuclear reactor. These were the people responsible for the smooth flow of power. Without their support, their approval, very little would get done. Hence the importance of today’s launch.

Of Mo himself there was no sign. According to Winter, he’d been due off the hovercraft at ten past eight. He had stuff for the PowerPoint to pick up from the Trafalgar and he wanted a final run-through before setting off for the dockyard. Winter had waited for him until nearly nine and then taken the equipment himself. Maybe Mo was running late. Maybe he’d gone straight to the venue.

Now, for the umpteenth time, he was trying to get through to Mo’s mobile, but calls were being diverted to the messaging service. Never had he bothered with Sturrock’s landline, an oversight he was beginning to regret. The gallery was filling fast. In a couple of minutes, if Mo still hadn’t shown, they’d have to think about starting without him.

Mackenzie was locked in conversation with the Lord Mayor. Winter chose his moment and took him to one side.

‘Mo hasn’t turned up.’

‘What?’

‘He’s not here, Baz. And I can’t raise him on the mobe.’

‘So where the fuck is he?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Mackenzie was eyeing the pile of equipment that went with the PowerPoint. Mo ran it through his laptop. Neither he nor Winter had a clue how it worked.

The PTI was body-checking his way towards them through the mill of guests. At Mackenzie’s insistence he was clad in a tracksuit rather than anything more formal. One or two people were beginning to check their watches.

‘You got a problem, guys?’ The PTI had to be away by eleven.

‘No, mush.’ Mackenzie was staring at the top of the stairs that led up from the entrance below. ‘What the fuck are they doing here?’

Winter turned to find Faraday and Suttle eyeing the assembled guests. They seemed to be looking for someone. Then Suttle spotted Winter. He came across, took Winter by the arm, found a space behind a model of the French flagship at Trafalgar.

‘You’ve heard?’

‘Heard what?’ Winter’s heart sank.

‘About Sturrock?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Someone called in a body first thing this morning. Over on the island. It turns out to be him.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He put a bullet through his head.’ He nodded towards Mackenzie. ‘You’d better break the news.’

 

As a mark of respect, the launch was cancelled. At Mackenzie’s invitation, the PTI muttered a few words about the Offshore Challenge. It was, he said, a bloody fine idea. Kids needed something special in their lives. They also needed someone special to make all that stuff happen. He hadn’t known Mo Sturrock very long but everything he’d seen and heard had convinced him that this guy would make a difference. The fact that he’d gone was a real shame, a real loss, and whatever the circumstances he deserved a moment of silence. Heads bowed around the room. Mackenzie hugged his wife tight. She was sobbing.

Afterwards, as the guests drifted away, the journalists wanted to know more. Mackenzie did his best, distributing Mo’s fact packs about what the Offshore Challenge involved, but that was no longer what they were after. There was a rumour that Tide Turn’s new boss had committed suicide. Was Mr Mackenzie in a position to confirm that? Mackenzie shook his head, aware that Faraday and Suttle were still on the premises. Lizzie Hodson was nowhere to be seen but a pushy young reporter from Meridian TV had sussed the presence of the police. He cornered Faraday on the viewing platform outside.

‘
Maurice
Sturrock? Is that correct?’ He spelled out the Christian name.

‘Yes.’

‘And can you confirm he’s killed himself?’

‘I can confirm he’s dead.’

‘Would there be any reason why he
might
have committed suicide?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Is there someone else we can talk to? Someone who might know?’

‘Not at this point. I expect there’ll be a press statement later.’ Faraday stepped back inside, thankful that the reporter hadn’t enquired exactly what CID were doing at a function like this.

 

Willard and Parsons were waiting for Faraday at Kingston Crescent. At their insistence, Suttle joined them in Parsons’ office. Willard, once again, was incandescent. He’d just conferenced with the duty D/I at Newport police station. Sturrock had taken a single .22 bullet through the temple. There was no indication of foul play. The rifle evidently belonged to his seventeen-year-old son.

‘He knew, Joe. Some fucker told him. Am I getting warm?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir. I imagine you must be.’

‘So where were you yesterday?’

‘When?’

‘Yesterday morning.’

‘I went to the island.’

‘Good. That’s a good start. You know why? Because that’s exactly what we thought you might do. And you know something else? I asked DCI Parsons to run a check on the ferries. 07.30 to Fishbourne. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So then what?’

‘Are we talking PACE here? Should I have a lawyer?’

‘Just answer the question, Joe. Tell me why you went to the island.’

‘I went to see Tessa Fogle.’

‘Why?’

‘To tell her where we’d got to with
Sangster.
To warn her, I suppose, about what was about to happen. I’d given her my word. It was the least I owed her.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She didn’t. I got as far as her house and there it stopped.’

‘She wasn’t in?’

‘I didn’t knock on the door.’

‘She
was
in?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you got up early, you took the ferry, you drove over to her place, you confirmed she was there, and you didn’t take it any further? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I don’t believe you.’

‘You think I’m lying?’

‘Frankly, yes. Either that or you’ve totally lost it.’

Faraday held his gaze. Then he stood up. His warrant card was in the top pocket of his suit. He slipped it out and laid it carefully on the desk. He’d had enough. His tussle with his conscience was one thing. This was quite another.

Then came another voice. Suttle’s.

‘It was me, sir.’

