He didn’t care, putting it down to modesty, glad only that a day which had begun so grimly had turned out like this. His son beside him, very obviously sorted. And a woman who had taken his own life and given it such a thorough shake. This morning, in bed, she’d told him that he’d already begun to turn into someone else, and one clue that she was probably right was the fact that he’d so readily agreed with her. Do this, then this, then this. Now relax. So easy, my love, n’est-ce pas?
J-J had spotted a bird. He didn’t know what it was. He pointed upwards, handing Faraday the binoculars. At first, Faraday found nothing but sky. Then he caught a sudden blur, brown and tan, and he followed it, racking the focus, following the bird as it plunged down.
‘The saker,’ he murmured. ‘Back again.’
The saker was a falcon, a favourite with rich Arabs but foreign to UK shores. It must have escaped from a private collection, but it had learned survival over Langstone Harbour, feeding from kills among a colony of little terns recently established on an island near the Hayling bridge. Faraday had watched it on a number of previous occasions, revolted by its table manners.
Unlike the occasional visiting peregrine, which devoured its kill at a discreet distance, the saker tore its prey apart at once, in the midst of the colony on the shingle beach, with frantic terns circling and screaming overhead. The falcon was a killing machine solely preoccupied with its own needs, and as such there was something infinitely menacing about this alien intruder. To satisfy itself, it broke every natural rule, and Faraday was still trying to explain to Marta about the bird’s sadistic pleasure in taking its prey when it suddenly folded its wings tight into its body and plunged after a pair of black-headed gulls.
The gulls, at first, didn’t see it. By now, the saker was barely a couple of feet above the water, arrowing in for the take. Then, abruptly, one of the gulls sensed the imminence of danger and tried to veer away. A tiny change of course brought the saker within a couple of metres. Both gulls, in blind panic, plunged into the water, totally submerging themselves, desperate to escape, and the saker swooped upwards, no longer remotely interested.
J-J was beside Valerie, waiting for the gulls to appear again. Marta couldn’t take her eyes off the saker.
‘What happens now?’ she asked.
Faraday had the falcon in perfect focus.
‘He’s playing with them,’ he murmured. ‘He’s not even hungry.’
Eighteen
Sunday, 25 June, morning
Sunday, for Faraday, was a delight. Marta stayed over on Saturday night and all four of them went to a fish restaurant in Old Portsmouth where J-J ignored the blackboard offers of turbot and monkfish, settling instead for the biggest plate of cod and chips Faraday had ever seen. Early next morning he was up before anyone else, and Faraday watched him from his study window as he rambled aimlessly along the foreshore, kicking at tangles of seaweed and skimming the flatter stones across the mirrored flatness of the harbour. This was a scene from countless summers gone, a perfect cameo Faraday was determined to tuck away and treasure. Wind back the clock, he thought, and this son of his might never have left.
After breakfast, Faraday put a call through to Ferguson, who was driving the Hennessey inquiry over the weekend. A decade with Met CID hadn’t softened the dour Aberdeen accent and he seemed to take a positive pleasure in reporting a lack of progress. There had been no sightings of Hennessey in Beaconsfield. The redial on the telephone at his New Forest cottage had led to a marina in Jersey but inquiries there had drawn a blank. Staff at the Advent Hospital hadn’t seen him since April. Apart from confirming the use of accelerants – petrol, in this case – forensic had nothing solid on the burned-out Mercedes. And preliminary word from Hennessey’s bankers had now established absolutely no movement in any of his accounts since 18 June. In Ferguson’s view, the man had either had an accident, done a runner, or been killed, but there was absolutely no evidence to indicate which.
‘Boils down to fuck all,’ he concluded grimly. ‘Is Winter still coming on board?’
Cathy Lamb contacted Winter mid-morning. She stood at the back of her knocked-through lounge, waiting for the phone to pick up at the other end. Pete’s shortie wet suit was still hanging on the line in the garden, sluiced with fresh water from last night.
