No Lovelier Death (23 page)

A sizeable stash of cocaine, he said, had been found in one of his empty lock-ups. Throughout the trial Scott had insisted on his innocence. He’d never bought the stuff, never left it there, disputed every item of evidence in the prosecution case. Many present at the trial - lawyers, journalists - had agreed with him. But then came the judge’s summing-up and after that the jury’s verdict was a formality.

‘And the judge was … ?’ Suttle sat back, realising at last where this story had been heading.

‘Peter fucking Ault.’ Paul nodded. ‘You guessed right.’

 

Suttle was returning to Major Crime when he took the call from Lizzie Hodson. Rush-hour traffic on the M27 had come to a halt.

‘You said to call you if Winter got in touch.’

‘And?’

‘He phoned this afternoon.’

‘About what?’

‘This and that.’ She broke off a moment then came back to the phone. ‘He left his number too, in case you’d forgotten. You two guys ought to get together, compare notes.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘In the interests of justice, Jimmy.’ She was laughing now. ‘And that new job you told me about.’

‘And you? Why are you being so bloody helpful?’

‘Because I’m a nosy soul, Jimmy. I’m afraid it goes with the territory. ’

 

Back at the Major Crime suite Suttle found Faraday at his desk. He was on the phone. He was laughing. He waved Suttle into the spare chair.

‘Tell him any time. Tell him the house is his.’ He listened for a second or two, the smile even wider. ‘Absolutely no problem, the sooner the better.
Et toi aussi
.’

He put the phone down. His son, J-J, was coming down from London. He fancied a weekend by the sea. He had one or two friends he might catch up with. He’d bring his camera and a big telephoto for a day out on the marshes.

‘But I thought he was deaf?’ Suttle nodded at the phone.

‘He is but he talks to Gabrielle by email. They’ve got a big thing going. They chatter away most weeks and she keeps me
au fait
. Like now.’ Faraday was inspecting the calendar on his desk. ‘She’s talking about the coming weekend. We need to get this thing sorted by then. Think you can manage that?’ He looked up at Suttle.

‘No problem, boss.’ Faraday in this mood was becoming a rarity.

‘You want some more good news?’

He told Faraday about Jax Bonner and her brother. Slashing the pictures, in the view of the support worker he’d talked to, was absolutely her MO: dramatic, vicious and very, very public.

‘This girl’s in your face,’ he said. ‘Show her a book of rules and she’ll break the lot. Do her a favour and she’ll screw you over. Be around her for any length of time and she’ll drive you mad. Why? Because she hates the world. That’s him talking, not me.’

‘Do we know where to find her?’

‘He thinks she’s been living with her brother for a while. That’s before he went inside. He’s got a flat in North End somewhere. She might still be there.’

Faraday nodded.

‘You’ve checked on PNC?’

‘Haven’t had a chance, boss.’

‘You want to do that now?’

‘Sure.’

A handful of computers on Major Crime were security-cleared for checks on the Police National Computer. Suttle’s was one of them. He was back within a couple of minutes. He had an address for Scott Giles: 91 Merrivale Road.

‘When did he go down?’

‘June fifteenth.’

‘That’s this year?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do we know whether the place was rented? Or did he own it?’

‘I think he owned it. According to the guy I talked to, he was good with money. Made a stack of investments.’

‘And you’re telling me the girl’s been living there?’

‘That’s what the guy from the project thinks. He says she went to a kids’ home after the foster parents gave up. Then she got a spell in a Young Offenders’ Institute. Then she went to live at her brother’s place. They were still very close. Apparently he used to go and see her in the YOI and his was the address she put down on the release form. This would have been last year.’

‘So she could be still there? In her brother’s flat?’

‘Easily. The other thing he told me was about the business the brother ran. Apparently she helped with the lock-ups and the garages. ’

‘Keeping it in the family?’

‘Exactly. And it might still be giving her a living too.’ He paused.

‘You want to bosh the place? Only we’ll need a warrant.’

‘That’s got to be Parsons’ decision.’ Faraday was looking for Merrivale Road on the big wall map. ‘First off we need to find this bloody girl.’

