One Under

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Mr W.?’ It was Tarrant.

  Winter was trying to visualise the scene. He knew nothing of Jake Tarrant’s private life except the trio of faces in the small gold-framed photo he kept on his office desk. The kids must be nearly school age, Winter thought. His wife looked gorgeous.

  ‘Jake. Listen, I know this is a bit sudden but I could really use another drink. On me, son. Or a meal, if you fancy it.’

  ‘I’ve just eaten,’ Tarrant said at once.

  ‘Drink then?’

  There was a pause. Tarrant clearly wasn’t keen. Then he came back on the phone.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Nothing, son. Me, if you want the truth.’

  ‘You? How does that work?’

  ‘It’s complicated. Let’s just say today’s been a bummer. You know those days? Everything stacking up against you? Then something truly fucking horrible happening?’ Winter paused. He realised he was sweating. ‘Just a drink, son. I’d be grateful.’

  ‘Sure. Hang on a moment.’

  Winter heard a muffled conversation, a hint of raised voices, then Jake back on the phone again. This time he was laughing.

  ‘Great idea, Mr W.’ He named a pub. ‘I could use a pint or two myself.’

  By eight o’clock Faraday’s interview team were ready for their first session with Karl Ewart. Both Dawn Ellis and Bev Yates had been on the Tartan squad from the start of the operation, and an hour with the Tactical Interview Adviser back at Kingston Crescent had given them a shape for their dealings with Ewart over the coming days. PACE legislation only permitted suspects to be held for twenty-four hours, but given the seriousness of the attack on Suttle, Faraday anticipated no problems with obtaining an extension, if he had to. Ewart, everyone seemed to agree, was a nutter.

  The turnkey brought him along to the interview suite. A little under six feet, thin-faced, unshaven, he was wearing a pair of second-hand tracksuit bottoms and an oversized T-shirt supplied by the Custody Sergeant. The jeans, trainers and grey hoodie in which he’d been arrested, all splashed with fresh blood, had already been bagged up and sent away for forensic examination.

  Faraday retired to a nearby room. A video feed supplied him with live pictures from the interview, and he settled at the desk with his pad and pencil, his eyes glued to the monitor on the wall. Both uniforms acting as backup in Ashburton Road had seen Ewart stab Suttle, and Dawn Ellis had managed to coax a supporting statement from the woman whom Ewart had so briefly taken hostage. On this evidence alone, Ewart was in deep, deep trouble.

  The preliminaries were over. Time, date and attending personnel had been recorded by Yates at the head of the audio and video tapes, and Michelle Brinton had signalled her willingness to begin the interview. Ewart sat beside her, slumped in the chair, head down, picking his fingers. He might, thought Faraday, have been waiting for a bus.

  Yates was asking Ewart to account for his movements over the course of the day. Ewart mumbled something about kipping at a mate’s place.

  ‘Where was that?’

  Ewart shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘You can’t remember?’

  ‘Up Stamshaw way. Only had it a couple of months.’

  ‘Who only had it a couple of months?’

  ‘Bloke that owns it.’

  ‘Has he got a name?’

  ‘Yeah, I expect so.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Faraday could see Yates gazing at the ceiling. He was losing his temper already. Not a good sign.

  Dawn Ellis stepped in. She’d obviously sensed it too, and she took a different line, treating Ewart with cold indifference.

  ‘Why weren’t you staying at your own place, Mr Ewart?’

  ‘I was pissed.’

  ‘Too pissed to get a cab back?’

  ‘No money. Skint, wasn’t I?’

  Ewart began a rambling account of people he had to catch up with, people who owed him money, people he could never find. Come the middle of the afternoon, knackered, he’d decided to go home for a kip.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I got back there. I told you, I wanted to get my head down. Then some geezer started knocking on the door. Wouldn’t go away.’

  ‘Who did you think he was?’

  ‘Could have been anyone. How the fuck was I supposed to know?’

  Ellis nodded. For obvious reasons, neither she nor Suttle had announced themselves. In retrospect, this might have been a mistake.

