‘They’re kosher, these names,’ he assured Harry. ‘You’re going to love ’em.’
‘Where did they come from?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘That’s what you told me yesterday.’
‘Just goes to show, then. Always trust a man who’s consistent.’
Harry, as always, was a far from easy sell. He moved in a world where truth was a currency, traded for favours, distorted for gain, abandoned when plain fiction seemed more plausible. Dealing with junkies, and the suppliers who kept them in their cage, you got to disbelieve absolutely everything, even the evidence of your own eyes. See a man with one head, he probably had two.
‘Harrison’s on the mend,’ Harry said dryly. ‘We can’t even shoot straight these days.’
‘So I hear.’
‘And the guy who did it was pissed. You hear that, too?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The blood tests are back and the suits are kakking themselves. Lots of shit.’ He grinned. ‘Big fan.’
He sat back behind his desk, covering a typed field report with a copy of Modeller Weekly. Wayte built the most exquisite replica warships, authentic to the last detail, and sailed them on a local lake.
‘Harrison’s moved into smack,’ Winter said lightly. ‘You hear about that?’
Harry looked at him for a moment. His eyes were the lightest blue, diluted by Scotch and overtime. Underestimating that watery gaze had put a lot of guys behind bars.
‘Harrison wants to move into smack,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get the timing right in this game.’
‘Wrong, Harry.’ Winter at last produced his list of names. ‘He’s made his move. I don’t know whether it’s partnership or takeover, but these are the guys he’s running with.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says my little friend.’
Winter studied his fingernails while Harry looked through the list. Juanita hadn’t wanted to know about sex after the car park but he’d absolutely no doubt that she’d be there for him again. Tonight, as it happened, he was free. They might sink a bottle of wine or two before they went back to her flat. Or he knew a couple of places where even Dave Pope wouldn’t find them.
Finally, Harry looked up.
‘When did you get this?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Where from?’
Winter grinned at him over the desk, refusing to answer.
‘I’d knock on their door if I were you.’ He nodded at the list of names. ‘Quite early in the morning.’
Faraday picked up one of the life drawings from Jan Tilley’s office, then drove to Marmion Road. The gallery was empty once again, and while he waited for someone to appear he began to browse amongst the pictures on the wall.
Towards the back of the gallery, amongst the stirring oils of J-class yachts and pre-war ocean liners, Faraday found a watercolour of the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour. It was painted from the Gosport perspective and showed a skiff outward bound for the Isle of Wight. There were elements in the picture that reminded him of the little pen-and-ink study he’d found in Maloney’s bedroom, and he was still studying it when he heard a movement immediately behind him.
‘It’s a Clarkson Stanfield, 1829. But only a print, I’m afraid.’
He turned round to find himself face to face with the woman in the life class. She was smaller than he’d expected. She was wearing a long cotton dress loosely gathered at the waist and there were silver bangles on her wrist that looked faintly Indian. She had a twist of scarlet ribbon in her hair and enormous hoopy earrings. Her face was tipped up towards him, shadowed by the spotlights, and her smile revealed a line of perfect teeth. For someone so new to widowhood, she looked remarkably self-controlled.
‘Ruth Potterne?’
She nodded. She was looking at the roll of drawing paper in his hand.
‘Something we might be interested in?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He produced his ID. ‘Could you spare me a couple of minutes?’
They talked in a back office, amongst a clutter of invoices, bank statements, glue, masking tape and rolls of corrugated cardboard. When Faraday offered his sympathies over the loss of her husband, she acknowledged it with another smile, ghostlier this time, and then hurried the conversation on. She wanted to know why he was here. She needed to know how she could help him.
Faraday explained about Maloney. A week ago, he’d disappeared. There was evidence that he’d met her husband, that there’d been some kind of row. Would that have surprised her?
‘Yes, to be frank. Henry wasn’t one for rows, in fact he hated them.’ She frowned. ‘Who told you all this?’
Faraday described his visit to Maloney’s flat, and the woman who lived across the hall. Ruth looked even more perplexed.
‘But what was Henry doing there? They weren’t pals or anything. In fact socially, they were miles apart. Always had been.’
Faraday caught the inflection in her voice. Did that mean they didn’t get on?
‘Not at all. They got on perfectly well. On a boat like that, you have to. All I’m saying is that he and Henry were just’ – she shrugged – ‘different. I wasn’t even aware that Henry knew where Stewart lived.’
Stewart.
Faraday had been watching her hands. She had beautiful hands, small, expressive, bare except for a single ring in silver filigree on the thumb of her left hand. He could visualise that hand cupping Maloney’s face. He could see it, minutes later, outstretched on the pillow, palm up, the fingers flexing.
The door opened behind him.
‘Would you care for some tea, Mr Faraday?’
It was the other woman, the woman he’d met yesterday when he’d first come in. Faraday said yes to camomile. She disappeared again.
