Beyond Reach (6 page)

‘Grasping at straws?’

‘Exactly. In this case a wiper. It might not tear off at once but if the blade’s weakened it might just drop off up the road.’

Faraday peered at the blade again. Callan anticipated his next question.

‘It’s a pretty standard make. There are millions of them around.’

‘So why … ?’

‘Turn it over.’ Faraday did what he was told. ‘See that tiny line where the rubber seats into the metal?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s probably a deposit from a tree. Put it in the hands of the right expert and we’re looking at a specific make.’

‘Make?’

‘Sorry.’ Another smile. ‘
Type
of tree. Think about it. Say it’s a larch or an elm or whatever. Once we start talking TIE, something like that could be priceless.’ TIE meant Trace, Interview, Eliminate.

Faraday nodded. She was right. Faced with a list of addresses, an elm tree overhanging a driveway or the road outside the house could put the vehicle owner in the dock for murder.

‘What about CCTV?’

‘Nothing. We established a window of thirty minutes before the treble nine and looked at cameras covering approach routes. No VW camper vans that fit the parameters.’

‘So how could a camper van slip through?’ Faraday was trying to remember the pattern of cameras that mapped the north of the city.

‘Easy. The old A3 from the north isn’t covered. Neither is Havant Road from the east. You can also get off the Paulsgrove estate and not be clocked.’

She came to a halt. Faraday swallowed the rest of his coffee.

‘So what’s your question?’ he asked.

‘I’m not with you.’

‘Why did you want me over here? Why the meet?’

‘Ah …’ A grin this time. ‘I’m just wondering about the Volkswagen. Like I said, the colour of the paint flake is red, a deep red, red the colour of arterial blood, quite distinctive. On
Melody,
did you put anyone alongside a red VW? It might save us a bit of time.’

‘Sure.’ Faraday was thinking hard. Nothing came back to him in the way of vehicles and he was loath to phone Suttle again. ‘Can it wait until tomorrow? The intel skipper on
Melody
is off today.’

‘No problem. The stolen-vehicle bloke is due to send me a list of local red VW van registrations. I’ll make sure he copies you in. A name might ring a bell.’

She offered more coffee. Faraday, checking his watch, said no. He got to his feet then sat down again, aware that there was something as yet unvoiced.

‘Do you mind me asking you something personal?’ she said.

‘Not at all. Go ahead.’

‘Someone told me you had a son.’

‘That’s true. That was me. Yesterday.’ He paused. ‘You were looking at the bird shots on my wallboard. Gannets.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry. What I meant was a boy who’s deaf and dumb.’

‘That’s him. His name’s J-J.’

‘He’s the one who took the photo? The white birds diving into the sea?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Right …’

She absorbed this information then told Faraday about her sister. She’d been married for a while now and desperately wanted kids but nothing was happening. She and her husband had been over in Thailand recently on a trek in the mountains and had made friends with a local family. One of their kids, a baby girl, was deaf and dumb. They were looking for someone to adopt her. They said she needed Western medicine, Western levels of care. Callan’s sister had fallen in love with the child. But what did coping with that kind of handicap really entail?

Faraday changed his mind about the coffee, resisting the urge to ask where exactly this child lived. Thailand was where he’d first met Gabrielle, up in the mountains near the Burmese border. And she too in her more fanciful moments had occasionally wondered about adopting an Asian baby.

‘It can be tough,’ he said at once.

‘How tough?’

‘As tough as you make it. In my case I was on my own. My wife, J-J’s mum, had died so that left us pretty much alone.’

‘And you were a copper?’

‘Yeah. A young probationer. This is some time ago. I was twenty, no … twenty-one.’

‘You were
married
at twenty-one?’

‘Nineteen. Does that sound shameful?’

‘I’d say reckless. Either that or you were in love.’

‘Both. I’d settle for that.’

He told her about coping with J-J in the early days. Janna’s parents, wealthy Americans, had written him a generous cheque for their new grandson, enabling Faraday to buy the Bargemaster’s House, and there was enough left to afford to have someone look after the new baby when he was on shift. But from the start Faraday had detected something special in his infant son, something slightly odd, and by the time he’d hit his second birthday J-J had been diagnosed profoundly deaf.

