No Lovelier Death (25 page)

Before they’d left the bedroom the same D/C had spotted the end of a Pompey scarf hanging from a drawer. Inside the drawer he’d found an assortment of socks and underwear, none of it female, and checks in the nearby bathroom had revealed a can of shaving cream and a couple of knackered razors in the bin beneath the sink. Faraday had made a mental note to revisit some of the interviewees who’d noticed Jax Bonner at the party house. Maybe she’d come with company, he’d thought. And maybe that someone had taken the footage on the stairs. He remembered the paleness of the girl’s face turning to the camera, and the smear of spittle from her flickering tongue. Maybe she’d known this person. Maybe she even lived with him. Maybe they’d planned the evening together - a raid on enemy territory, a chance to settle her brother’s debts. And maybe that payback had extended to Rachel Ault.

Now, ducking into the garden in search of mint for the potatoes, Faraday wondered where a full SOC search might take them. He’d left a uniform outside the property overnight and Jerry Proctor’s boys would be making a start first thing. They might find ID for Bonner’s flatmate. If not, then DNA from the razors or maybe a toothbrush might give them a hit a week or so down the line. Either way, two names would double their chances of pushing
Mandolin
towards an early result.

He smiled, reminded suddenly of the impending weekend. J-J, he thought, and the chance for a day or so of decent birding. There were reports on one of the RSPB sites of a marsh harrier on the Isle of Wight. All three of them could take the ferry across to Ryde and explore the wetlands south of Bembridge Harbour. They could have dinner afterwards at a favourite pub in Seaview. Maybe even stay over, take a couple of rooms for the night, make a proper break of it. Warmed by the thought, he plucked another sprig of mint and headed back towards the kitchen. As he did so, he became aware of approaching headlights in the cul-de-sac that led to the Bargemaster’s House. A taxi stopped, and two figures got out. One of them was the driver. The other, slighter, seemed to be limping.

Faraday watched for a second or two then stepped round the side of the house to meet them before they got to the front door. In the spill of the streetlights Gabrielle’s upturned face was caked with blood.

‘Been in the wars, mate.’ The driver had his arm locked beneath hers. ‘I offered to take her to A & E but she wouldn’t hear of it.’

Faraday thanked him. He’d take over. He’d sort it. Gabrielle was whispering something. Faraday bent down to her.

‘Money,
chéri.
He needs money.’

‘You mean the fare?’

She nodded, closed her eyes.

‘Please …’ she said. ‘Just pay him.’

The driver said he’d picked her up in Cosham, on the mainland. He’d spotted her slumped in a bus shelter and had stopped to help. Faraday asked for a name and a phone number and waited while the driver fumbled for a card.

‘Thanks, mate.’ He was pocketing Faraday’s twenty-pound note.

‘I’d go to the police if I were you.’

The driver gone, Faraday walked Gabrielle slowly into the house and settled her on the sofa. One eye was swollen and a cut high on her cheek was still oozing blood, but the wounds looked superficial. When he asked whether she hurt anywhere else, she shook her head. He went to the bathroom and laced a bowl of hot water with antiseptic. Then he returned to the sofa and knelt on the carpet, gently swabbing her battered face with a flannel. Only when she asked for something to drink did he put the obvious question.

‘What happened?’

She shook her head. Her eyes were still closed.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘
Rien du tout.
’

‘Please … just tell me.’

‘I can’t.’

‘
Can’t?
’

‘It’s impossible, Joe. Sometimes it’s like this. Not so easy.’ She winced at the sting of the antiseptic. ‘Maybe I asked for it. Maybe it was my fault.
Tant pis.
’

‘Asked for what?’

‘Please, no.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe later, maybe tomorrow, not now.’

He made a pot of tea, checking on her through the open kitchen door. When he asked whether she’d eaten, whether she was hungry, she shook her head. She was exploring her mouth with her fingers. At length she asked for a mirror.

‘
Merde
.’ She scowled at her image, running her tongue over her teeth.

‘Some kind of mugging?’

‘
Non
.’

‘But you were robbed? And that’s why you had no money?’

‘I lost my purse.’

‘
Lost
it?’

She sipped at the tea, not answering. When Faraday tried again, more questions, she shook her head. She’d had enough. Her face hurt. Her head hurt. She wanted to go to bed.
Tant pis.