  ‘Why didn’t you answer the door?’

  ‘Because you don’t, do you? Not round where I live. There’s all kinds of low life.’

  ‘You’re suggesting these people might want to do you harm?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  For the first time his head came up and Faraday had a glimpse of the defence he was going to run. Obvious, he thought. But still shrewd.

  ‘There’s people out there I don’t really want to see.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Loads of reasons. Money, mostly.’

  ‘You mean debts?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What kind of debts?’

  ‘For stuff I’ve sold, like.’

  ‘Stuff?’

  ‘Drugs. Blow. Speed. These people can be crazy. You don’t want to fuck with them. Tear your head off as soon as look at you. Just think about it, yeah? I get some bloke banging at the door, next thing I know he’s kicking it in. What would you do?’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and got out the back.’

  ‘Did you turn the gas on first?’

  ‘I … ’ He hesitated, looked away.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yeah, I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because … like I said … anything to put these animals off.’

  ‘And the knife?’

  ‘Same thing. These blokes can be a nightmare, really heavy. They come after you. And he did. Scared me shitless, if you really want to know. Over the wall I was, and away. Yeah?’ He looked to his solicitor for confirmation, for approval of the sensible steps he’d taken. Michelle was making notes.

  ‘You were in the next-door garden,’ Ellis prompted. ‘What happened next?’

  Ewart faltered a moment, ducked his head. Then he described Suttle appearing at the top of the wall. Like he’d said, the geezer was coming after him.

  ‘I panicked,’ he said. ‘Tell you the truth I hadn’t a fucking clue what to do. The door was open. There was an old dear in there, an old lady … ’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I grabbed her. I didn’t know what I was doing. Like I said, I was bricking it. All I had was the old lady and the knife. Bloke could have done anything.’

  Faraday, watching, shook his head. At this rate, they’d be awarding Ewart a medal for gallantry.

  Ellis pointed out that Suttle had identified himself as a policeman.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘I don’t remember anything. He might have said it, might not, but what difference does it make? He didn’t have a uniform on. Any cunt can say he’s a policeman. It means fuck all.’

  Yates was stirring again. He wanted to get this over, Faraday thought. He wants to dispense with the questions, with the lies, with this whole unfolding pantomime. He wants to lean across, grab Ewart by the throat and batter him senseless.

  The interview went on. When Ellis mentioned the two uniforms who had appeared in the back garden, he said he hadn’t seen them. By that time, he insisted, Suttle was trying to attack him and he’d simply been defending himself. Stabbing the bloke had been a reflex, blind panic, him or me, nothing else. Of course he was sorry about what happened, anyone would be, but it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t started it.

  There was a long silence. Yates stirred.

  ‘So that’s it then? Self-defence?’

  ‘Yeah.’

 
; ‘You’d no idea this bloke was a copper?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even though he told you he was, identified himself?’

  Ewart shrugged then smothered a yawn. At length, Ellis changed tack.

  ‘There’s a girl called Emma Cusden. She lives in Somerstown. She’s got a flat in a block called Hermiston House. We understand you know her.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Social Services. One of their people came round to see you.’

  ‘Yeah? What of it?’

  ‘This person wanted to talk to you about young Cher. Your daughter.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘She is your daughter?’

  Ewart held her gaze for a moment, then looked sideways at Michelle. The solicitor murmured something in his ear.

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed at last. ‘She’s my little girl.’

  ‘And you’re round there a lot, at Emma’s place?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘A bit then.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Ellis glanced across at Yates. Yates produced a copy of Givens’ bank statement, went through the transactions one by one, piling up the season tickets until the account was nearly empty.

  ‘That’s over eight grand,’ he said. ‘On someone else’s debit card. Most juries would call that theft.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘All those tickets went to Emma’s address. Someone was picking them up to flog on. And now, guess what, we find a couple in your place. In the name of Givens. With your prints all over them. We’ve also found nearly fifteen hundred quid in notes. How do you account for all that? When you’re supposed to be so skint?’

