One Under (43 page)

‘And what about the missus? She’d have known by now, wouldn’t she?’

‘Known what, Mr W.?’

‘Known he was minted. A bloke with that kind of money to chuck around obviously had lots more. Was it her idea? The loan for the Southsea place? Or yours?’

‘I honestly can’t remember. She was always banging on about us having to move. You know what she’s like. It was something she’d got in her head. I’m sure she even talked to the bloody postman about it.’

‘She’d have mentioned it to Alan then? That new pal of hers?’

‘Bound to have done.’

‘And told him you couldn’t afford it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘So what was your take on all this? Once it was settled?’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘Yes, you are. You come home one night and she’s got the whole deal wrapped up. They’ve been to see the house down in Southsea. They’re both thrilled to bits. She’s even worked out the sleeping arrangements. For a hundred and eighty-five grand, Mr G. gets to kip in a bedroom in the back. Later, if he’s a good boy, you might tuck him away in the attic. But whatever happens, you’re down for a whole new life. Did you fancy that, mate? Sharing houseroom with Mr Givens?’

‘It never got to that.’

‘No, it didn’t. Fucking good point. And the question, my son, is why not?’

Tarrant had stared at Winter, trying to read the smile on his face, the cheerful bonhomie, trying to work out whether or not he was serious. In the end he’d settled for making another round of coffees rather than give Winter any kind of answer, but while he was out looking for the electric kettle, Ellis too had asked Winter quite what he was up to.

‘We’ve got him on the hop, love,’ he said. ‘You can call it an interview, if you like. You can call it any fucking thing. But just keep watching his face.’

Minutes later, from another box, Winter disinterred some literature on laptops. Givens, a careful man, had obviously looked at dozens before he’d settled on the Toshiba. After dishing out the coffees, Tarrant had retreated to the shelter of his office. Winter found him in front of his PC, compiling some kind of report.

‘This laptop of Givens’ … ’ Winter perched himself on the edge of Tarrant’s desk. ‘When did he first get it?’

‘Haven’t a clue, mate.’

‘Think. He seems to have shared pretty much everything else with you.’

‘No. I knew he had one. But I wouldn’t know any details.’ He looked up from the screen at last. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because no one seems to be able to lay hands on it. That and the camera.’

‘Maybe someone’s had it away.’

‘Maybe they did.’

‘Maybe he’s still got it.’

‘Yeah? And maybe I’m the man in the moon.’

Winter extended a languid foot. Tarrant heard the door click shut behind him.

‘Listen, my old mate.’ Winter’s voice had sunk to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘If there’s anything you want to get off your chest, now might be a good time. You’re a good bloke. There might be ways out of this.’

Tarrant stared up at him. The rabbit, Winter thought. Caught in the headlights. Full beam.

‘Out of what?’ he managed at last.

‘Out of all this shit you’ve got yourself into. There’s another side to my job, son. It’s called sympathy. I know what you’ve been through - Givens, Rachel, all the nonsense about the house - and believe me, I’d be the last person to blame you.’

‘For what?’

‘He was a cling-on, wasn’t he? He was a pain in the arse, coming round here all hours of the day, dropping in with his cakes and all those lovely photos he kept taking. You were just being friendly to begin with - polite, giving him the time of day - but he took advantage, didn’t he? And once he’d met Rachel, you were well and truly fucked. Am I right? Or am I wrong?’

Tarrant shook his head, wouldn’t answer. Winter changed tack. He wanted to know whether Tarrant had a key to Givens’ flat.

‘No, never.’

‘Had you ever been up there?’

‘Yeah. Once. He had stuff he wanted to show me.’

‘On the laptop?’

‘Yeah. It was photos, all the photos he’d done with the kids. He wanted me to make a choice, pick shots that I thought Rachel might like. Her birthday was coming up. He wanted to send off for some extra big prints, get them nicely framed, a present, like.’

‘And were you comfortable with that?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘This bloke, this virtual stranger, giving your missus all these presents?’