‘How did you feel?’

‘I think it was a relief. I knew what the problem was, what the challenge was. And in a way that made it easier. I was his dad. He was my son, my boy. One way or another we had to start talking to each other.’

‘But how could you do that?’

‘Through the birds. I met someone having to cope with the same problem. We talked … much like we’re talking now. She’d done it through birds. You build a bridge. You learn sign language. You flap your arms around. You play games. You draw a lot. You make each other laugh. I happened to have this great house by the water. Look out of the window and the birds were everywhere. We were incredibly lucky.’

It was true. Looking back, Faraday could tally a thousand memories. Of J-J peering out of his buggy, kicking his plump little legs at the sight of a family of grebes in one of the nearby freshwater ponds. Of J-J years later, splashing around on the stony mudflats at low tide, building a nest of seaweed for a pair of oystercatchers that had taken his fancy. Without the gift of hearing, Faraday tried to explain, his son seemed to commune with the birds. He couldn’t imagine birdsong because he had no experience of sound. Yet the world of these creatures was undoubtedly real. They connected. They spoke to him.

Steph was fascinated. She wanted to know more about the house, about J-J. Did Faraday still live there? With this deaf mute son of his?

‘Yes and no. Yes I still live there but J-J’s up in London now.’

‘And how is he?’

‘Very good question.’ Faraday glanced at his watch again. ‘I had breakfast with him on Sunday morning. He’s built a career. He’s got a roof over his head. He does some pretty extraordinary things. Handicap’s an ugly word. He’d kill you for using it.’

‘He’s grown up now?’

‘Thirty this year, going on twelve. That’s not arrested development. That’s just mischief.’

Steph laughed as Faraday got to his feet. Then came the lightest of knocks on the door. In stepped a man in his early forties: jeans, a plaid shirt, and a smear or two of grease on his big hands. The way he looked at Steph, Faraday knew at once they were close.

‘This is Harry,’ she said, ‘our star crash investigator. He’s also my brother-in-law. He’s the one who went to Thailand. I took the liberty of asking him to come up. Can you hang on another couple of minutes?’

‘No problem at all.’ Faraday sat down again. ‘My pleasure.’

TUESDAY, 20 MAY 2008. 11.47

Winter phoned Mackenzie from the custody suite at the city’s central police station. He’d locked the kids in the Wee Green Bus and belled 999. An area car had arrived in minutes, a decent response time, and at Winter’s suggestion all four kids had been arrested on sus vehicle theft. Because they were so young, the booking-in process was taking an age. The custody Sergeant was a stickler for ticking every single box and laying hands on four Appropriate Adults was proving a bit of a nightmare.

Stepping into the fingerprint area, Winter waited for Mackenzie to answer. Tuesday mornings he normally reserved for an executive pow-wow with his new hotel manager, a heavily tanned forty-something who’d recently returned from running a block of self-catering apartments in Dubai. Her name was Chandelle and it turned out that Baz had first met her a couple of years back when he was investing a couple of million pounds in one of the Emirates’ new shopping malls.

It wasn’t immediately obvious why Chandelle should have wanted to swap Dubai for Southsea seafront, but Bazza was shrewd when it came to employing people and his new manager had certainly made an impact. Overnight bookings were up by a hefty percentage and Chandelle’s looks, coupled with her schmoozing talents, had begun to change the hotel’s clientele. In some ways she reminded Winter of Misty Gallagher, Bazza’s long-term mistress. The same frank enjoyment of life. The same talent for convincing every man she met that they were inches away from scoring. No wonder some of the city’s key players - the movers and shakers who always pushed their luck - were beginning to fill the restaurant at lunchtimes.

‘How’s it going?’ It was Bazza.

‘I’m down the Bridewell.’

‘
Where?
’

Winter explained what had happened. Bazza dismissed the damage to the Wee Green Bus.

‘What about the kids? You kill any?’

‘No.’

‘Shame. So how come the Old Bill got involved?’

‘I belled them, Baz. It’s called citizenship. Wins you lots of big brownie points. All they had to do was turn up and nick the little bastards. How sweet is that?’