Suttle disappeared to the Incident Room to organise a couple of D/Cs. No way would Jax Bonner volunteer as a witness but the Facebook footage gave ample grounds for an arrest for criminal damage. When D/S Glen Thatcher mentioned risk assessment, Suttle found himself pausing for thought.

‘She’s a headcase,’ he said at last. ‘And she may have done Rachel Ault.’

‘Stabproofs, then? Is that what we’re saying?’

‘Yeah.’ Suttle nodded. ‘For sure.’

 

Faraday’s call found DCI Parsons on the M27, heading for Winchester. Yet another conference with Willard, he thought.

‘Good news, boss. We’re looking at our first arrest.’

He told her about Jax Bonner. When Parsons came back to him, he detected a quickening in her voice. As far as Willard was concerned, he sensed she played the terrier in his life. If so, she at last had something to lay at his feet.

Faraday wanted to know about 91 Merrivale Road. If the girl wasn’t there, what did Parsons want to do?

‘Get a warrant sworn,’ she said at once. ‘Get Scenes of Crime in there. We’re looking for stuff from Saturday night, clothing especially. I’ll be back later.’

The line went dead. Suttle was at Faraday’s open door.

‘You want me on this thing as well, boss? Only I could use a couple of hours.’

‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘If we nick her, I’ll want you in the interview suite but that won’t happen for a while.’ He glanced up. ‘Anyone special?’

‘No, boss.’ He shook his head. ‘Just a mate from way back.’

TUESDAY, 14 AUGUST 2007
. 19.35

Winter took the call en route to the pub. He’d just stepped out of Blake House and paused on the Gunwharf harbour front while he dealt with his employer. He’d been counting the minutes since he’d left Marie at Sandown Road. The only surprise was that it had taken Baz so long to pick up the phone.

‘She told you about that knife that’s gone walkabout?’

‘Yeah, Baz, she did.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think she’s right.’

‘Right to tell you?’

‘Right that you might have a problem.’

‘You? What’s this
you
?’

‘We, Baz. I meant we.’

‘Fine. So what do
we
do about it?’

It was an excellent question, to which Winter had been devoting a great deal of thought.

‘A year ago it would have been simple,’ he said at last. ‘Someone was in your kitchen. Maybe more than one. We need to know who and we need to know why. Marie seems to think Rachel was in there and she might well be right, but we need to be sure. A year ago I could have pulled all kinds of stunts. We’re talking forensics, Baz. Databases. All that shit.’

‘Great, mush. But you’re not Filth any more.’

‘You’re right, Baz.’ Winter grinned, checking his watch. ‘But just leave it to me, eh?’

 

The Cardigan was Winter’s choice, and on the phone that afternoon Suttle knew at once that he’d been sending a message. The pub lay in Old Portsmouth, a stone’s throw from the cathedral. It served decent beer, ample meals, and among the regulars standing at the bar Suttle anticipated a number of faces who’d be on speaking terms with Bazza Mackenzie. The Cardigan had always been Winter’s turf, Winter’s local.

The moment Suttle stepped in through the door, fifteen minutes late, he sensed something had changed. Gone was the fug of cigarette smoke, the tight buzz of conversation, the beery eyes, the stabbing fingers. Two elderly men were watching snooker on television. A third was deep in a crossword puzzle while the girl behind the bar was painting her nails. Tuesday night, he thought.

Winter was at a table at the other end of the bar. He’d got as far as page two of the
Daily Telegraph
and the glass at his elbow was nearly empty.

‘Stella, son.’ He didn’t look up.

Suttle fetched the drinks. Winter folded the paper, drained the last of his pint and made space on the table for the next one.

‘They know you’re meeting me?’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Unofficial then. Our little secret, eh? Cheers, son. Here’s to that new job of yours. It’s in the bag. I kid you not.’

Suttle ignored him. In these moods - matey, cheerful, seemingly artless - Winter was at his most dangerous.

‘Something tells me I should be warning you about perverting the course of justice.’ Suttle reached for his drink. ‘Or would I be wasting my time?’

‘Me?’ Winter looked pained. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Because you’re poking around. Because you’re doing what we’re paid to do.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because two of our blokes met you outside Berriman’s place in Margate Road. And because you refuse to mind your own bloody business.’

Winter looked amused. Then hurt.