Too bad?
Faraday helped her upstairs. When he tried to undress her, she said she’d do it herself. She was shivering now, her skin cold to the touch. Faraday found a dressing gown and put his arms round her. She nestled her head against his chest then pushed him gently away. Leaving the room, he heard the sigh of the mattress as she got into bed.

Downstairs, back in the kitchen, he closed the door. He found the mains lead to her laptop in a pocket of the bag. He opened the laptop and then plugged it in.

WEDNESDAY, 15 AUGUST 2007
. 10.13

Winter found Mackenzie in his private quarters at the Royal Trafalgar Hotel. Until recently he’d occupied a single ground-floor office on a sunny corner of the building, but his growing empire had demanded more space and so he’d moved upstairs to a suite of rooms with a near-perfect view of the Isle of Wight. With a nod to his days in the 6.57, Mackenzie had dubbed the previous office the Fratton End. His new corporate headquarters, infinitely smarter, had become the Steve Claridge Suite.

Winter sat in front of the desk, waiting for Mackenzie to come off the phone. A huge blow-up of the veteran Pompey striker dominated the office. The photographer had caught him in a crowded penalty area, about to pivot on one leg and lash the ball into the net. Winter knew very little about football but recognised at once why Steve Claridge belonged here. The socks hanging down round his ankles. The muddy knees. The wreck of a haircut. Like Bazza himself, Claridge depended on other people not taking him seriously. Underestimate this man, Winter thought vaguely, and like so many Premiership defenders you’d be sitting on your arse listening to the roar of the Pompey crowd.

‘Well, mush? Did you find her?’ Bazza appeared to have forgotten about Marie’s knife.

Winter assumed they were talking about Jax Bonner. He shook his head. After Suttle’s departure last night he’d driven up to Merrivale Road.

‘She’s gone to ground, Baz. She’s got a flat up in North End but the Old Bill were sitting on it last night, marked car across the road, so that tells me they’re not expecting her back.’

‘And why would they be interested?’

Winter told him about the footage on Facebook. The girl acting as administrator on the site had now removed the pictures of Jax slashing the pictures but they’d been up there for most of yesterday, time enough for even his ex-colleagues to log on.

‘She’s in the frame then?’

‘Definitely. I know fuck all about her background but I gather the flat belongs to her brother. Does the name Scott Giles ring any bells?’

Bazza shook his head. Winter knew at once he was lying. The denial was too quick, a reflex action, almost a twitch.

‘Young guy? Early twenties? Recently made a name for himself in the cocaine biz?’

‘Pass.’

‘You’re sure about this? Only a couple of ex-informants I’ve been talking to this morning say the boy Giles had a serious run-in with Danny Cooper. Same market, same clients, same turf. There wasn’t ever going to be room for the two of them so young Danny decided it was time to tidy the place up.’

‘He did?’ Mackenzie was watching Winter carefully. ‘And how might he have done that?’

‘I’ve no idea, Baz. All I’ve got is rumour. Street talk. You know what it’s like around drugs. You can’t trust any of these lowlife animals.’

‘So what did they tell you?’

‘They told me Danny laid hands on a decent stash of charlie, bulked it out with all kinds of shit, wrapped it up in cling film, and parked it in one of Giles’s lock-ups. There’s some other stuff about a sandwich Giles bought from a corner store up in North End. That was wrapped in cling film as well. It seems the sandwich cling film ended up round half a kilo of cocaine with Giles’s prints all over it. They even rescued the remains of the sandwich from the bin where Giles had left it. That was in the garage too. Prints from the cling film. DNA from the sandwich. Bingo.’

‘Clever.’

‘Extremely.’

‘And kosher, do you think?’

‘Could easily be. Think about it, Baz. What would you need? Some scrote to follow Giles around, clock the way he spends his days, find out where he buys his lunch. This guy’s busy. He’s on the move. He’s buying and selling gear. He’s renting out lock-ups. He snacks on the move. He chomps on the sandwich, eats the best bits, dumps the rest. You wait till he’s gone, then go to the bin and help yourself. Wear gloves and you’re home safe. Writes itself, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah?’ Mackenzie was looking thoughtful. ‘This Giles kid went down, didn’t he? I remember the case now. Five years.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And he’s definitely this girl’s brother?’

‘That’s what I’m told. And they were tight too. Still are. Giles is in Albany. She’s been going across to visit on the ferry every week. Set your clock by it.’

