One Under (47 page)

‘Do you sail at all?’ Barnaby had noticed Faraday’s interest.

‘No. I’m afraid not.’

‘You should. Everyone should. It’s God’s therapy.’ He gestured at the mountain of correspondence on his desk. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I could get by without it.’

Faraday explained briefly about Major Crimes’ interest in Mark Duley’s death. They’d been working on the enquiry for nearly a fortnight now and one of the leads that had been thrown up related to Landfall.

‘Good Lord.’ Barnaby seemed surprised. ‘Why’s that?’

‘It seems there may have been a link between Duley and a woman called Jenny Mitchell. Do you know Jenny at all?’

‘Very well. I’m godfather to one of her children. Young Milo.’

‘I see. And were you aware of any … ah … link between them?’

‘What precisely do you mean by “link”, Mr Faraday? ’

‘Relationship.’

‘I see.’ He turned in his chair, rubbed his face, gazed briefly out of the window. ‘This is tricky,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not sure I’m in a position to help you.’

‘No?’

‘No. These things are personal. Someone confides in you, you’re obliged to offer them a measure of … ah … discretion.’

‘She’s not a patient of yours, Mr Barnaby.’

‘Indeed not. But she’s a friend, and a very dear one. To be frank, the last thing I’m going to do is discuss her private life. Not at least without her permission. Does that sound terribly unhelpful?’

His smile had real warmth. You’d tell this man anything, Faraday thought, if he was asking the questions.

‘You mentioned Landfall.’ Barnaby was sitting back in his chair now, his hands linked behind his head. ‘Care to tell me why?’

‘Of course. My understanding is that Jenny may have some involvement. Is that the case?’

‘She used to do the books in the early days, yes. Now?’ He shrugged. ‘Andy has a full-time accountant. He’s got no option. It’s a big organisation, turns over a lot of money. The audit obligations are terrifying. Jenny’s got kids to bring up and a life of her own.’

‘But she maintains some kind of interest?’

‘She’d have to. She can’t avoid it. She lives with the man who runs it. He might come home at night but looking after an organisation like that is a twenty-four-hour job. I’m sure there are days when Jenny wishes she’d never heard of Landfall. But that, I’m afraid, comes with the territory.’

‘I’m not sure I understand. You’re telling me she
is
involved?’

‘Only on the margins. My point is this: Andy’s chosen probably the toughest client group in the country. These are folk in whom you people will have a professional interest. A lot of them are recidivists. The only thing they know how to do is break the law, and believe me they’re not very good at that. The rest are in various stages of disrepair. It’s either drugs or alcohol, or some form of chronic mental illness. They have no homes, no prospects, nothing they can call their own. From my own point of view I have nothing but admiration for -’ He broke off. ‘Do you know Andy, by the way?’

‘No.’

‘He’s an impressive individual. I can’t think of anyone else in this city who could have taken Landfall to where it is now.’

‘It’s flourishing?’

‘More than that. It’s irreplaceable. If Landfall went down the tubes tomorrow you’d have to invent its twin sister the following day. In my view, that’s the true measure of Andy’s achievement. He’s built it up from nothing, literally a couple of lines on a sheet of paper, and five years later people are queueing round the block to ask him how he did it. It’s true.’ He nodded at the pile of correspondence. ‘I’ve got letters here from Social Services departments up and down the country. One came in this morning. Walsall. The man wants to come and shake Andy by the hand, sit at his feet,
learn
.’

‘I understand you recently resigned from the board. Is that true?’

‘Yes, it is. Why did I do it? Frankly, because I had no option. I had some small part in setting Landfall up. That was five years ago. But it was always my intention to step back and leave them to it once the thing was well and truly up and running. They don’t need me anymore, Mr Faraday, and to be honest with you I need the time it buys me. In fact if I don’t get a grip on the rest of my life, I’ll probably go pop. That’s my wife’s phrase, by the way, not mine.’ The smile again, even warmer.

‘There are rumours … ’ Faraday began.

