One Under (21 page)

‘Yeah?’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘I don’t remember anything. He might have said it, might not, but what difference does it make? He didn’t have a uniform on. Any cunt can say he’s a policeman. It means fuck all.’

Yates was stirring again. He wanted to get this over, Faraday thought. He wants to dispense with the questions, with the lies, with this whole unfolding pantomime. He wants to lean across, grab Ewart by the throat and batter him senseless.

The interview went on. When Ellis mentioned the two uniforms who had appeared in the back garden, he said he hadn’t seen them. By that time, he insisted, Suttle was trying to attack him and he’d simply been defending himself. Stabbing the bloke had been a reflex, blind panic, him or me, nothing else. Of course he was sorry about what happened, anyone would be, but it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t started it.

There was a long silence. Yates stirred.

‘So that’s it then? Self-defence?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’d no idea this bloke was a copper?’

‘No.’

‘Even though he told you he was, identified himself?’

Ewart shrugged then smothered a yawn. At length, Ellis changed tack.

‘There’s a girl called Emma Cusden. She lives in Somerstown. She’s got a flat in a block called Hermiston House. We understand you know her.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Social Services. One of their people came round to see you.’

‘Yeah? What of it?’

‘This person wanted to talk to you about young Cher. Your daughter.’

‘Yeah?’

‘She
is
your daughter?’

Ewart held her gaze for a moment, then looked sideways at Michelle. The solicitor murmured something in his ear.

‘That’s right,’ he agreed at last. ‘She’s my little girl.’

‘And you’re round there a lot, at Emma’s place?’

‘A bit.’

‘A bit then.’

‘Yeah.’

Ellis glanced across at Yates. Yates produced a copy of Givens’ bank statement, went through the transactions one by one, piling up the season tickets until the account was nearly empty.

‘That’s over eight grand,’ he said. ‘On someone else’s debit card. Most juries would call that theft.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘All those tickets went to Emma’s address. Someone was picking them up to flog on. And now, guess what, we find a couple in your place. In the name of Givens. With your prints all over them. We’ve also found nearly fifteen hundred quid in notes. How do you account for all that? When you’re supposed to be so skint?’

‘It’s not mine. It’s got fuck all to do with me.’

‘Someone else’s, then?’

‘Yeah, must be.’

‘One of your flatmates?’

‘Dunno.’

‘They say not.’

‘Surprise, surprise.’

‘You’re telling me they’re lying?’

Ewart was picking his fingers again. When Yates put the question a second time, he simply shrugged.

‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

Ellis muttered something in Yates’ ear. Yates ignored her. Watching, Faraday was aware that this interview was going far too fast. The challenge phase, finger-pointing, should come later, once Ewart had been given the chance to make his case.

Yates didn’t take his eyes off Ewart.

‘We’ve got guys in your flat are gonna tear the place apart,’ he said at length. ‘What happens when they find Givens’ debit card? With more of your prints? What will you say then?’

Again, Ewart had no answer. He looked helplessly at his solicitor. She began to protest that this was pure speculation, that no debit card had yet been found, but Yates was angrier than ever. He was leaning forward now, inches from Ewart’s face.

‘That card came from a bloke we can’t find,’ he said softly. ‘He’s just disappeared, vanished, gone. People don’t do that, Mr Ewart, not in the real world. Something has to happen to them. Someone has to take them out.’

Ewart was starting to put it together. ‘Fuck off, mate.’ He sounded indignant. ‘You think I did that?’

‘Did what?’

‘Rolled this bloke, whoever he is? Gave him a slapping?’

‘Yes.’ Yates nodded. ‘We do. In fact we think you killed him.’

‘
Killed
him? You have to be joking. You really think I’d do a thing like that?’

‘We know you would, Karl.’ It was Ellis. ‘We saw what you did to DC Suttle.’

Michelle was on her feet now. She wanted to bring this interview to an end. Her client had been arrested on suspicion of attempted murder and fraud. He was denying the fraud and claiming self-defence with respect to the stabbing. No way should these accusations extend to killing someone else. She reached down for Ewart’s arm but he shook her off. This was personal. Him and Yates. He sounded genuinely outraged.

‘Yeah, but … but that was different. I just told you … He came after me … I didn’t know him from fuck. Listen …
killed
him? This other bloke? You have to be out of your mind. What the fuck would I do with him for starters?’

