‘He is, but it’s pretty recent. In my view, we need to start at the beginning again, the Marriott, and work outwards. Winter’s ahead of the game already, and I’ve told Cathy we’ll need to debrief him.’
‘She must love losing Winter.’ Willard’s eyes returned to the roster. ‘She’s down to the bone already.’
‘I know. I thought Dawn Ellis might help her out. She used to work from Cosham, so she knows the turf. Mates with Cathy, too.’
Willard took off his jacket and hung it carefully on the back of the chair at the head of the long conference table. Down the corridor, Faraday could hear a burble of conversation as the troops massed for the next big meeting.
Willard was asking about Winter. Why the compassionate leave?
‘Problem at home, sir.’
‘The wife?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘The usual?’
‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘She’s dying.’
Willard, in the act of stooping to retrieve a file from a drawer, paused. Dealing with sudden death was food and drink to a man like him, part of his job description, but Faraday had often noticed how different it was when death crept closer to home.
‘Dying?’
Faraday nodded.
‘Cancer,’ he confirmed. ‘We’ve given him seven days’ compassionate and, under the circumstances, I think he’s coping rather well.’
Winter was back at Jersey airport, waiting for his return flight to Southampton, by the time he put another call through to Joannie. Once again, it was her mother who answered, and this time she left Winter in no doubt about her real feelings.
‘You should have been here, Paul,’ she said at once. ‘It’s horrible leaving her alone like that.’
‘But she’s with you.’ Winter was outraged. ‘And anyway, it was her idea in the first place. Put her on. Let me have a word.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s gone.’
‘Gone? Where?’
‘She went home this afternoon, around half-two. She didn’t want any lunch or anything. She just decided and that was that. There was nothing I could say, Paul. She just called a taxi and off she went. Imagine how that made me feel.’
‘And you’re sure it’s home she’s gone to?’
‘Positive. Where else would she go? In the state she is? Honestly, Paul, I don’t know what’s got into you. One minute you’re—’
Winter cut the conversation off and checked his watch: 1639. The fast trains to Havant left Brighton on the hour. If she’d made the 1500, she might just be home by now. He dialled the number, letting it ring and ring, then did the calculation again. Maybe she’d missed the 1500. The state of Connex South, maybe they’d cancelled the bloody train. Either way, he’d put another call through as soon as he got to Southampton.
He glanced up at the departure board. The Southampton flight had yet to show a boarding gate. He pulled out the phone again, checking the number in his notebook. Nikki had told him that it was a direct line to the consultant’s desk at the QA. This guy was obviously important to her, a tiny ray of sunshine after seven years on the butcher’s slab.
Finally, the call was answered. It was the secretary again.
‘DC Winter,’ he announced briskly. ‘Is Mr Ashworth back yet?’
Dawn Ellis was in the CID office talking to Joyce when Faraday returned from seeing Willard. Faraday signalled that he wanted a word, and she followed him down the corridor to the office at the end. Joyce had already been at the big wall board with the dry-wipes and had listed the four DCs and the DS who’d comprise the Hennessey squad.
The skipper would be DS Grant Ferguson, an ex-Met detective who’d recently joined the force after running out of patience with the hassle of living in London. Quite what he was making of leafy North End, as busy and traffic-choked as Walthamstow, was still a mystery, but Faraday liked his working style. Ferguson had originally come from Aberdeen and managed to combine a combative punchiness with a gritty acceptance that things were always in the process of getting worse.
On the wall board, Joyce had also added a schedule for regular update meetings and, in red, the code to be used on overtime forms. Earlier, Faraday had noticed the difference a whiff of grapeshot had made to her. An enormous tin of chocolate digestives and several cartons of Red Bull had appeared in a cardboard box beside the electric kettle. Here was a woman, he thought, who just loved the prospect of battle.
Dawn was eyeing the names listed on the board. When she was fed up, she had a habit of biting her lower lip. Just now, she’d practically drawn blood.
