No Lovelier Death (11 page)

‘What about PCs? Laptops?’ Willard again.

‘As far as we know, there were two in the house but they were both upstairs so we’ve yet to get there. Ault’s got a PC. The girl, Rachel, had a laptop.’

‘And you think they’re still there?’

‘No idea, sir. The laptop’s probably gone. Along with a load of other stuff. It’s impossible to say until the Aults get back.’

The meet went on. When Parsons asked Faraday for a summary of progress on the interviews, he did his best to simplify the worst of the complications.

The partygoers, by and large, were extremely reluctant to offer any kind of worthwhile account of exactly what had happened. Some of them, he suspected, had been so bombed that they simply couldn’t remember. Others, especially friends of Rachel, were clearly frightened. They’d seen what some of the more violent kids could do and the last thing they intended to offer was themselves as a target for reprisals.

A third category - the majority, to be frank - were saying absolutely nothing. They’d stolen into Craneswater under cover of the gathering darkness, necked or nicked everything they could lay their hands on, and generally had a fine old time. When challenged about invitations they’d simply mumbled about a general invite, a form of words that seemed to have more to do with Facebook than trespass. The whole fucking city knew about the rave in Sandown Road, they seemed to be saying. So we just turned up.

Faraday glanced down at his notes. His suspects’ list now numbered seventeen. These youths, mainly male, mainly white, would be subject to further interview this evening. In the absence of forensic evidence or incrimination from another source, they’d be released on police bail by midnight. Tomorrow, he anticipated a start on comparing ninety-four witness statements, no matter how brief. In conjunction with the emerging picture from Scenes of Crime, plus developments on the intelligence front, he’d hope for some kind of solid timeline within a few days.

‘One other thing, boss.’ He was looking at Gail Parsons. ‘We re-interviewed Rachel’s best friend this afternoon. If we’re looking for motive, the lad Berriman definitely has some questions to answer.’

Briefly, he outlined the relationship that Rachel had so recently broken off. Gareth Hughes had taken Matt Berriman’s place. And Berriman had been less than pleased.

A hand went up at the back of the room. It was one of the D/Cs who’d seized Berriman’s laptop at Margate Road. He was looking at Faraday.

‘One thing I forgot to mention, boss. Guess who we met coming out of Berriman’s place?’

‘Who?’

‘Paul Winter.’

 

It took a while for Winter to pin down an address for the dead boyfriend. The Pompey phone book had dozens of entries under ‘Hughes’ so he put a call in to a contact on the
News.
Lizzie Hodson was a mate of Jimmy Suttle’s. Winter had met her himself on a couple of occasions and he knew she was intrigued by what had taken an ageing cop to a new career on the Dark Side. In return for the promise of a drink and a chat later in the week, she agreed to make a few enquiries and call him back.

His phone was ringing within minutes. Hughes, it turned out, had lived with his family on Hayling Island. Winter, impressed with this speedy bit of research, asked how she knew.

‘Jimmy told me,’ she said.

‘Did you mention my name at all?’

‘Of course not.’

Hayling Island was on the other side of Langstone Harbour, an area of land the size of Portsmouth. Flat, featureless and ribboned with rows of neat little retirement bungalows, it had always struck Winter as an invitation to an early death, but towards the south of the island there were avenues of more substantial properties, expensively alarmed against predators from across the water.

Orchard Lodge, Sinah Lane, lay behind a thick laurel hedge. From the Lexus, with the window down, Winter could hear the
tick-tick
of a water sprinkler. More faintly came a surge of applause from some kind of crowd.

Pushing in through the big double gates, he braced himself against the attentions of a black Labrador. The dog was young, still a puppy, and it danced round Winter’s feet as he made his way to the front door. The house looked pre-war, solidly built, with half an acre of so of encircling garden. Most of the garden was lawn, newly mown. Winter knocked again, watching the arching throw of water as the sprinkler ticked round.

‘Can I help you?’

The voice came from an upstairs window. Winter shaded his eyes against the last of the sunshine. The woman seemed in no hurry to open the door.