‘My boss has just found two bodies beside his swimming pool. A bunch of arsehole kids have given his neighbourhood a bad name. He thinks that
is
his own bloody business. So that makes it mine, doesn’t it?’

‘No.’ Suttle shook his head. ‘It’s our business. And a year ago you’d have been saying exactly the same thing. It’s what you do, mate. It’s called behaving yourself.’

‘Are you warning me off? Is that why we’re sitting here? Only it was you who made the call, remember. Not me.’

Suttle said nothing. Already the last year seemed to have vanished. Within minutes he’d become a D/C again, sitting at Winter’s feet. That was the man’s talent, his special gift. He could turn you inside out and you’d still be sitting there, enjoying his company.

He changed the subject. ‘How is it, then? This new life of yours?’

‘Very agreeable, son. If you want the truth, I was a bit bothered to begin with. Looking after a bunch of pensioners in Spain wasn’t what I signed up to. But that’s gone now, thank fuck.’

Suttle nodded. He wanted to know more. Winter told him about the Playa Esmeralda, Marie’s pet project, and about the canny way she’d dressed the job up. He’d flown out there as Director of Security and ended up running poolside games of bingo.

‘What about Mackenzie in all of this?’

‘He’s forever moving on. The man bores easily. He’s got the attention span of a gnat. The minute something’s in place, he’s thinking about his next little adventure. This is all legit, believe me. It might sound dodgy because everything’s got his name all over it but in the end it’s just money. He’s become a businessman, son. And as long as everything’s cushty, he’s sweetness and light.’

‘So what’s your job?’

‘To keep him that way.’

‘Sweetness and light?’

‘Too right.’ Winter swallowed a mouthful of lager. ‘And so far, once I’d binned all that Spanish nonsense, it’s been a doddle. Nice motor. Good money. No one giving me grief about my RIPA forms. Like I say, peachy.’

‘Until Saturday night.’

‘Spot on. And you know why? Because for once dear old Baz does the right thing. He plays the white man. He does the good neighbour thing. He wades in there and does his best to sort these animals out, and you know what he gets for his troubles? A crack over the head with a bottle of Scotch and a bunch of adolescent tossers trying to put him in hospital. You’ve come across the boy Berriman? The lad who swims a bit? Bazza owes him. Big time.’

‘So I gather.’

‘You met him? Berriman?’ Suttle nodded. ‘So what’s the story? What do you make of the boy?’

This was dangerous territory, and Suttle knew it. He hadn’t come here to mark Winter’s card. He glanced over his shoulder. The old guys watching television had gone. The pub was virtually empty.

‘I’m way out of line even being here …’ he began. ‘You’d know that.’

‘Unless they’ve sent you.’

‘They haven’t. Sure as fuck they haven’t. And if they knew, I’d be busted back to D/C. Maybe even uniform.’

Winter winced at the thought. He’d never bothered to hide his contempt for the woollies, one of the reasons no one in uniform had bothered to turn up at his leaving do.

‘Then why make the call?’ he asked. ‘Why stick your neck out?’

‘You want the truth?’

‘Go on.’

‘Because I’d be mad not to. We’re calling this operation
Mandolin.

I’m driving the Intel Cell. You know how intel works. The best stuff often comes off the streets. So I should be out there, running down a few contacts, asking the odd favour, applying a bit of pressure. And that should put me alongside people like you.’

‘You think I’m some kind of grass?’ Winter sounded genuinely shocked. ‘You want to stick me on PIMS? Bung me a few quid for my trouble?’

PIMS was a system for registering informants, yet another layer of bureaucracy to make thief-taking harder. Winter, a D/C who’d relied on an army of informants, had always loathed it.

It was Suttle’s turn to grin. The thought of running Winter as a paid grass was delicious.

Winter hadn’t finished. He beckoned Suttle closer. ‘There’s something we need to talk about, you and me.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You know what really happened last year? When you lot were running round after that minister got himself shot?’

Suttle shook his head, thrown by this sudden change of direction. The Goldsmith Avenue killing had stretched Major Crime to the limit. At the time he’d been working with Faraday on another murder, the killing of a property developer in Port Solent, and he’d ended up finding the key piece of evidence that had scored a result on both jobs.