‘You’d put him in that car of yours,’ Yates said. ‘Then you’d get rid of him. Only that would be a bit of a problem afterwards, wouldn’t it? All that blood in the boot? Other stuff we might find … ?’

He let the thought dangle a moment. Michelle, with some reluctance, had resumed her seat. When she leant towards Ewart and told him that he didn’t have to answer any of these questions, he dismissed her advice with a terse shake of the head. Faraday, watching, bent towards the screen. Michelle was right. There could be repercussions here. Without a formal caution over Givens’ disappearance, any admissions on Ewart’s part would be inadmissible in court.

‘The motor’s history,’ Ewart said at last. ‘Some fucker … ’

‘Some fucker what?’

‘Nicked it.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Yates was grinning at him now. ‘Not you then? Not you with half a gallon of four star and a box of matches?’

Ewart was in trouble, and he knew it.

‘Listen -’ He was beginning to sweat. ‘- This is well out of order. So yeah, I’m a bad boy. I do drugs. I get about a bit. I buy and sell. And yeah, you’re gonna do me for the copper. OK, fair play, but killing some bloke I’ve never heard of? You’re out of your head.’

‘What about the season tickets?’

Ewart stared at Yates, then his head went down again and he finally beckoned Michelle closer, whispering in her ear. She muttered something in return, then turned her attention back to the DCs across the table.

‘This is completely irregular,’ she said. ‘If you want to talk to my client about this so-called missing person, then you must caution him in that regard. Otherwise, I must insist that you limit this interview to the matter in hand.’ She stared at Yates, colour flooding into her face. Then she got up again. ‘I and my client would like a break. Can we all cope with that?’

 

Winter was pissed again. He’d taken a cab out to the Copnor pub that Tarrant had named for their get-together, and he’d swallowed a couple of Stellas and two whisky chasers by the time Tarrant finally turned up. Tarrant apologised for the delay. Mate of his on the phone. Long time no hear.

Now, nearly two hours later, Winter had abandoned any hope of making it to the bar. Instead, he pushed a ten-pound note towards Tarrant and told him to sort another round. Peanuts would be good too. Winter was famished.

Tarrant did his bidding. He was drinking halves of shandy, blaming a course of antibiotics he’d just started, but he’d been more than happy to listen to Winter’s account of what had happened down in Southsea and to sympathise. These days, he said, there were bits of the city you’d be mad to risk after dark. Even in broad daylight, like with Suttle, you could knock on the wrong door and find yourself looking at a knife.

‘But it wasn’t the wrong door, mate. It was the
right
fucking door. That’s the whole point. There was a time when it would all have been sweet. You do your homework, you box a guy off, he knows he’s potted, and there he is, fetching his coat, nice as pie. You know what that was about? Respect. Rules. That’s all gone though. Fucking history. Scrotes like Ewart are vermin. There’s nothing to them. They’d stick you as soon as look at you. And for what?
Season
tickets? For
Pompey
?’

‘I thought you said he was down for Givens too?’

‘I did, son.’ Winter reached for his brimming glass, and missed. ‘You’re right.’

‘So what’s the strength?’

‘One hundred fucking per cent. Has to be.’ Winter began to tally the counts against Ewart on his fingers. ‘Number one, he did the bloke’s bank account. Clean as a whistle. Number two, he’s been fencing all those tickets, stands to reason. Number three, he’s torched his own fucking car to bury the evidence. And number four … ’ He frowned, staring at his hand. ‘ … He’s a murdering cunt.’

‘How do you figure that, Mr W.?’

‘Because he’s just done Jimmy.’ He peered at Tarrant. ‘Haven’t you listened to a single fucking word I’ve said, son? Jimmy’s dead, or near on. Jimmy, my mate Jimmy. Name mean nothing to you?’ He gestured vaguely at the empty glasses on the table. ‘Or has your memory gone?’

Tarrant leaned forward, put his hand on Winter’s.

‘Mr W., Paul … I’m really, really sorry. I know him too. He used to come round the mortuary sometimes when we were doing the business. He’s a good lad - funny, made us all laugh. Listen. He’s in good hands. I know the blokes up at QA. If anyone’s going to sort him out, they will. Trust me. Believe me. He’ll pull through.’

