The Take

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Her teacher. Lecturer-bloke. Up at the college. You can smell it on these people. You don’t have to read books to know.’

  ‘Know what, Mr Beavis?’

  ‘Know what he’s after. Teacher? Bollocks. He’s after Shel. Stands out a mile, know what I mean?’

  Shelley had been at the college nearly a year, enrolled on some kind of drama course. At first, she’d been happy to do her studying at home, where she’d always lived, but after Christmas she’d moved out.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Friend’s place, so she says. Down Southsea.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Rawlinson Road. Dunno what number, but that doesn’t really matter, does it, because I don’t suppose she lives there, does she? No, mate, she lives with him, lover boy, Mr Paul fucking Addison, and I’m telling you something I hate to say in front of a lady, but that bastard is a disgrace. Ought to keep his dick to himself. Know what I mean? And something else, too. All that fancy talk, all that Hollywood shit about making her famous. He knows my Shel. He knows how easy it is with her. Bloke needs sorting. He’s lucky I came to you lot first.’

  Stapleton had abandoned his notebook and was gazing into the sink. Among the entrails of a rusting cylinder head, he’d recognised the remains of a bacon sandwich, the bread crusts black with engine grease.

  ‘You mentioned something about dressing up,’ Dawn was saying, ‘when you went to the nick at Fratton.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Beavis poked a grimy finger at her. ‘Ponce that he is.’

  ‘What kind of dressing up?’

  ‘He makes Shel wear all kinds of gear. Says it helps her get in touch with her feelings. Says it’ll put her on the road to Hollywood.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘She tells me. She comes dancing in here and her head’s full of it. How they play these games together. How he makes her dress up. How he’s going to put her in the movies. How she needs to get in touch with her fucking feelings. You know about all this feelie-feelie shit? Feelie-feelie, my arse. I can tell you where he feelie-feelies her, and you don’t need no A levels to fucking work that out.’

  Stapleton blinked. The sight of Beavis at maximum revs was far from pretty. A film of spittle had pooled in the corners of his mouth and the wreckage of the man’s teeth, broken and yellowing, disgusted him.

  ‘Dressing up’s not a crime,’ he said carefully.

  ‘No, but that’s just the start of it.’

  ‘Start of what?’

  ‘What they gets up to. What he gets up to. With my Shel.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s been harassing her? Do you have dates? Instances? Specific allegations?’

  ‘Not exactly, but it’s obvious, isn’t it? Girls like Shel, they think he’s God. He tells them he’ll sort out their grades and stuff, give them good marks, and they believe him. He tells them they’ll be in the shit unless they come across, so what else are they expected to do? It’s a tough old world, mate. My Shel, protected all her life, she don’t stand a chance. Bloke should be put down. He’s an animal, I’m telling you straight.’ He paused, then seized the kettle. ‘You sure about that tea?’

  He plunged the kettle into the wreckage in the sink and turned on the tap.

  ‘Another thing,’ he muttered. ‘He makes her wear masks.’

  *

  Cathy Lamb was still wondering about Winter when her phone began to ring. In any other circumstances, she’d have sat him down and given him a bit of a shake about the log-jam of jobs piling up, but there was something in his manner that she’d never seen before. In four years as his DS, she’d got used to his deviousness and sleight of hand, but not once had she seen him so subdued. Even knock-backs like the Drug Squad job failed to dent his self-belief. So what had happened?

  She reached for her phone. It was Pete, her estranged husband.

  ‘Big favour,’ he said at once.

  ‘Not again.’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  He gave her a name. She scribbled it down, then read it back to him.

  ‘Pieter Hennessey,’ she said. ‘Pieter spelled the South African way.’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently the guy’s some kind of surgeon. I don’t think he’s got form but it would be useful to find out. Any chance?’

  Cathy was still looking at the name. Over the last couple of months, she’d helped Pete out with a vehicle registration check and a peek at an ex-DC’s service record. She’d never enquired why he wanted them, and when he’d offered to split whatever fee he was getting, she’d hit the roof. If he was really moonlighting, then he was digging himself a bloody great hole and the last thing she intended to do was join him. Occasional evenings at the Wine Vaults and a curry afterwards was one thing. This was quite another.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re crazy.’