Winter could tell Mackenzie wasn’t convinced. He’d spent his entire adult life proving that crime paid, and collaboration with the Filth made him deeply uneasy. He wanted to know what would happen next.

‘They’ll get charged, then bailed. Sooner or later they’ll appear in court. Some ditzy social worker will show up and we’ll all agree they deserve a second chance. I give it a couple of months, Baz.’

‘Before what?’

‘Before they’re at it again.’

One of the Bridewell’s younger P/Cs, a face Winter didn’t recognise, paused by the door. He’d caught the end of the conversation and he mimed applause. Winter gave him a wink, then turned his back to the door.

Mackenzie wanted to be sure there’d be no comeback from the men in blue.

‘Comeback for what, Baz? Nicking cars is hot just now. The guys down here have to hit their performance targets. We just did them a big favour. Believe me, Baz, you’ll be getting a letter from the Chief Constable. A couple more outings like this and you’ll end up Lord Mayor. Result, eh?’

Mackenzie grunted, far from amused, and Winter tried to picture Chandelle gazing at him across the desk, playing with the beads she wore, her long scarlet fingernails straying across her permanently tanned chest. Bazza kept a suite of his own upstairs and Winter, like every other member of staff, assumed that room service on Tuesday lunchtimes meant exactly that. Bazza had never seen the point of being subtle.

‘I had Stu on earlier,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘He’s up in town for most of the week, had a gander at Ezzie’s diary before he left.’

‘And?’

‘She’s booked at the gym late this afternoon. You know the Tatchbury Mount Spa Hotel?’

‘No.’

‘Come round after lunch. Half two would be good. I’ll talk you through it.’

The line went dead and Winter turned round to find the uniformed custody Inspector with a protective arm round the diminutive Billy Lenahan. The Inspector, a Scouse ex-submariner, had always had a soft spot for Winter.

‘I’m locking up our little friend here,’ he said. ‘He just tried to nick the PDSA collection box.’

‘Evidence?’

‘Three witnesses, fingerprints, CCTV.’ He held up a bloodied finger. ‘Plus the little bastard bit me.’

 

Faraday ran into DCI Parsons in the car park behind Fratton nick. She was bustling towards her new Audi A5, already late for a lunch with the Head of CID over in Winchester.

‘Somewhere nice, I hope.’

‘Sandwiches, Joe, if I’m lucky. Have you talked to Callan again?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘She says the investigation is ongoing.’

‘Which means?’

‘She’s telling us to bugger off.’

‘Really?’ A frown signalled Parsons’ displeasure. ‘You briefed her on
Melody
? Registered our interest?’

‘Of course, boss. But I don’t think she’s having it. She’s read the small print. She knows her rights. She’s standing her ground. And to be frank I don’t blame her.’

Parsons shot Faraday a look. Later, locked in conference with Willard, she’d doubtless table her concerns about the veteran D/I. Major Crime needs new blood, she’d say. It needs youth, energy, 100 per cent commitment. Not some weary has-been unprepared to fight his corner.

‘Take another look at the file, Joe. You’ve been away. Maybe something’s slipped your mind. It’ll be there, I guarantee it. Then you can phone her again and have a proper conversation.’

‘And Mr Willard?’

‘He’s seeing it my way.’ She smiled her little smile. ‘We need to bring this in-house.’

 

In his office, Faraday fetched out the
Melody
file. The last couple of days, back on home turf, he’d realised just how easy it was to lose the plot. Effective detective work depended, above all, on total focus. On the Major Crime Team you were there to unleash the investigative machine, to trawl for evidence, to piece together a story, to weigh one probability against another, and to be aware all the time where this little boat of yours - so painstakingly assembled - might spring a leak.

Time after time, as a lowly D/C, he’d been astonished at how quickly a good defence barrister could demolish a case in court. A single flaw in the evidence, the merest hint of contradictory statements, the tiniest procedural oversight buried in the CPS file, could - within minutes - swing a jury against a stone-bonker case.

A stone-bonker case carried the virtual guarantee of a Guilty verdict. To anyone with half a brain it would be obvious where the blame lay.
Melody
was a brilliant example of a stone-bonker but the squad had struggled from the start with assembling lawyer-proof evidence.