Ruth was still talking about her husband. To be blunt, she had absolutely no idea why he should have gone calling on Stewart Maloney. Neither did she know why he’d have taken a taxi to Port Solent. There was an edge of impatience in her voice now. She was a busy woman. She was under all kinds of pressure. Just where was this little chat of theirs leading?
‘Might there have been any other kind of’ – Faraday paused, trying to find the right word – ‘antagonism between Maloney and your husband?’
‘On what grounds?’
‘I don’t know. I was hoping you might be able to help.’
‘Then I’m afraid the answer’s no. I’m sorry but that’s the way it was. They knew each other. They got on OK. And that was that.’
‘No jealousy at all?’
‘On whose part? Henry’s? Stewart’s?’
Faraday smiled. It was a good question. In their separate ways, both men would have had grounds for jealousy. Henry slept with this woman. Maloney made love to her. Or at least wanted to.
‘I’m talking about your husband, Mrs Potterne,’ Faraday said softly, ‘and I’m simply asking whether or not he was the jealous type.’
Her guard lowered an inch or two. Faraday could see it in her eyes. She was genuinely curious.
‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘He was very jealous.’
‘And did he drink a lot?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact he did. But then he’d always drunk. That’s what ex-service people do. It’s in the blood. It comes with the job description. Everyone does it.’
‘Did it ever get out of hand?’
‘A bit, yes, sometimes.’
‘Why?’
This time the question was a direct challenge, and she knew it.
‘Because—’ She frowned. ‘Because I suppose he couldn’t always cope.’
‘With what?’
‘Everything.’ She gestured around with one hand. ‘This, the business. My son. Me.’
‘What about you?’
‘Nothing really. He was jealous, that’s all.’
‘Should he have been?’
‘No, but there were times … I don’t know … some men get funny and Henry was one of them. They don’t
need reasons. It’s just the way they are. They get an idea in their heads and that’s that. There’s nothing you can say. They’ve just made up their minds.’
‘About what?’
‘About anything. Another man looks at you and instantly that becomes an affair. Or it would from Henry’s point of view. He was very possessive. He was always jumping to conclusions, always thinking the worst. And that can be difficult to live with, believe me.’
‘But you loved him?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And he had no reason to think that—’ Faraday hesitated again. ‘He might be sharing you with someone else?’
‘God, no.’
Faraday unrolled the student’s drawing. Ruth stared at it.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘The university.’
‘It’s me.’
‘I know. Why did you do it?’
‘For money,’ she said hotly. ‘Eight pounds an hour if you’re interested. Have you ever tried to live off the takings from an art gallery like this? No wonder he drank.’
‘Who asked you to pose?’
‘Stewart Maloney.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know … because … ask him.’
‘Are you friends?’
‘I know him, yes.’
‘But are you …?’
‘Friends like real friends? No, Mr Faraday, we’re not.’
‘He’s got your photos on his wall. Shots of the city.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘You’re telling me you didn’t know?’
‘I knew he’d bought some. But I haven’t a clue what he’s done with them.’
‘You’ve never been inside his flat?’
‘God no, I’d never get out in one piece.’
‘He phones you.’
‘All the time.’
‘Why?’
‘Because … Christ, why don’t you ask him? Why me? Why do I have to spell it out?’
‘Because he’s disappeared. As I think I explained earlier.’
‘Oh … and you’re assuming—’
‘I’m not assuming anything. Actually, that’s not true. What I’m assuming is that he had a thing about you. And that you knew it.’
‘That’s true.’
‘You’re saying he’s been pestering you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Harassing you? Stalking you?’
‘No, that’s not his style. He’s completely up front. It’s not creepy at all. He just comes out with it.’
‘With what?’
‘I’d rather not say … if you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind. Tell me.’
‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘He wants to have an affair. He’d like us to get it on.’
‘And you’ve been posing for him? Knowing that?’
‘I pose for the students.’
‘Knowing the way he feels about you?’
‘What he wants to do with me, yes. I’m not sure feelings come into it.’
‘But is that wise?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Or even kind?’
‘Kind?’ She laughed. ‘Maybe that’s why I do it.’
‘To taunt him?’
‘Something like that.’
Faraday studied her for a long time. Not far away, he could hear the clink of china.
‘And what about your husband, Henry? What did he think?’
‘About Stewart?’
‘Yes.’
‘He thought what you’re thinking. And he was as wrong as you are.’
‘Meaning we have no grounds?’
‘Meaning there’s no way in the world I’ll ever go with Stewart. None. Not ever. Not for money. Not for love. Not for the thrill of it. Not for anything. He knows that, by the way. Because I keep telling him.’
‘Then you might be off the hook.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think he’s probably dead.’
Eighteen
Back at the station, Faraday compared notes with Cathy. She’d got the team working on the morning’s actions and already Dawn Ellis had come back with a report on a conversation with David Kellard’s parents. They lived in Exeter, but they’d come to Cowes on the Friday night to take their son out to supper on the eve of the race. They said that he’d been cheerful as ever and eager to get started. His special buddy aboard Marenka had been young Sam. He’d only known the boy a couple of days but already they’d persuaded the skipper to let them watch-keep together.