Albany was a Category A prison on the Isle of Wight. Mackenzie wanted to know why brother and sister had different surnames.

‘No idea.’

‘So what are we saying?’

‘We’re playing the copper, Baz. We’re wondering about motivation.

About opportunity. About MO. We’re looking hard at Jax Bonner and we find she’s half in love with a brother who’s been sent down on dodgy evidence. She knows it’s dodgy because her brother’s told her so and she trusts her brother. She’s a bit of a headcase and so now she’s looking for someone to blame. She doesn’t think the judge played a blinder at the trial and, who knows, she might be right. She has a bit of a think about it and then one day she hears about a party. She knows fuck all about Craneswater but she doesn’t need to. All she needs is a name. And guess what … ?’

‘Ault.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Shit. You think she did it? You think she did them both? With that knife? From my fucking kitchen?’

‘No idea, Baz. But a year ago there’s no way I wouldn’t have wanted a long conversation.’

‘So that’s where they’re heading? The Filth?’

‘Absolutely no question.’ He paused. ‘You think we might have a problem with that?’

 

Jimmy Suttle didn’t arrive at Major Crime until lunchtime. The Scott Giles bust had come out of the Serious Organised Crime Squad based at Havant, and Suttle had spent half the morning at Havant nick going through the CPS file with a D/C who’d worked on the case.

Operation
Fiddler
, he told Suttle, had been a pain in the arse. For one thing everyone was a bit puzzled why Giles should have earned himself so much investigative resource. It seemed the lad had done OK from the narco-biz but more and more of his profits were coming from the lock-ups, and that appeared to be a totally legit operation. Indeed, in the eyes of many social workers Giles was a textbook example of a bad apple hauling himself out of the shit. So why bother spoiling that little aspirational fairy tale?

‘Good question.’ Faraday had invited Suttle into his office. ‘So what’s the answer?’

‘No one seems to know, boss. To be fair, there was a big question mark about exactly how much weight the bloke had been shifting when he was at it full throttle, but there they had a problem too. Largely because everyone was clueless. My guy had a couple of informants who swore blind he was only playing at it. There was another D/C who had different information. He said Giles was bidding for the big time. In the end
Fiddler
ran with him.’

‘So what made the difference?’

‘Partly it’s covering your arse. Someone says Giles is a major player, you can’t afford to ignore it. But then they sorted out some surveillance and it turned out he was a busy little fucker. They laid hands on a deals list and it seemed to be kosher. Giles made regular calls. Often in the nicer parts of town.’

‘Where did the list come from?’

‘Another tyro. Danny Cooper.’

‘Danny Cooper’s one of Bazza’s boys. He’s supposed to have his eye on the crown jewels.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And he’d know about these clients because Giles might have nicked them off him?’

‘Sure, boss. Or vice versa. Put Giles away, and Cooper’s got a clear run. Takeover time. Those clients become his clients. Isn’t that the way it works?’

Faraday wanted to get back to the trial. What was the consensus on the strength of the CPS file?

‘Dodgy. In fact weak. Half the squad thought there was no point submitting it in the first place.’

‘Why?’

‘Giles must have heard a whisper. Either that or he’d genuinely binned the drugs biz. They boshed his flat, his motor, all his lock-ups. Nothing.’

‘Apart from half a kilo of cocaine.’

‘Exactly. But that was the following week when Giles was out of town. He’d just taken himself off to Spain for a little holiday. Next thing
Fiddler
’s getting word about a stash of charlie in this particular lock-up. It’s a stand-alone place up in Copnor, not even on an industrial estate, and of all his properties it’s the only one without any kind of CCTV. Naturally the guys arrive to do the lock-up but there’s another funny thing …’

‘What?’

‘It’s wide open already. Someone’s been at it. Clumsy too. Crowbar job. The source says they’ve got to look under a pile of stuff at the back, nothing too difficult, and guess what? Half a kilo of charlie with bits of Scott Giles all over it. Not just that, but half a sandwich nearby. Tuna salad, if you want the detail. They trace the sandwich to a little shop in North End, seize the CCTV, send the sandwich off for profiling, and bingo … Giles’s face on the CCTV tapes, Giles’s DNA all over the sandwich. Two strikes, and the guy’s got a big problem. They arrested him at Gatwick on his way back from his hols. He hasn’t been a free man since.’