When Winter finally answered, Cathy at first assumed he was drunk. She could hear music in the background, the Walker Brothers, and Winter’s voice was slurred and indistinct against the driving lyrics. The sun ain’t gonna shine any more, they sang, the moon ain’t gonna rise in the sky.
‘Paul? What’s the matter?’
Winter was mumbling about his wife, Joannie. Something had happened. Something he didn’t want to talk about.
‘Is she there? Paul, tell me.’
‘What?’
‘Joannie … your wife … what’s happened?’
The phone went dead. Cathy rang the number again, but it was engaged. Winter lived in Bedhampton, a pretty little bungalow on the slopes of Portsdown Hill. She could picture it now. Roses in the front garden. Ruched curtains in the windows. Not like Winter at all. She turned off the toaster in the kitchen, scribbled a message to Pete, and ran to her car.
On a Sunday, Bedhampton was less than ten minutes away. Winter’s Subaru was parked on the hardstanding beside the bungalow. Cathy could hear the music as she hurried across the pavement and down the side. Still the Walker Brothers. She knocked on the door, then tried the handle. The door was locked. Another knock produced no response. Running back to the big rectangle of grass at the front, she leaned across the neatly planted border, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun, trying to see inside. Winter was sitting in the armchair in front of the television. His head was back against the squab and his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. At first she thought something truly terrible had happened, then she saw the movement on the arm of the chair. Winter’s fingers, tap-tapping along with the music.
She knocked on the window.
‘Paul!’ she yelled. ‘It’s me, Cathy. Open the bloody door.’
Winter’s head slowly came up. He looked round, the expression of a man aroused from deep slumber. He seemed surprised to see her. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he managed to raise a smile. He got up, very slowly, and tottered towards the open door. He looked, Cathy thought, like an old man: bent, uncertain, somehow defeated. That wasn’t the Winter she knew. No way.
She made him tea and settled him in the armchair again, listening to what had happened to Joannie. She’d tried to top herself. Not because she was in great pain. Not because she wanted to get it over with. But because she’d come back to an empty house.
‘Empty because of me.’ He nodded. ‘Because of me not being here.’
Cathy was kneeling beside him. She’d had her moments with Winter, everybody had. Put an artist like that on your squad and you know it’s only a question of time before the relationship hits a brick wall.
Winter and paperwork had never been made for each other. He had no patience for mission statements and the squeaky-clean bureaucrats who’d taken over the upper echelons of the force. He saw no point in signing up to performance indicators and total abstinence. He was a relic, a dinosaur. He did his business in car parks and deserted trading estates and ran his informants like goldfish, tossing them the odd scrap, treating them with the matey contempt he thought they deserved.
From time to time, when she was DS under Faraday, Winter had driven Cathy nuts, partly because he hadn’t got an ounce of honesty in his body, and partly because he still turned in such consistent results. Show Winter a villain and he’d make a friend of him. Show him two, and he’d form a little gang, lying his socks off when the likes of Cathy tried to nail down how many rules he’d just broken. He was, she’d always thought, the cross every DS had to bear, at once bent and brilliant.
But this was different. Winter was in deep, deep trouble. And that mattered more than anything.
He was telling he
r about the tablets, about the hospital, about the tangle of drips and monitor leads with which the ICU staff had hauled Joannie back from the edge. He’d sat there and watched her. All night. And the truth was that he just couldn’t cope.
‘That’s why I’m doing it, Cath.’ She was stroking his hand. ‘That’s why I’m what I am.’
Slowly, the story began to trickle out. How he was going after Hennessey. How he’d flown to Jersey to meet the girl, Nikki. How he’d checked out exactly what this so-called surgeon had done to her. And how there were umpteen other people just itching to knock the bastard off.
‘I just need to know, Cath.’
‘Know what?’
‘That someone’s done it, that he’s paid the price. That’s all I need. Just to be sure.’
‘And what if he isn’t dead?’
‘Then I’ll find him.’
‘And then what?’