‘It’s about Gareth …’ he began.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name’s Winter. Paul Winter.’

‘Are you a journalist’

‘No.’

‘Then why are you here?’

It was a good question. Winter was still coming up with the answer when the front door opened. A man this time, overweight, middle-aged, in jeans and a faded pink T-shirt.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Winter caught the scent of alcohol on his breath. His eyes were filmy. ‘Don’t think we’ve had enough for one day?’

‘I’m sorry. Bad time.’

‘It bloody well is. So what do you want?’

Winter produced an iPod and held it out. The man stared at it a moment. When nothing registered, Winter turned it over. On the back, two smiley cartoon faces carefully drawn in blue pentel.

‘That belongs to Gareth. Where on earth did you get it?’

‘It came from a good friend of mine. Marie Mackenzie. She gave Gareth and Rachel a lift to the station a couple of days ago. Gareth left it in her car.’

‘Mackenzie?’ The name had rung a bell. ‘Next door to the Aults, you mean? The house with the pool?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you say he’s a friend of yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK then. I suppose you’d better come in.’

Winter stepped into the cool of the house. Beyond the gleaming expanse of parquet flooring in the hall lay the living room. England were batting on the big wall-mounted plasma screen and Winter watched as the batsman stroked the ball towards the distant boundary. More applause.

‘You must be Mr Hughes.’ Winter glanced across at him.

‘That’s me.’ He was pouring himself another glass of wine. ‘Gareth’s dad.’

He picked up the iPod, staring at the faces again, then turned round. He had his son’s complexion, his son’s freckles, though his pale skin was blotched with alcohol.

‘This has been a nightmare. I’m sorry to be blunt but we’ve pretty much had it with the press people. You know something? They never leave you alone. TV are the worst. Think they own the bloody world.’

They’d had crews down from London, he said. They’d camped out in the road, put up the satellite dishes, then phoned through on their mobiles, pleading for an interview. At first he’d told them to bugger off, wanted nothing to do with them, but then his wife had pointed out the nuisance to the neighbours. Give them what they want, she’d said. And then they’ll leave us all in peace.

‘And did they?’

‘Yes. But then more arrived, press people as well. No bloody manners, any of them, and no bloody imagination either. Just the same old question. How did we feel? How do you bloody
think
we feel?’ He swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘I kid you not, total nightmare.’

Winter sympathised. He’d had dealings with the media himself, often. Tact wasn’t their middle name.

‘
Tact?
’ The word triggered a fresh outburst. ‘These people wouldn’t know the meaning of the bloody word. All they want is grief. It’s not even news. Just some poor bloody woman sobbing her heart out.’

‘That would be me … ?’

Neither Winter nor Hughes had heard her come down the stairs. She stood barefoot on the carpet. She was wearing a silk dressing gown and her hair was wet from the shower. She looked vague, Winter thought, a stranger in her own house.

‘Mrs Hughes?’

‘Yes.’

Winter apologised again for the intrusion and said he was sorry about Gareth. He’d come to return the iPod and offer condolences from the Mackenzies. Mr Mackenzie, he said, had been the one grown-up to try and do something about the madness next door. He’d got injured in the process, quite badly injured, but at least he’d had a go.

‘I didn’t know that.’ Her voice was low, emptied of all passion. ‘I thought the police … .’

‘They intervened later. By then it was too late.’

‘I see.’

She asked Winter to sit down. She wanted to know more. Her husband had turned away, once more refilling his glass and then staring up at the cricket. Grief, thought Winter, walls you off. He’d seen it countless times.

‘Tell me about the party.’ She settled in the armchair across from the sofa. ‘Tell me what you know.’

Winter obliged. A conversation with Bazza had given him a picture of the state of the Aults’ place and the rest wasn’t hard to make up. An invasion of kids from the other side of the tracks. Too much booze. Too many drugs. Things get out of hand. The script, he said, writes itself.

‘Except that two young people died.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Not died, Helen. They got themselves
killed.
There’s a difference.’ It was Hughes. He was still watching the Test match. The way he put it sparked anger in his wife’s face.