  ‘It’s not mine. It’s got fuck all to do with me.’

  ‘Someone else’s, then?’

  ‘Yeah, must be.’

  ‘One of your flatmates?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘They say not.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise.’

  ‘You’re telling me they’re lying?’

  Ewart was picking his fingers again. When Yates put the question a second time, he simply shrugged.

  ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  Ellis muttered something in Yates’ ear. Yates ignored her. Watching, Faraday was aware that this interview was going far too fast. The challenge phase, finger-pointing, should come later, once Ewart had been given the chance to make his case.

  Yates didn’t take his eyes off Ewart.

  ‘We’ve got guys in your flat are gonna tear the place apart,’ he said at length. ‘What happens when they find Givens’ debit card? With more of your prints? What will you say then?’

  Again, Ewart had no answer. He looked helplessly at his solicitor. She began to protest that this was pure speculation, that no debit card had yet been found, but Yates was angrier than ever. He was leaning forward now, inches from Ewart’s face.

  ‘That card came from a bloke we can’t find,’ he said softly. ‘He’s just disappeared, vanished, gone. People don’t do that, Mr Ewart, not in the real world. Something has to happen to them. Someone has to take them out.’

  Ewart was starting to put it together. ‘Fuck off, mate.’ He sounded indignant. ‘You think I did that?’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Rolled this bloke, whoever he is? Gave him a slapping?’

  ‘Yes.’ Yates nodded. ‘We do. In fact we think you killed him.’

  ‘Killed him? You have to be joking. You really think I’d do a thing like that?’

  ‘We know you would, Karl.’ It was Ellis. ‘We saw what you did to DC Suttle.’

  Michelle was on her feet now. She wanted to bring this interview to an end. Her client had been arrested on suspicion of attempted murder and fraud. He was denying the fraud and claiming self-defence with respect to the stabbing. No way should these accusations extend to killing someone else. She reached down for Ewart’s arm but he shook her off. This was personal. Him and Yates. He sounded genuinely outraged.

  ‘Yeah, but … but that was different. I just told you … He came after me … I didn’t know him from fuck. Listen … killed him? This other bloke? You have to be out of your mind. What the fuck would I do with him for starters?’

  ‘You’d put him in that car of yours,’ Yates said. ‘Then you’d get rid of him. Only that would be a bit of a problem afterwards, wouldn’t it? All that blood in the boot? Other stuff we might find … ?’

  He let the thought dangle a moment. Michelle, with some reluctance, had resumed her seat. When she leant towards Ewart and told him that he didn’t have to answer any of these questions, he dismissed her advice with a terse shake of the head. Faraday, watching, bent towards the screen. Michelle was right. There could be repercussions here. Without a formal caution over Givens’ disappearance, any admissions on Ewart’s part would be inadmissible in court.

  ‘The motor’s history,’ Ewart said at last. ‘Some fucker … ’

  ‘Some fucker what?’

  ‘Nicked it.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Yates was grinning at him now. ‘Not you then? Not you with half a gallon of four star and a box of matches?’

  Ewart was in trouble, and he knew it.

  ‘Listen -’ He was beginning to sweat. ‘- This is well out of order. So yeah, I’m a bad boy. I do drugs. I get about a bit. I buy and sell. And yeah, you’re gonna do me for the copper. OK, fair play, but killing some bloke I’ve never heard of? You’re out of your head.’

  ‘What about the season tickets?’

  Ewart stared at Yates, then his head went down again and he finally beckoned Michelle closer, whispering in her ear. She muttered something in return, then turned her attention back to the DCs across the table.

  ‘This is completely irregular,’ she said. ‘If you want to talk to my client about this so-called missing person, then you must caution him in that regard. Otherwise, I must insist that you limit this interview to the matter in hand.’ She stared at Yates, colour flooding into her face. Then she got up again. ‘I and my client would like a break. Can we all cope with that?’