Faraday asked about Charlie Oomes. Had she checked with him exactly where the boat had been berthed, over in Cowes?
Cathy shook her head. She’d phoned Oomes’s office but he’d been busy in a meeting. When she’d asked to talk to Derek Bissett, he was away on business and not back in the office until Monday.
‘Where on business?’
‘Germany.’
‘How convenient. And Hartson? You manage to get hold of him at all?’
‘No answer. I’ve rung three times so far and left messages.’
‘OK.’ Faraday nodded. ‘Try Oomes again. We’ll need another interview and before that see if you can lay hands on a plan of the boat. Get hold of the makers or something. We’ll also need a warrant for Hartson’s flat. We’ll go up this afternoon. Can you talk to the magistrates?’
Bevan’s secretary, Bibi, was standing at the door. The boss wanted five minutes. Now. Faraday followed her to the superintendent’s office. The sight of Arnie Pollock sitting at the little conference table brought him to a halt in the open door. What was his CID boss doing here?
‘Join us.’
Faraday sat down, exchanging nods with Pollock. Bevan stayed on his feet.
‘That bloody woman’s been on again,’ he grunted.
‘Which one?’
‘Both, as it happens. Nelly Tseng is still threatening to write to headquarters, but that’s not the real problem. It’s the fact that she’s been talking to our journalist friend. Kate Thingy. She phoned this morning.’
‘And?’
‘She says she’s publishing regardless. I take that as a warning.’
‘Publishing what?’
‘She wouldn’t say, not exactly. Except that it’s about Port Solent and that it includes the dive search.’
‘Dive search?’ Faraday couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Who told her about that?’
‘I did.’
Bevan at least had the grace to look shamefaced. He’d phoned her after listening to her audio tape and briefed her about the search for Stewart Maloney. At the time, it had seemed innocuous, a prime example of the lengths the police would go to when it came to missing persons. Treated the right way, it might even impress the likes of Nelly Tseng.
Faraday blinked, trying to get this thing straight in his head.
‘So you gave her chapter and verse on Maloney? To keep her quiet?’
‘I told her as much as she needed to know. She was even talking about getting hold of a photo of Maloney. Under the circumstances, I imagined that might be helpful.’
‘Did she ask for quotes from us? CID quotes?’
‘Yes.’
‘So who supplied those?’
‘I did.’ It was Pollock this time. ‘Neville briefed me and I gave her a ring.’
‘What did you say?’ Faraday was staring at him. ‘Sir?’
‘I simply pointed out that Maloney was as entitled to his share of police time as anyone else. The man has gone missing. That, to us, may have serious consequences.’ He studied his carefully buffed fingernails for a second or two, then looked up again. ‘Unfortunately, this woman appears to be a loose cannon. We have absolutely no idea what she’s going to write.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it does.’
‘Why?’ Faraday was still thinking about Maloney. ‘As far as the public’s concerned, it’s just like any other inquiry. We put divers down. We follow up various other leads. That’s what
they expect, isn’t it?’
Pollock permitted himself a tiny frown. When events turned against him, he had a habit of steepling his hands together and resting his head on the tips of his fingers. Right now, he might have been at prayer.
‘It’s not the public we should be concerned about,’ he said softly. ‘It’s HQ. There are sensitivities about media coverage. I don’t want to go into it but we should be aware that they like to play it by the book.’
‘Play what by the book?’
‘Major inquiries. Like this one should be.’
Bevan nodded heavily and Faraday at last sensed where the conversation was going. Both men had a sudden interest in declaring Maloney the subject of a major inquiry, under the command of at least a detective chief inspector. That way, Bevan got his CID coverage back up to strength while Pollock would – in simple terms – cover his arse.
‘You told me this morning you thought there was no case.’ Faraday was looking at Bevan. ‘So how come we’re suddenly talking major inquiry?’
Bevan didn’t even try to defend himself. Instead, he gestured towards the telephone and shrugged.
‘She might change the equation completely,’ he said. ‘We just don’t know.’
There was a long silence. Faraday looked first at Bevan and then at Pollock. Both remained totally expressionless.
‘So how long have I got?’ Faraday said at last.
‘We understand she’s publishing on Monday.’ Bevan glanced at his watch. ‘Give or take, I make that forty-eight hours.’
By the time Paul Winter found a moment to phone Juanita, it was early afternoon. He wanted to talk about uncompleted business. And he wanted to talk about Dave Pope. How come he’d tailed them to the car park? How come he’d just happened to be around?
At last she answered the phone.
‘Me,’ he said briefly, ‘Paul.’
He settled behind the wheel of his car, letting the traffic sluice past. Just picturing this woman on the other end of the line was enough to give him the hots.
‘You there, love?’
He could hear nothing. He held the mobile away from his ear, shook it, then tried again. Still nothing. Finally, he hit the redial button and waited for her to answer. When her voice came on, she didn’t even give him a chance to start the conversation.
‘You give me big trouble,’ she said. ‘Big, big trouble.’
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