‘You make it sound like it was their fault,’ she said.

‘Well it was, in a way.’

She looked up at him in disbelief. Booze, thought Winter. And anger. And loss. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just run out of things to say.

Hughes turned round at last, and reached down for the bottle. He was looking at Winter, his face beaded with sweat.

‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘Tell me the world hasn’t gone crazy.

Tell me it’s not a jungle out there. Tell me …’ he frowned, staring down at his glass, fighting to control himself ‘… that bloody boy of mine will be home tonight.’

He began to sob, his whole body shaking. When his wife got up and stepped across, he tried to shield himself, fending her off. She put her arm around him and led him away. Winter heard their footsteps on the stairs, the soft murmur of her voice, then the sound of a door closing. His glass had dripped red wine across the carpet. Winter was still watching the cricket when she returned.

She sat down, saying nothing, staring at the window. The silence between them thickened. Finally, Winter said he ought to leave her in peace.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’

At length she got up and fetched a wine glass from the drinks cabinet in the corner. Winter, assuming she needed a drink, reached for the bottle.

‘This is for you.’ She gave him the glass. ‘You knew Gareth?’

‘Never had the pleasure, Mrs Hughes.’

‘But Rachel? You knew her?’ She seemed glad of someone to talk to.

‘A bit.’ Winter emptied the bottle. ‘This relationship of theirs. Quite recent, wasn’t it?’

‘Very.’

‘Had he known her before?’

‘Not really. They were in the same year, at the same school, so they weren’t
total
strangers, but to be honest I think the whole thing took Gareth a bit by surprise. Not that he didn’t … you know … fancy her. Anyone would. She was attractive. She was bright. She was a wonderful girl. But I don’t think he ever quite worked out why she’d picked him.’

‘Picked?’

‘Yes.’ She reached for the remote and switched off the TV. ‘I get the impression she made all the running.’

Rachel, she said, had been in another relationship for years. Friends of Gareth’s regarded her as practically married. Then suddenly there she was, turning up with Gareth for Sunday lunch, a neat little pile of roast lamb pushed to the side of her plate.

‘A vegetarian?’

‘Definitely. And a girl who knew exactly what else she wanted in life. I think Gareth was a bit bewildered to begin with. He didn’t know quite what to make of her. His father just told him to enjoy himself.’

‘While it lasted?’

‘Exactly. His exact words.’

There was a stir of movement overhead, then silence. Winter wondered how long he’d got.

‘They were keen on each other then? Rachel and your boy?’

‘Very. I know Gareth. He was quite a shy lad. In a way she overwhelmed him. I suppose I should have worried but I didn’t. I was probably wrong but I think he needed a bit of that in his life.’

‘A bit of what, Mrs Hughes?’

‘A bit of oomph. A bit of adventure. A bit of passion. Don’t get me wrong. He was a lovely boy. He was kind. He was sensible. He had nice friends. He worked really hard. But looking back I don’t think he ever took risks.’

‘And Rachel was a risk?’

‘Yes. Because Rachel is the kind of girl you’d fall in love with. And Gareth had never risked that in his life.’

‘You mentioned someone else. A previous boyfriend.’

‘Of Rachel’s, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘His name was Matt.’

‘Did Gareth ever talk about him at all?’

‘A couple of times.’

‘In what context?’

‘Just things that Rachel had said. How different Gareth was to her last boyfriend. How simple life could be.’

‘Did they ever meet? Gareth and Matt?’

‘Not to my knowledge. The last week or so, to be honest, we barely saw anything of Gareth.’

‘How come?’

‘He’d moved in with Rachel.’

‘At the Aults’ house?’

‘Yes. They made no secret of it. In fact Terry and I were glad he was able to keep an eye on her. I imagine it would have suited the Aults too, Gareth and Rachel keeping the house in one piece.’ She offered Winter a bleak smile. ‘Bit of a joke really, isn’t it? Under the circumstances …’

Winter, for the second time, said he was sorry. Incidents like this were kicking off all over the country. It was like a germ, spreading from city to city. Today Pompey. Tomorrow the world.