  ‘About Hennessey, though.’

  ‘It’s difficult. And unfair.’

  ‘OK. Forget I asked.’

  Cathy blinked at the phone. His voice was warm. He was apologising. And he seemed to mean it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pete,’ she began, ‘but—’

  He was laughing now. He owed her a meal and a drink, he said. Her choice of wallpaper for the new flat had been inspired. The refurb had come to less than he’d thought and he had enough for a new futon.

  ‘What’s buying a futon got to do with me?’

  ‘Nothing. Except you’re good at that kind of thing.’

  ‘Testing them out?’

  ‘Choosing them.’

  ‘For someone else to christen?’

  ‘That’s a difficult question.’ Pete was laughing again. ‘And bloody unfair.’

  Winter retraced his steps through the QA hospital. Left at the big fountain. On past the shop. Down to the second set of lifts. Up to the first floor. He had the measured tread and sightless gaze of a man possessed. Nothing would deflect him. Not reason. Not prudence. And certainly not the possibility that the next ten minutes might solve absolutely nothing. All his life, he’d seized the initiative. Now was the worst possible moment to stop.

  When he got to the gastro-intestinal clinic, he found himself looking at a row of empty chairs. Up at the far end, where he and Joannie had meekly accepted their fate, the consulting-room door was shut. He rapped on it twice and walked in.

  The consultant was writing notes in a file. Winter loomed over him, his hands flat on the desk, his breath coming faster than he’d have liked. For a moment or two, the consultant ignored him. Then he put down the fountain pen and looked up. He had the air of a man who’d spent all day waiting for this small moment of peace, only to find it snatched from his grasp.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he enquired icily.

  ‘We need to talk. Now.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. Make an appointment. Ring my secretary. She’s back in the morning.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘On second thoughts, leave her a note. It might be quicker.’

  Winter reached across and capped the fountain pen, then laid it carefully beside the file. This time, the consultant was even more direct.

  ‘I’m asking you to get out of my office,’ he said. ‘You have no right to be here.’

  Winter ignored him. Six hours ago, this man had ruled a heavy black line across Joannie’s life. There’d been no apologies, no explanations, no possibility of treatment, just the starkest of warnings that her time on earth had come to an end, that her train was about to leave. To Winter, to any half-decent husband, that was unacceptable. She’d been to the GP in good faith. In good faith, he’d given her tablets. When they hadn’t worked, she’d come for tests and a scan. At no point had anyone suggested cancer. At no point had there been the remotest possibility that his wife was beyond the reach of modern medicine. She was forty-three, for God’s sake. She had plans, dreams, a future. They both did. Now this.

  ‘So you see why we have to have a little talk,’ Winter concluded, ‘before I do something really silly.’

&n
bsp; ‘Like what?’

  Winter didn’t respond. The only threats that mattered left everything to the imagination. Twenty-five years in the job had taught him that.

  ‘I want to know what steps you intend to take,’ he said at last, ‘when it comes to treating my wife.’

  ‘There are no steps, Mr Winter. I know it’s a hard thing to accept but I’m afraid that’s the situation.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t tell you how sorry I am but I thought we’d been through all this already.’

  ‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘We’ve been through something else. We’ve been through a little game you guys play when you’re up against the clock, or something looks just a touch difficult, or the bean counters who run this place have run out of cash for the really expensive drugs, the ones that sort these bloody diseases out.’ He was leaning over the desk again. He could feel the consultant’s minty breath on his face. ‘I’m here to tell you that we’ll pay. I don’t care how much it costs. We’ll sell the bungalow. I’ll raise a loan. I’ll cash in all my insurances. I’ll score a ton of heroin. Any bloody thing. But I want you to make her better. That’s Joannie, by the way, my wife. Not the case number you disposed of this morning.’ He held the consultant’s eyes for a second or two extra, then smiled. ‘Deal?’