Winter stared at her. His eyes were swimming with tears.
‘I need to hurt somebody, Cath,’ he whispered. ‘I really do.’
Cathy gazed at him for a long moment. His hand was warm in hers and he clung to her like a child.
‘But what about your wife?’ she said at last. ‘What about Joannie?’
‘She was with her mum. She shouldn’t have come back.’
‘But she did.’
‘I know she did. I know. And I should have been here, shouldn’t I? But I wasn’t.’
‘Why not? Why weren’t you here?’
‘Because I can’t fucking handle it, love. End of story.’
‘You can’t handle it?’
‘Yeah, I know, I know, don’t lay it on. Pathetic bastard, me. Totally fucking useless.’
He gestured round the lounge at twenty-four years of mementos and, watching him, Cathy sensed he’d got to the heart of it. It wasn’t about Hennessey at all, or Nikki, or whatever the surgeon was supposed to have done. It was about him, Winter, and about this marriage of his that had suddenly run its course. He’d taken it all for granted, somehow assuming it would always be there for ever. Joannie in the recliner doing her lottery numbers. Joannie combing the News for the best car-boot sales. Joannie giving the roses a seeing-to. With his wife gone, what would be left? Fuck all. That’s why his world had fallen apart. That’s why he wanted – needed – to hurt somebody.
‘You have,’ Cathy said softly. ‘And it’s Joannie.’
‘I know.’ He sniffed. ‘But she’s in good hands now, isn’t she? They’ll take care of her. They’ll know what to do.’
Cathy nodded and got to her feet. She’d check at the hospital, but she thought that Winter was probably right. Joannie would be in there a while. They’d insist on some kind of psychiatric assessment. And in the meantime, Winter would be at a loose end, banged up in this trim little bungalow, going slowly round the bend.
She looked down at him, wrestling with a private decision.
‘I’ve been talking to Pete,’ she said at last. ‘There’s some more stuff about Hennessey he’s found out.’
‘Does Faraday know?’
‘Nobody knows except Pete and me.’ She smiled down at him. ‘And now you.’
The transformation was remarkable. Winter gazed up at her, a sparkle in his eyes. The angst, the self-pity, had suddenly gone. He wanted to know more, needed to know more, because one way or another, dead or alive, he was going to sort that fucker Hennessey out.
‘Legally, though,’ Cathy reminded him. ‘There are procedures here. You’ve got enough problems without an assault charge.’
Winter hadn’t heard a word. He was smiling now, sunshine after the rain.
‘So how come your ex-hubbie’s so generous all of a sudden? Are you bunging him or what?’
Cathy shook her head, then began to laugh.
‘“What”,’ she said, ‘would be closer.’
*
Dawn Ellis was at the Tesco hypermarket at North Harbour when she got the call from Shelley Beavis. She paused at the head of the aisle, stocking pre-cooked convenience foods, making space in her trolley for half a dozen of their own-brand vegetarian specials. Back with Cathy on the volume-crime treadmill next week, she’d have neither the time nor the inclination to knock something up herself.
Shelley wanted to meet, preferably that afternoon.
‘Why?’
‘Just to talk … you know … as friends.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I just want it private. You and me.’
‘I don’t do private, Shelley. Not in my job.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘But nothing, love. Of course we can talk, but it has to be for real.’ Dawn reached for a frozen cauliflower cheese. ‘Is it Lee again? Has he been on to you about me?’
‘Yeah, but it’s not him. It’s my dad. I just … look, it’ll take five minutes. I’m really sorry, but …’
Dawn had paused in the aisle, remembering the state of Kevin Beavis’s place. Rick had described it later as a film set, the kind of squalor you really have to work at, and he’d been right.
‘Why your dad?’
‘It’s just something I need to tell you.’
‘On the record?’
‘If you like, yes.’
Dawn glanced at her watch. Tonight, for once, she had a date with a guy who’d never dream of joining the police force.