‘What?’ A tiny frown clouded Willard’s massive face.

‘Me. My fault.’

‘How does that work?’

‘I live with a journalist. She interviewed Sturrock on Tuesday, ahead of the launch. She was preparing a big piece on him. She was really impressed, really
really
impressed. After the interview we had a bit of a run-in. In the end I marked her card.’

‘Told her what he’d been up to? All those years ago?’

‘Told her what he
might
have been up to.’

‘Same thing, son. I’ll put money on it.’ He glanced at Parsons, then went back to Suttle. ‘So what did she do, this girlfriend of yours?’

‘She went to the island yesterday with a photographer. She must have had a word with Sturrock. That’s the only way it could have happened.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Positive.’

‘Why couldn’t it have been Joe here?’

‘Because D/I Faraday’s straight, sir. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t hide from the truth. And if you don’t mind me saying so, we ought to be able to cope with that.’

A DNA swab from the post-mortem on Mo Sturrock provided a perfect match with the scene sample preserved for Operation
Sangster
. Faraday got the news personally from Willard. His call found Faraday in the Bargemaster’s House. Pending a decision on whether he really wanted to resign or not, he’d been granted what Willard had been careful to describe as ‘compassionate leave’.

‘He did it, Joe. He raped that woman. Even you can’t deny it.’

‘It’s not denial, sir. That was never my point.’

‘I know, but it’s black and white, isn’t it? The guy was a rapist.’

‘You’re right.’ Faraday had wearied of this conversation already. He no longer knew or even cared where it led.

‘So what next? Have you made a decision yet?’ Willard was trying to sound upbeat. It didn’t work.

‘No, sir. DCI Parsons said two weeks. I’ll let you know by Monday.’

‘You feel OK?’

‘I feel fine.’

‘Have you seen anyone?’

Faraday smiled. He meant a psychiatrist.

‘No, sir.’

‘Still away with the birds, then?’

It was a poor joke. Faraday didn’t laugh. There was a long silence.

‘Monday then. We’ll talk again.’

He rang off.

 

Two days later, Faraday took another call. It was a woman’s voice this time and it was several seconds before he placed it. Tessa Fogle.

‘I’m in Portsmouth,’ she said at once. ‘If it’s possible I’d like to talk to you.’

‘How did you get this number?’

‘You gave it to me. You left a card.’

‘I’m sorry. Of course I did.’

He gave her directions for the Bargemaster’s House and wondered whether to put the kettle on. Within minutes she was stepping out of a cab and walking up the path to the front door. She looked terrible.

‘Come in.’

Faraday led her through to the big lounge that looked onto the harbour. Mercifully, it was a beautiful day.

‘Are you happy to stay in here or would you prefer to go outside?’

‘Here’s fine.’

She sank onto the sofa, refusing Faraday’s offer of tea. She said she’d been talking to the girl from the
News
again, Lizzie Hodson. After the trauma of Mo’s funeral and ongoing problems trying to settle the kids, Lizzie had come back to her. At first Tessa had thought she was after a story, some kind of exclusive interview, but it hadn’t turned out that way at all.

‘What did she want?’

‘She wanted to tell me about you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. I never realised at the time, but it seems you came over the day before Mo … you know … did it. She said you wanted to tell me what was going on, what I should expect. And she said there’d been all kinds of trouble about it, between you and your bosses.’

Faraday nodded, saying nothing. This was Jimmy Suttle’s doing, he thought. He’s leant on his partner, asked her to pass a message. If so, it was a kind thought.

Tessa wanted to know if it was true. Faraday said yes. He’d made her a promise. That promise flew in the face of all kinds of other stuff but he’d still felt compelled to keep his word.

‘Why?’

‘
Why?
’ He shook his head. To be honest, he said, he no longer knew. Lizzie was right. There’d been big trouble, huge trouble, but nothing that would hold a candle to what she must be going through.

‘Do you think some kind of warning would have made it easier for me?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose it might.’ Faraday frowned. ‘Did you ever suspect it was him?’

‘Mo, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who did it? Raped me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Never.’

‘So if I’d have warned you, would you have told him? Would you have confronted him?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘And then?’

‘I would have forgiven him. It wouldn’t have mattered. Back then we were different people. That’s what I’d have told him.’

‘So he’d still be alive? Is that what you’re saying?’

There was a long moment of silence. Outside, two gulls were squabbling over something on the foreshore. Then she shook her head.

‘He’d still have gone. He’d still have done it, still have killed himself. Nothing I could have said would have changed that.’ She studied him for a moment then ducked her head. ‘I’ve brought you this. It’s a copy, I’m afraid, but I know you’ll understand.’

She searched in her bag and produced a folded square of A4. It was typed, single space. At the bottom, a row of inked kisses.

Tessa was on her feet. She’d asked the taxi to hang on for her at the end of the road. She’d come to tell Faraday that he wasn’t to blame for what had happened. Faraday stared up at her.

‘So you don’t think it made a difference? Me not telling you?’

‘No.’ She offered him a wan smile. ‘But thanks for trying.’

She left the room, refusing Faraday’s offer to walk her up the road. He heard the front door open and close. Then silence again.

He turned to the letter, aware of a sudden chill in the room. A dead man’s voice, sepulchral, beyond reach.

My lover
, it began.