  The consultant was reaching for the phone, doing his best to contain his temper.

  ‘Whether you mean to insult me doesn’t really matter,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve done what we can, and all I can say once again is that I’m sorry we’ve run out of options.’

  ‘Sorry isn’t enough.’

  ‘So I gather. If you want a miracle, I suggest you talk to a priest. Your wife has my sympathies. And so, strangely enough, do you.’

  Winter stared at him a moment. The consultant was waiting for the phone to answer.

  ‘Who are you ringing?’

  ‘Security.’

  Winter took a tiny step backwards and began to laugh.

  ‘Try nine-nine-nine,’ he said, ‘and have me arrested.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr Winter.’

  ‘Too bloody right.’

  Winter kept his visiting cards in his inside pocket. Beneath the Hampshire Constabulary crest was his name and a CID contact number. He laid the card beside the telephone, turned on his heel and left.

  Three

  Monday, 19 June, mid-afternoon

  With fifteen minutes to spare between meetings, Faraday dug out the photocopy he’d taken of Vanessa Parry’s RTA file and reached for his phone. Fatal road traffic accidents attracted a great deal of paperwork: an on-the-spot report form, witness statements, photographs, the findings of the motor engineers who took the crashed vehicles apart, and finally the painstakingly detailed analysis from the Accident Investigation boys over at Winchester. The latter, the work of a hard-pressed two-man unit with far too many accidents to attend, normally took at least a couple of weeks to come through, and so far Faraday, despite several phone calls, hadn’t seen it.

  ‘Traffic.’

  Faraday recognised the gruff tones of one of the duty Sergeants.

  ‘DI Faraday. Is Mark Barrington there?’

  Barrington was the motorcycle patrolman who’d attended Vanessa’s accident, a newish recruit three years into the job. Faraday had tracked him down via the traffic HQ at Fratton police station and Barrington had obliged with a look at the file and a detailed personal account of what appeared to have happened at the site of the accident. The Sergeant was infinitely less helpful.

  ‘Barrington’s not here,’ he said briskly.

  ‘Is he back later?’

  ‘I doubt it. He was early turn. He’s gone already.’ He paused. ‘Something I can help you with?’

  Faraday was looking at the rough sketch plan that Barrington had made once the ambulances had been and gone. Larkrise Avenue was up in Drayton, a long, straight suburban road with parked cars on both sides narrowing the through-way to a tight squeeze. The two cars, Vanessa’s Fiesta and the Vectra Estate, had met head on about a third of the way down. There had been no evidence on the road of skid marks from either car, though the tarmac had been gouged as the Fiesta was spun backwards by the impact. The sketch was necessarily rough and begged all kinds of questions that only the Accident Investigation report could answer.

  ‘It’s the Larkrise Avenue fatal,’ Faraday began. ‘I’m after the AI report.’

  ‘It hasn’t arrived.’ The Sergeant was blunt to the point of rudeness. ‘But when it does, we’ll sort it.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Vanessa Parry was on our support staff.’

  ‘So I gather. Excuse me saying so, sir, I know it’s family, and I know you’re all upset, but we’re giving it our best shot, OK?’

  Faraday listened to the Sergeant staking out his bit of territory. Twenty years in the job had taught him a great deal about turf wars, and the no-man’s land between traffic and CID was never for the faint-hearted. The traffic guys had more than enough to do. Mark Barrington was a promising young copper. The Sergeant had no reason to question his handling of this particular episode. The preliminary query about the Fiesta’s brakes was unfortunate but it might be best to wait for the full AI report. If developments called for some kind of CID involvement, Faraday would be the first to know.

  ‘No offence, sir. But I’m sure you see what I mean.’

  ‘Of course I do. When do you expect the AI report?’

  ‘To be frank, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘What about the mobile?’

  ‘What mobile?’

  ‘The lad Matthew Prentice had a mobile with him. Barrington found it in the Vectra, along with all kinds of paperwork. I suggested he raise a C63 on it. I was just wondering whether he’d had any joy.’

  ‘You suggested what?’