‘It didn’t matter what I thought. He’d do it anyway.’

‘Not if you told him otherwise he wouldn’t.’

‘Yeah, but … ’ Tarrant shrugged.

‘Yeah but what? Yeah but you needed the money? The hundred and eighty-five K? Or yeah but you couldn’t be arsed because you didn’t care a fuck for your marriage in the first place?’

‘Piss off, Winter.’ Tarrant was outraged. ‘Me and Rachel, you mean? Couldn’t be arsed? You have to be joking.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes, you fucking do. I love that woman. She’s a pain in the arse sometimes but we’re all guilty of that. She’s gorgeous. She’s the mother of my kids. She loves me. We can be great together, really great. You think none of that matters? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

‘No, my son. I’m not saying that at all. I’m simply asking the question. And now that you’ve answered it, I’m a whole lot clearer.’

‘What does that mean?’ Tarrant was looking alarmed again.

‘It means that I had you right in the first place. It means that you’re a good bloke. It means there are some things that matter to you, really matter to you. And like every other bugger in your situation, you’d move heaven and earth to make sure they stay yours.’ He smiled. ‘Am I right?’

Tarrant held Winter’s gaze for a long moment, then he turned back to the PC. He had a report to complete. They got sticky about deadlines up at QA. If he didn’t ping this lot across by five at the latest, he’d be bollocked rotten.

‘What is it, as a matter of interest?’ Winter peered at the screen.

‘It’s a locator system I’ve developed. It’s for the new mortuary. It’s all computer-based.’

‘Locator system for what?’

‘Bodies, Mr W. We lose track of them sometimes. It might sound odd but it’s true.’

‘I believe it, son.’ Winter touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Sometimes we have the very same problem.’

 

Ellis and Winter left the mortuary shortly before five. The trawl through the boxes had confirmed what Winter already knew about Givens, but little else. The man was methodical to the point of obsession. He filed away all his correspondence, all his bills, every last item that might conceivably be important. This paper trail confirmed that he was diligent, self-contained and appeared to have absolutely no friends or relatives worth keeping in touch with. As far as the future was concerned, he had plans for installing broadband as well as building a shelter for his bike round the side of the house.

Once again, presented with evidence like this, Winter could only ask himself what had happened to Givens. These weren’t the actions of a man who planned to elope with his mate’s wife. Neither did they anticipate any sudden interruption to his solitary, impeccably ordered life. No, Givens had been killed. Of that he was certain.

At lights a mile short of Kingston Crescent, Dawn Ellis joined a lengthy queue of traffic. She’d just asked him about the personal impact of their hours in the mortuary. Winter had been close to death himself. Had the knowledge of all those bodies in the fridge unnerved him? Made him think a bit?

‘No, love.’ He’d shaken his head. ‘Not at all. That’s over. Done. Dusted. I was bloody lucky. This is much more interesting.’

‘What?’

‘This. Jake. Givens.’ He smiled. ‘Fucking nightmare for the boy. Must be.’

‘You think he killed Givens?’

‘I know he did. But he’s been clever, hasn’t he? He must have done it there, must have. He’s got the run of the place. He’s the keyholder. He can come and go as he pleases. Weekends, evenings, he could kill half the city and no one would be any the the wiser. He could carve up Givens like a turkey, turn him into handy little parcels of meat and gristle, and there’d be no forensic trace. That place must be crawling with DNA. Hundreds of bodies have been through it. Probably thousands. You’d never prove anything. He’s home free, isn’t he? It’s beautiful. The boy’s a real star.’

‘So where’s the body?’

‘My point exactly. We haven’t got a clue.’

‘So we give up?’

‘Fuck, no. Of course we don’t. We keep looking. It’ll happen in the end, I know it will. There are cleverer things in this world than DNA.’

Dawn Ellis nodded, inching forward. At length she told Winter to look in her briefcase.

‘There’s a letter in there,’ she said. ‘From Jessops.’