‘Was Hennessey the bloke at the Marriott?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought that was down to Cathy?’
‘It was. There’s been a change of plan. We found his car last night, burned out near the Hayling ferry.’
‘So why has Cathy been bumped?’
‘Don’t ask. Winter’s on compassionate at the moment. That’s why I’m putting you up with Cath for a bit. It’s not permanent. Just to help out for a week or two.’
Dawn affected indifference.
‘Makes no odds to me, boss.’ She shrugged. ‘Shoplifting’s shoplifting, wherever it happens. Why should I complain about missing out on something tasty when I’ve got all those scrotes in Paulsgrove to look forward to?’
Faraday wondered briefly whether she was joking, but one look at her face told him she wasn’t. Not that he could do much about it.
‘What about the current stuff?’ he enquired. ‘Anything major to clear up?’
But Dawn still wanted to know about Cathy. Had she resisted the boarding party? Was she happy to have Hennessey nicked from under her nose? Faraday ignored the questions.
‘I was asking about loose ends,’ he insisted. ‘Anything I need to be aware of? Or is everything boxed off?’
Dawn finally abandoned the wall board. She had a small, private smile on her face that made Faraday feel briefly uncomfortable.
‘Nothing worth worrying about,’ she said.
The incoming flight from Jersey was late landing at Southampton, the result of an air traffic snarl-up, and it was nearly half-past five before Winter was able to try Joannie again on his mobile. The number rang and rang but there was no answer, and he was on the point of asking the neighbours to pop next door when his mobile began to trill. He checked the incoming number. It was Faraday.
‘How’s Joan?’
‘OK. Not too bad.’
‘Taking it easy?’
‘Pretty much.’ Winter was making for one of the exits. A Tannoy announcement on the concourse was the last thing he wanted Faraday to hear. ‘Hang on, boss. I’m in the kitchen. Reception’s terrible. I’ll just go out in the garden.’ Winter pocketed the phone. Outside, he hurried across the departures lane and into the car park, resuming the conversation once he’d caught his breath. ‘That should be better. Can you hear me?’
Faraday told him about the burned-out Mercedes. The recovered chassis number had finally confirmed it was definitely Hennessey’s. The call from the manager at the Marriott had turned into a misper inquiry. As divisional DI he was now in the process of putting a squad together.
‘I’ve mustered five blokes,’ Faraday said, ‘but I’d appreciate a debrief.’
Winter’s heart sank. The last twenty-four hours had enabled him to draw a bead on the missing surgeon and everything he’d learned about the man had confirmed his instinctive belief that something had happened to the guy. The fact that no one else was remotely interested had been a bonus. It kept the hunt private, just himself and Hennessey. He liked that. He liked the thought that this had become a purely personal vendetta, a form of intimate hand-to-hand combat untainted by paperwork. It permitted him a very special kind of freedom. And one day, maybe sooner than anyone expected, it might lead to a settling of accounts. Dierdre Walsh’s account. Nikki McIntyre’s account. And even, in some deeply important way, Joannie’s account. But he
re, all of a sudden, was Faraday, the boss dog, about to piss all over his private lamp-post.
‘It’s difficult, guvnor,’ he said.
‘I know. This must be the last thing you need.’
Winter frowned, turning his back to shield the phone from the whine of nearby turbo-props. On the one hand, he needed to keep closing on Hennessey. On the other it was very evident that Faraday might get there first. Might there be some way he could dip in and out of the investigation? Strictly when it suited him?
‘It’s not just Joannie,’ he said at last, ‘it’s her mum as well. She’s staying with us now. You know how territorial they get.’
‘And?’
‘It’s OK so far, no big deal, but there’s going to be a problem when I start getting under her feet.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I might be more use to you. On the Hennessey job.’
Faraday didn’t sound convinced. Three days’ compassionate wasn’t very much when your wife was dying.
‘I know, boss, I know. All I’m saying is I’m up for it.’