  A C63 was the form you filled in to bid for access to data from one of the mobile phone companies. A printout on a particular number could pinpoint the time and duration of a call, plus a name and address for the voice at the other end.

  Faraday permitted himself a grim smile. The sergeant was wound up tighter than a spring.

  ‘Just a thought I had,’ Faraday said lightly. ‘Your lad found the mobile switched off. That isn’t necessarily conclusive.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting … sir?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that Prentice had at least a minute to sort himself out after the impact. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t unconscious. Had he been on the phone, he’d have switched it off.’ He paused. ‘As I understand it, there were no witnesses.’

  ‘Did Barrington tell you that?’

  ‘He didn’t have to. There are no witness statements in the file.’

  ‘You’ve seen the file?’

  ‘I’m looking at it now.’

  The Sergeant was speechless. Faraday pressed on.

  ‘Prentice was lucky,’ he said. ‘No witnesses except for the other driver, and Vanessa is dead. That gives him every incentive to claim amnesia, and as I understand it, that’s exactly what he’s doing. Got up in the morning. Drove to his first call. Then it all goes fuzzy. Can’t remember driving into Larkrise Avenue. Can’t remember any Fiesta. Can’t remember killing my management assistant. The AI report might help him fill in the blanks. And if it doesn’t, then maybe we ought to be thinking about his mobile. No?’

  There was a long silence, then the Sergeant came back. He’d given up arguing the toss about Mark Barrington. He’d talk to his Inspector. Not about the ins and outs of the Larkrise Avenue RTA but about bloody CID muscling in on Traffic. You do your job, I’ll do mine. OK?

  Faraday let the storm pass, then bent to the phone again.

  ‘Death by dangerous driving. Am I right?’

  ‘It’s on the cards, certainly.’

  ‘Crown Court? Hefty fine plus a ban? This guy’s a commercial rep. He’ll get himself a decent brief. He’ll plead tools of the trade. Take my licence away, I’m out on the street.’ He paused. ‘N
umber one, we need to get this guy off the road. Number two, it might be nice if he had his tiny mind concentrated.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Like a couple of years inside.’

  ‘On a death by dangerous driving?’

  Faraday let the laughter subside.

  ‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘perverting the course of justice. Courts just love that. In case you’d forgotten.’

  Rawlinson Road lay at the heart of Southsea, a once fashionable address attracting generations of naval officers and their families to the imposing bay-fronted houses. A century and a half later, disfigured by landlords squeezing rents from multi-occupation, it had become a neighbourhood you’d do your best to avoid. Awash with litter, choked by cars and vans half-parked on the pavement, it was now a regular port of call for drug dealers, noise abatement officers and harassed officials from the Social Services acute response teams. Even the trees looked unloved.

  Shelley Beavis, according to the accommodation secretary at the college, shared the basement at number 21. Access to the flat was round the side, a length of slimy paving under permanent bombardment from a dripping overflow.

  She answered Dawn’s knock with some reluctance, a sleepy-eyed, barefoot eighteen-year-old in jeans and a thin cardigan, peering out from a mop of tousled blond hair. Dawn’s first reaction was to wonder whether she was Beavis’s daughter at all. Genetics plainly owed nothing to her willowy body and flawless complexion.

  ‘Police?’ she said blankly, when Stapleton showed his ID.

  The flat was subterranean, pools of semi-darkness smelling of day-old joss and a serious damp problem. Thick, crudely suspended blankets hung at the barred window in the front, and it took Dawn several seconds to map the room where Shelley appeared to live. An unmade single bed in one corner. A baize card table supporting a battered-looking hi-fi stack. Posters of Ralph Fiennes and Brad Pitt. Bits and pieces of food, chiefly biscuits and crisps. Piles of paperbacks and magazines lapping at a dinner plate on the floor. The dinner plate obvously doubled as an ashtray, and Stapleton studied it with interest while Dawn explained the reason for their visit.

  At the mention of her father’s worries about Paul Addison, Shelley shook her head. Her father had no right to go on like that about Paul. Her life was her own. She didn’t want to talk about it.