‘About Landfall?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of course there are. Rumours, gossip, scuttlebutt - it all comes with the territory. And you know something rather sad? The more successful you are, the uglier - the more vicious - the rumours. People hate success in this country. I’ve never understood why, but it’s true. Do something difficult, make it
work
, build yourself a bit of a reputation, and there are people who can’t wait to see you fall flat on your face. If anyone’s going to go pop, it should be Andy. But he’s stronger than that, thank God.’

‘It must be a pressure though.’

‘Of course it is, of course it is. And pressure doesn’t stop there either. I’m not sure how much you know about social provision, Mr Faraday, but the truth is it’s turned into a bit of a nightmare. The government, to be crude, want shot of it. They want to hand it over to the marketplace. They want to freeload on the back of motivated young men like Andy. There’s nothing necessarily
wrong
with that if only they had the courage of their convictions. But they don’t. They meddle, and they micromanage, and they get up to all kinds of tiresome nonsense, and it’s people like Andy who end up as the meat in a particularly loathsome sandwich. He makes a profit, of course he does, but given the pressures he’s under I sometimes wonder why he simply doesn’t jack it in.’

‘Maybe he enjoys it.’

‘Maybe he does.’

‘And maybe -’ Faraday shrugged. ‘- It pays well.’

‘Indeed. And are we saying that Andy should be ashamed about that? The kind of people he has to deal with? The kind of challenges he has to face?’

‘From the government, you mean?’

‘Yes, and the umpteen other folk with fingers in his pie. Local authorities. Probation. Social Services. Development agencies. The benefits people. You lot.’ He laughed. ‘Just talking to you like this puts it all into perspective. If anyone deserves a bit of peace and quiet, a bit of
support
, it’s Andy Mitchell.’

Faraday nodded. It was a telling word. Was he talking about the small army of naysayers out there? People with an axe to grind like Ellie Holmes? Or was it a subtler reference to someone rather closer to home?

‘Do you see a lot of them?’ he asked.

‘Of who?’

‘Andy and Jenny?’

‘Socially, yes, when we all find the time. In fact we were afloat with them just a couple of weeks ago, when the Queen came down for the Fleet Review. We had a seat in the front stalls. Apart from a drop or two of rain, it was a wonderful day.’

‘And they’re happy, do you think?’

‘Very happy. Under the circumstances.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means, alas, that this little chat of ours has to come to an end. Nothing personal but time is pushing on. I have a committee meeting at three, another at four, and I’m addressing a bunch of students at the university at half past five. That’s a full hour on my feet and I haven’t even
thought
about what I’m going to be telling them.’

‘Do you have a mobile, by any chance? In case I have to call you again?’

‘Of course. Here.’ He extracted a card from his wallet and slid it across the desk. ‘So, if you don’t mind … ’ He got to his feet and offered them a farewell handshake. ‘This time of day, the patients tend to wander around a bit. Be careful when you’re driving out.’

 

Barber voiced it first. They’d left the hospital and were approaching the busy junction at the end of the road.

‘He’s loyal, isn’t he?’

‘Very. You’ve got to admire it. Whatever Mitchell’s been up to, the last man who’s going to blow the whistle is Barnaby.’

‘You think they’re in the shit?’

‘Definitely. You don’t part company with something you’ve created without good cause.’

‘What about all his other commitments?’

‘That’s bullshit. People like Barnaby thrive on a full diary.’

‘What then?’

‘I’ve no idea, except that it must be serious. Maybe Mitchell doesn’t listen to him anymore. Maybe he’s gone his own sweet way. It’s happened before.’

‘And Jenny?’

‘I’d say he’s very fond of her. And I’d hazard a guess that he’s become a kind of father figure. Just as well, really … ’ he offered Barber a thin smile ‘ … under the circumstances.’

 

Soccer City was a gleaming silver shed on an industrial estate off the motorway to the north of Fareham. Winter, who’d never been here in his life before, eyed it from the back of the taxi. The driver, a Spurs fan, had a couple of nippers who turned out in one of the Pompey youth leagues.

‘What’s the form then?’ Winter wanted to know. ‘You can just go in and watch?’