‘Up for what?’
‘Hennessey. D’you mind if I discuss it with Joannie and bell you back?’
Faraday asked Joyce to sort out the briefing. Ferguson was already en route to Hennessey’s New Forest Cottage, armed with a warrant to search the premises. If there was any sign of a struggle, Ferguson and his accompanying DC would be sending for a SOCO and digging in for the full forensic trawl, including the running of any prints through automated fingerprint recognition, the computerised system which included the stored prints of all police officers.
The other two DCs, meanwhile, were next door in the CID office, working the phones in a bid to get the Beaconsfield uniforms organised. If the local guys up there could take a look at Hennessey’s house, maybe even ask a question or two locally, it might go a long way towards eliminating the possibility that he’d gone to ground at home.
Joyce stood by Faraday’s desk, translating his orders into busy little flurries of shorthand. Chances were that Ferguson wouldn’t be back from Newbridge until late evening – even later if he had to call in a SOCO. The guys next door had a stack of other phone calls to make. Faraday himself was still awaiting a fuller report from the Mercedes search. Might not the briefing wait until tomorrow?
‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ Faraday grunted.
‘Sure. But the sheriff never sleeps.’ She tapped her notepad. ‘Or are you telling me we’re headed for a Monday start?’
Faraday was looking at his wall board. At moments like this he felt like the high-wire act in some circus troupe, balancing available resources and overtime budgets against a particular set of demands. Misper inquiries were always tricky. A single phone call, and they could turn into a murder investigation. A chance sighting, and the subject might turn out to be alive and well, wondering what on earth all the fuss was about.
‘Well, sheriff?’
Joyce was eager for a decision. Faraday couldn’t make one. Apart from everything else, he’d rather been wanting to fence off the weekend for personal reasons.
‘Anything nice?’
Faraday gazed up at her. There was a fine line between presumptuousness and friendship, but the distinction seemed altogether lost on Joyce. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s American, thought Faraday. Maybe, where she comes from, it’s perfectly natural to turn your boss into your buddy.
‘It’s my birthday,’ he said with some reluctance. ‘I was thinking of popping over to France.’
‘Hey, neat idea.’
‘But that obviously depends …’ Faraday nodded at the pad clutched in her hand, not bothering to finish the sentence.
She beamed down at him for a moment longer, evidently thrilled by the news that he was about to turn a page in his life, then backed out of the office. Minutes later, with Faraday busy on the phone, she was back with a large white envelope. She sealed it with a lick and left it balanced on the keyboard of his PC.
Faraday studied it while he finished his conversation. The Mercedes had been lifted onto a recovery vehicle and trucked to secure storage by a firm on Hayling Island. Among the items recovered from the residues in the footwell on the passenger side was seventy-five pence in coins and a tempered steel blade that just might have belonged to a surgical scalpel.
The conversation over, Faraday opened the envelope. Inside was a Larsen Far Side card featuring a field full of cows. ‘I bought this for my nephew’s birthday’, Joyce had written, ‘but I guess you beat him to it. I talked to Vodafone, by the way, and the number you need is 07772 456372.’
Vodafone?
Faraday looked up. Joyce was back in the doorway with her third coffee since lunch. She nodded at the card, scolding him for opening it a day early.
‘Vodafone?’
‘They rang this morning and tried to give me the run-around. They’ve got Prentice’s account details but there’s some kind of waiting list for print-outs. You have to sit tight and take your turn.’
Faraday was up to speed now. Vodafone had supplied Matthew Prentice’s mobile. One look at his account would tell them whether he’d been on the phone when he killed Vanessa Parry.
‘And this is the number he was phoning?’
‘Yep.’
‘So how come you got hold of it?’
Joyce, anticipating the question, was already grinning.
‘The girl was American.’ She handed him the coffee. ‘We Yanks stick together.’
Winter was home by just gone six. He left the car in the street and tried the side door that led into the kitchen. If Joannie hadn’t made it back, he’d drive to the station and wait for her there.