Winter leaned into the table. He wanted desperately to believe this man. His spare hand closed over Tarrant’s.

‘No bullshit?’ His eyes were glassy. ‘You think Jimmy’ll make it?’

‘I know he will.’

‘You promise?’

‘Scout’s honour.’

‘You’re a good lad.’ He gave Tarrant’s hand a little squeeze. ‘A good mate. What’s that wife of yours think, me dragging you out like this?’

‘She wasn’t best pleased if you want the truth, Mr W.’

‘Call me Paul.’

‘Paul.’

‘Bit difficult is it? Young kids? All that broken sleep? Not enough … you know … action?’

Tarrant gazed at him a moment, then laughed.

‘Yeah. Spot on, Mr W. Action pretty much covers it. Maybe I should tell her that. More action. What do you think?’

‘Me? What do
I
think? I think you’re bloody lucky. She’s a looker, isn’t she? What’s her name?’

‘Rachel.’

‘Rachel.’ Winter was peering round, as if she might be sitting at a nearby table. ‘Rachel. You known her long, young Rachel?’

‘I’m married to her.’

‘Of course you are, son. Of course you are. Makes sense now. That photo on your desk. Blonde hair. Nice lips. Am I right?’

‘Yeah.’ Tarrant nodded. ‘And funny too, when she’s in the mood.’

‘Mood. That’s it, isn’t it? Gotta catch ’em. Gotta recognise it. Gotta be there. Yeah … ’ he nodded ‘ … when they’re in the mood.’

Winter reached for the peanuts, tried to open the packet with his teeth, failed. Tarrant did it for him, emptying a handful onto the table. Winter peered at them for a moment.

‘You happy then?’ He looked up. ‘With your Rachel?’

‘Most of the time, yeah.’

‘And what about her? She happy with you? Only you know what it is about these things … ’ He waved a limp hand, scattering the nuts. ‘When you’re married. ’

‘Yeah, I do. You’ve been there, Mr W. You’d know about it, too.’

‘Paul.’

‘Paul.’

‘Yeah, too right. You wanna word of advice? About Rachel? Look after her, son. Be nice to her. A good woman is worth more than anything else in the world. Doesn’t matter what you have to do, what it costs, any of that bollocks. If she’s as nice as she looks, you’d do anything, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ Tarrant was smiling again. ‘I would.’

‘Good lad.’ Winter tried to retrieve a peanut from the carpet. Tarrant rescued the table as he struggled upright again. Winter found another peanut, his lap this time, and held it between his finger and his thumb. ‘Dinnertime,’ he mumbled, popping it in his mouth.

He looked round. The pub was beginning to empty. Tarrant had already volunteered to get him safely home.

‘What’s that?’ Winter wanted to know.

‘It’s a mobile, Mr W. I’m calling a cab.’

 

The interview at the Bridewell began again. Michelle Brinton, tight-lipped, announced that her client was now prepared to admit fraudulent use of the debit card in addition to stabbing DC Suttle in self-defence, but still insisted that he’d had nothing to do with whatever had happened to the owner of the card. If they wanted to extend their area of interest to the Missing Person, there were procedures to go through. Yates, who’d conferenced with Faraday during the break, now rearrested Ewart on suspicion of murder and read him the formal caution. Watching the video feed from the adjoining room, Faraday anticipated the interview hitting the buffers. Ewart would go No Comment. Bound to. He was wrong.

‘You say you had nothing to do with the owner of this debit card.’ Yates was looking across the table at Ewart. ‘How do we know that?’

‘Because it’s fucking true,’ he mumbled.

‘Prove it.’

‘Yeah? What if it means grassing someone else up?’

‘Someone who did the owner?’

‘Someone who sold me the card.’

‘And who might that be?’

Ewart looked from one face to the other. His choice couldn’t have been plainer, Faraday thought. Either he comes up with a name or he’s facing a potential murder charge.

‘A kid found a wallet,’ Ewart said at last.

‘Where?’

‘The newsagent in Somerstown. It was on the floor, he said. Down by the magazines.’

‘Whose wallet was it?’

‘Same bloke. This Givens. Apparently there was sixty quid in cash in it, plus some other stuff, including the card. The kid had the notes away but couldn’t do anything with the card.’