‘No problem. There’s a bar inside and loads of tellies if you’re after decent football. You want me to come and pick you up afterwards?’

‘No mate.’ Winter was sorting out the fare. ‘I’m OK for a lift back.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks.’

Winter crossed the car park and pushed into the reception area, glad to be out of the heat. Through the big floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see the playing area. There were two pitches, side by side. Beyond them lay Fun City, a paradise of bouncy castles, ball pits and slides for the younger kids. The place felt like a warehouse on a retail estate, a big cavernous space echoing to the shouts of the players. Games had already begun on both pitches, and Winter watched through the glass for a minute or two, conscious of the thunder of feet on the carpeted floor.

There was a small bar overlooking one of the pitches. Winter bought a pint of Stella and made himself comfortable at a table with a good view of the play. Jake Tarrant’s team was kitted out in green, Tarrant himself commanding the midfield. Winter had never bothered much with football but it was obvious even to him that Southsea Town had the measure of the blokes in scarlet and gold.

By the time Winter returned to the bar for a refill, Southsea Town had won their second game. By now a dozen or so supporters had gathered, girlfriends and wives, and a voice on the tannoy announced that Southsea were just a game away from going top of the league. Winter still wasn’t clear whether this gave them the championship but the Stella was slipping down nicely and he kept his eyes on Tarrant as the referee blew for the start of the next game.

For someone looking at a possible life sentence, thought Winter, Tarrant appeared to be remarkably focused. He played football like he conducted a conversation in the bar, quick-witted, deft, full of spark and energy, and Winter watched as he closed down attack after attack, anticipating moves, intercepting passes, then stroking the ball forward for one of his teammates to blast it into the net. By half time, they were 5-1 up, but Tarrant was still going from player to player, a word here, a pat there, keeping them concentrated, taking no chances.

The second half kicked off, and the opposition scored an early goal. Then came two more and the pulse of the game changed. The greens were falling back now, their lead reduced to a single goal, and it was Tarrant who was rallying the defence, screaming for cover when an opposition winger broke loose, then stretching a leg and deflecting the shot with the Southsea keeper well beaten. With two minutes to go the score was 5-5. At this rate, thought Winter, they’ll be taking the bus home. But then a loose ball fell to Southsea’s only black player. He dummied the defender, laid it off to Tarrant, took the return pass, and squirted it into the bottom left-hand corner. The spectators erupted. The whistle blew for full time. Even Winter was on his feet.

Forty minutes later he spotted Tarrant as he pushed out of the building and headed for his car. His mates were with him. Back in Pompey, they’d be meeting at a pub called the Apsley. Going top clearly called for a pint or two.

‘Jake, mate.’

Tarrant stopped in his tracks, amazed.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Away support.’

‘You
watched
it? I thought you hated football.’

‘I do. Just thought I’d show a bit of solidarity.’ He nodded across the car park at Tarrant’s Fiat. ‘Any chance of a lift back?’

Tarrant hesitated a moment. His mates were eyeing Winter with some interest.

‘They think I’m your dad.’ Winter patted him on the shoulder. ‘We should have a drink or two. My shout.’

They drove back to Portsmouth. Tarrant, keen to rejoin his mates, asked how long this drink of theirs was going to last. Winter was non-committal. They had a lot to discuss and it was maybe in Jake’s interests to forget about the football for an hour or two. Unless, of course, an evening on the piss was more important.

‘More important than what, Mr W.?’

‘That would be telling, son. Just trust me, eh?’

At Winter’s suggestion, they went to a Gales pub up the road from the hospital. A table in the corner at the back gave them privacy and Winter returned to the bar. Tarrant, taking it easy, asked for a half but Winter ignored him. Champions, he said, drank pints. End of story.

Back at the table, Winter settled in, lifting his glass and toasting the final score.

‘Touch and go,’ he said. ‘Another evening like that and I might start taking football seriously.’

‘You enjoyed it?’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘I did. You’re good, aren’t you? You read the game, just like all those twats I work with say you’re supposed to. Where did you pick all that up? Take lessons, did you? Or were you born a genius?’