  Winter was pissed again. He’d taken a cab out to the Copnor pub that Tarrant had named for their get-together, and he’d swallowed a couple of Stellas and two whisky chasers by the time Tarrant finally turned up. Tarrant apologised for the delay. Mate of his on the phone. Long time no hear.

  Now, nearly two hours later, Winter had abandoned any hope of making it to the bar. Instead, he pushed a ten-pound note towards Tarrant and told him to sort another round. Peanuts would be good too. Winter was famished.

  Tarrant did his bidding. He was drinking halves of shandy, blaming a course of antibiotics he’d just started, but he’d been more than happy to listen to Winter’s account of what had happened down in Southsea and to sympathise. These days, he said, there were bits of the city you’d be mad to risk after dark. Even in broad daylight, like with Suttle, you could knock on the wrong door and find yourself looking at a knife.

  ‘But it wasn’t the wrong door, mate. It was the right fucking door. That’s the whole point. There was a time when it would all have been sweet. You do your homework, you box a guy off, he knows he’s potted, and there he is, fetching his coat, nice as pie. You know what that was about? Respect. Rules. That’s all gone though. Fucking history. Scrotes like Ewart are vermin. There’s nothing to them. They’d stick you as soon as look at you. And for what? Season tickets? For Pompey?’

  ‘I thought you said he was down for Givens too?’

  ‘I did, son.’ Winter reached for his brimming glass, and missed. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘So what’s the strength?’

  ‘One hundred fucking per cent. Has to be.’ Winter began to tally the counts against Ewart on his fingers. ‘Number one, he did the bloke’s bank account. Clean as a whistle. Number two, he’s been fencing all those tickets, stands to reason. Number three, he’s torched his own fucking car to bury the evidence. And number four … ’ He frowned, staring at his hand.
‘ … He’s a murdering cunt.’

  ‘How do you figure that, Mr W.?’

  ‘Because he’s just done Jimmy.’ He peered at Tarrant. ‘Haven’t you listened to a single fucking word I’ve said, son? Jimmy’s dead, or near on. Jimmy, my mate Jimmy. Name mean nothing to you?’ He gestured vaguely at the empty glasses on the table. ‘Or has your memory gone?’

  Tarrant leaned forward, put his hand on Winter’s.

  ‘Mr W., Paul … I’m really, really sorry. I know him too. He used to come round the mortuary sometimes when we were doing the business. He’s a good lad - funny, made us all laugh. Listen. He’s in good hands. I know the blokes up at QA. If anyone’s going to sort him out, they will. Trust me. Believe me. He’ll pull through.’

  Winter leaned into the table. He wanted desperately to believe this man. His spare hand closed over Tarrant’s.

  ‘No bullshit?’ His eyes were glassy. ‘You think Jimmy’ll make it?’

  ‘I know he will.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘You’re a good lad.’ He gave Tarrant’s hand a little squeeze. ‘A good mate. What’s that wife of yours think, me dragging you out like this?’

  ‘She wasn’t best pleased if you want the truth, Mr W.’

  ‘Call me Paul.’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Bit difficult is it? Young kids? All that broken sleep? Not enough … you know … action?’

  Tarrant gazed at him a moment, then laughed.

  ‘Yeah. Spot on, Mr W. Action pretty much covers it. Maybe I should tell her that. More action. What do you think?’

  ‘Me? What do I think? I think you’re bloody lucky. She’s a looker, isn’t she? What’s her name?’

  ‘Rachel.’

  ‘Rachel.’ Winter was peering round, as if she might be sitting at a nearby table. ‘Rachel. You known her long, young Rachel?’

  ‘I’m married to her.’

  ‘Of course you are, son. Of course you are. Makes sense now. That photo on your desk. Blonde hair. Nice lips. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tarrant nodded. ‘And funny too, when she’s in the mood.’

  ‘Mood. That’s it, isn’t it? Gotta catch ’em. Gotta recognise it. Gotta be there. Yeah … ’ he nodded ‘ … when they’re in the mood.’