‘Half-three.’ She named a café five minutes from Rawlinson Road. ‘I’ll see you there.’
*
The afternoon ferry for Caen left at three o’clock. Faraday and J-J said their goodbyes in the ferry terminal, a hug all the more unusual for being so spontaneous. J-J disentangled himself and beamed down at his father. Marta stood to one side, telling Valerie how much she’d love to come over and visit.
Nice lady. J-J’s big, bony hands described eloquent shapes in the air. And good for you.
Cheeky bugger, Faraday signed back.
No, I’m serious. He held his thumb and index finger in a smiley U-shape under his chin. Fun to be with.
Marta had turned to watch the exchange, deeply amused, and Faraday knew at once that she had understood every gesture.
‘The boy’s drunk,’ he explained. ‘Gets over-emotional.’
‘Just like his dad?’
‘Maybe.’
He took J-J to one side, walking him slowly towards the mouth of the tunnel that led down to the quayside. The towering bulk of the white Brittany ferry lay beyond the line of embarking cars. Mid-summer, the terminal was packed.
J-J was repeating Valerie’s invitation to stay. The flat was tiny, but there were chambres d’hôte everywhere, really cheap, and he could find somewhere nice.
Double room? He extended his index and third finger, then prayered his hands together against his sleeping head.
Faraday shrugged. Maybe.
For sure. You must.
You really think so?
This time, J-J just nodded, looking glassily through the mill of passengers at Valerie and Marta saying their goodbyes. At the pub, earlier, he’d already told Faraday how much he’d enjoyed the visit. J-J had never understood the dividing line between candour and hurtfulness, and after the third pint he’d confessed how days alone with his dad could sometimes be just a bit tense. Lately, before he’d embarked on his new life with Valerie, he’d got the feeling that Faraday was frightened of him growing up. His dad, he said, had always wanted the relationship to stay the way it had been when he was a kid, with excursions out in the car and wet afternoons on the marshes: adventures scored for wellie boots and tripods and, if they were lucky, a bird or two they hadn’t seen for a while. But for him, J-J, the world had moved on. Birds bored him now, and so did being a kid, and the wonderful thing about Marta was the fact that she wasn’t afraid.
The sign for ‘afraid’ is a claw hand against the heart, coupled with a fearful expression, and in the pub, gazing at the remains of his steak and kidney pie, Faraday had at first thought the boy had made some kind of mistake.
Afraid?
J-J had nodded. Marta wasn’t afraid to have a bit of a laugh, to let herself go. She wasn’t afraid to get drunk and put her arms around Faraday and pinch his cheeks like a baby. She didn’t hold herself back. She wasn’t afraid of laughter.
At the time, barely an hour ago, Faraday had slightly resented J-J’s frankness. As driver, he’d been on the orange sodas all day and hadn’t quite kept pace with a riotous lunch. But now, watching the two women picking their way towards them through the crowd, he realised that J-J was absolutely right. Laughter had bonded the weekend together like glue. And laughter would take them, just as soon as he could organise it, to Caen.
J-J was struggling to heft up his enormous rucksack. Faraday gave him a hand.
Love you, he signed, as the boy grabbed Valerie’s hand and turned to go.
The Country Kitchen was nearly empty by the time Dawn made it down to Southsea. Shelley Beavis sat at a table in a corner of the window, nursing a glass of camomile tea. To Dawn’s relief, she seemed to have incurred no further damage since they’d last met.
‘Your dad …’ Dawn was determined to be businesslike.
Shelley looked startled, as if she’d never suggested this conversation.
‘What about him?’
Dawn gave her a look. It was Sunday. She hadn’t had time off for over a week. This was a kind of favour. The least Shelley could do was stop pretending.
‘I don’t pretend.’
‘Yes you do, love. Addison said so, and he’s right. You pretend all the time. That’s what acting’s about. You pull all these numbers on me and you expect me not to notice. Shelley, that’s not what we’re about. We’re in the noticing game. That’s what they pay us for. OK?’
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