Winter retrieved the letter. It was addressed to Givens. It confirmed dispatch of his latest print order and hoped that he would be pleased with the results. Then, towards the bottom, came an additional paragraph.

The latter was signed Bernard King, quality controller. Winter looked across at Ellis.

‘Well, well … ’ He was smiling.

 

It was nearly six before Faraday got out to Buriton. Tracy Barber had been delayed by a phone call from Special Branch. With their interest in Duley, they were curious to know what
Coppice
had unearthed and she’d spent a while briefing them on developments to date. Odds on, she said, they were looking at complications in his private life, though it was still too early to nail down the details.

Now, driving into the village, Faraday was wondering quite what to expect. How come this woman who’d made contact knew Mark Duley in the first place? And, more to the point, what light might she be able to shed on the events that had led him into the tunnel?

The cottage lay up a narrow lane, close to the church. There was an ancient Morris Minor convertible parked outside, with the roof down. The car was in beautiful condition, and Faraday paused beside it. There was a wicker shopping basket in the back, full of apples, and a rug covered in dog hairs.

The dog was the first to the door, a moist-eyed spaniel. A woman stood behind it, shading her eyes against the low slant of the sun. It was hard to judge her age. Late forties? Older? Faraday didn’t know. He offered her his warrant card but she waved it away. She’d been expecting him all afternoon. She invited him in.

Faraday introduced Tracy Barber and followed her into the cottage. There was a smell of fresh polish and something with olive oil and garlic was bubbling on the Aga in the big kitchen at the back.

‘Do you mind talking in here? Only I’ve got to keep an eye on supper.’

She was a tall woman, full-bodied, with big hands and a warm smile. She wore a loose cotton dress and wisps of stray hair kept escaping from the scarlet bandanna she wore round her head. Her name was Bullen but she insisted they call her Ollie.

‘That’s short for Olivia, if you’re interested.’

Barber had produced a pocketbook. She checked the date on her watch and made a note.

Faraday confirmed that he was investigating Duley’s death in the tunnel. He thanked her in advance for taking the trouble to make the call.

‘Major Crimes? Is that an assumption or just the label on your door?’

‘Both, I’m afraid.’

‘You think something terrible happened to that young man?’

‘We know something terrible happened to him. We’re just keen to know why.’

‘I see.’ She nodded. ‘Will you take a sherry?’

Faraday said no. He’d appreciate an account of her own relationship with Duley.

‘Not me, Inspector, my twin.’

Her twin sister, she said, was called Ginnie. Short for Virginia. She’d been living down in the south of France for a while now, sweet little house in a village miles from anywhere. She scraped a living as an artist but made enough to finance a trip or two back home. She always came in June, and she always stayed here in Buriton.

‘With you?’

‘Indeed, Inspector. I have a spare bedroom upstairs. Ginnie stays for a month or so, normally. We have a lot of fun together. She can be a hoot when she’s in the mood.’

This year, Ginnie had turned up in early June. She wrote as well as painted, and for the first time she’d been bold enough to enrol herself on some kind of course.

‘It was a weekend thing,’ she explained. ‘Friday to Sunday. Sounded terribly intense.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Winchester. It couldn’t have been more convenient. Frankly, Ginnie could have slept here on the Friday and Saturday night, just commuted as it were, but she thought there was more value in going the whole hog. She’s a bit like that, my sister. It’s always all or nothing. No halfway house.’

Faraday nodded. Sally Spedding, he thought. Her workshop.

‘She enjoyed the conference?’

‘Oh, she did, she did, she enjoyed it very much. In fact she brought a little trophy back.’ She smiled. ‘Our Mr Duley.’

Faraday was trying to keep track of the chronology. The conference had taken place between 24 and 26 June. On the Sunday afternoon Duley had returned to Portsmouth. Sometime later that day, he’d been swifted away by persons unknown and taken to the caravan in Hayling Island. Early next morning, Monday, he’d been dumped in Cosham. The following evening, bruised and battered, he’d met Jenny Mitchell outside the Queen’s Hotel.