The side door was unlocked. Winter looked round the kitchen, calling her name, wondering whether she might be asleep again. The kettle was cold and the cat, winding itself around his ankles, appeared not to have been fed. He went next door, into the lounge, finding the television on but the sound turned down. His wife’s slippers were on the carpet beside the sofa.
Winter turned towards the open door, raising his voice.
‘Joannie? You here, love?’
Again, no reply. The front door was secured on the deadlock. Retreating back down the hall, he pushed softly at the bedroom door. The curtains were drawn against the early-evening sun but the little window at the top must have been open because he could hear the put-put-put of next door’s sprinkler. He peered into the shadowed room, relieved to see the shape of Joannie’s body under the light summer duvet. He whispered her name again but got no response. Asleep, he thought, stepping back into the hall.
For a moment, he thought about getting some food ready for when she awoke, then decided against it. What Joannie’s mother had failed to suss was the state of her daughter’s insides. She no longer took regular meals. Instead, at the oddest hours, she snacked on mush.
Back in the bedroom, he tiptoed across to the bed. Joannie lay on her side, her greying hair splayed across the pillow, her knees drawn up the way she always slept. Her breathing was very slow, the way you might breathe if you were in some sealed chamber way underground. Her lips were a strange shade of blue and there was a flecked white chalky deposit caked in the corners of her mouth. Winter, looking at her, felt the first faint stirrings of panic. He’d been in situations like this before. He recognised the symptoms, knew where clues like these might lead.
They kept all the tablets in a cabinet in the bathroom. Joannie had the middle shelf, a carefully sorted collection of painkillers, sinus tablets and sleeping potions, lately supplemented by heavier prescription drugs. Winter stared at them now, not knowing quite what he was looking for. Anadin? Ibuprofen? He could see neither.
Beside the bed, he bent down to Joannie and began to shake her, gently at first, then with more force. Her body felt floppy and sack-like. No matter what he did, he couldn’t rouse her.
‘Joannie? Shit …’
On his hands and knees, he began to search under the bed, looking for a discar
ded bottle of pills, a note, anything. The other side, his side, was also empty. He fumbled for his mobile, dialling 999, asking for an ambulance, still hunting for whatever it was she’d taken. Only when the operator was checking his address did he find what he was looking for.
He’d pulled back the duvet and the sheet. His wife’s thin body was curled protectively around a small white plastic container. The label read PARACETAMOL: 40 tablets. The container was empty.
At the hospital, hours later, Winter was still sitting beside Joannie’s bed. The ICU staff kept appearing to check the drips and the monitor read-outs, but Winter barely registered their presence. Outside, he thought it was getting dark. Inside, in the very middle of him, it was pitch black, an inky nothingness that seemed to have put the future beyond rational calculation.
Instinctively, he knew why she’d done it. In her place, had he been brave or desperate enough, he might well have tried something similar. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that by giving life a nudge, by accelerating the inevitable, she’d forced Winter to acknowledge what awaited him. Now, or later, he’d be totally alone. There was no way round it, no escape. It was Joannie slowly dying by his side, but it was more than that. It was the whole of his adult life, the whole of that long sequence of minor and major betrayals he’d turned into a twenty-four-year marriage. He didn’t feel remorse. He didn’t regret that he’d never apologised for not making life sweeter for her. It wasn’t about that at all. It was about him. And about what came next.
Past midnight, with the doctors worrying about the possibility of brain damage, he phoned Faraday. He’d never felt so cold in his life.
‘Me,’ he said, when Faraday answered. ‘Winter.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. That squad of yours. Count me in.’
He was still looking at Joannie. Her face was grey against the whiteness of the pillow. She gave a little sigh – regret, perhaps, or maybe even amusement – and then her breathing resumed the same slow rhythm, the trace lines barely spiking against the black of the overhead monitor screens.
Seventeen
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