One Under

by Hurley, Graham

‘But how?’

  He looked at them, saying nothing, his huge face beginning to redden. Winter took a step back and shut the door.

  ‘This is serious, son,’ he said. ‘And my colleague here just asked you a question.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So give her an answer, yeah? And don’t fuck us about.’

  Hoole nodded, chastened.

  ‘He hated it,’ he said at last. ‘Jake did.’

  ‘Hated what?’

  ‘Having this bloke around all the time. It wasn’t just here. In fact that probably wasn’t so bad, not with the cakes and all, but he’d find him back home too, when he got in of an evening, and he’d drop all these hints and stuff, but his missus wasn’t having it, so next morning he’d come in with a right mood on him. Bloke was practically kipping with them, the way Jake saw it. Fucking weirdo, Givens. Good fucking riddance, says me.’

  ‘Where’s he gone then? Any ideas?’

  ‘Dunno, mate. Venice, I expect. Where he belongs. On his fucking tod.’

  ‘And Jake? How’s he been these last few weeks?’

  ‘Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Just the way I knew him first.’ He frowned again, and his fingers strayed to his chin. ‘Shame about them cakes, though.’

  Faraday sat at his desk, waiting for the phone call to pick up. He’d checked the number with Barbara Large and she was positive that Sally Spedding was waiting in for his call. She lived in the Midlands. Any closer, and they could have met. Finally, a voice on the line.

  Faraday introduced himself. Sally Spedding didn’t waste time on small talk; she was up to her eyes marking university dissertations. She could spare him ten minutes or so.

  ‘It’s about Mark Duley, am I right?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Barbara tells me he’s dead.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Something about a tunnel.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Faraday explained what had happened. There was a long silence.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said at last. ‘This is going to sound bizarre but I knew from the start he couldn’t work out a proper ending.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A proper ending. I knew Mark for three days but, believe me, that was enough. He was one of those people who explode into a room. He was exhausting. He was the same with everyone; I watched him. It was there in everything he did, his body language, the way he talked to people, the way he charmed them, the way he had no respect, you know, for physical distance. He had enormous zip, sheer physical energy. That was one of the reasons his writing was so flawed. He had no perspective. He crowded you. He wanted to shut out the daylight. You’d be talking to him, maybe in a classroom, maybe a bar, whatever, and you’d suddenly realise there was nothing else going on around you, just this really intense conversation, just you and him. You’d be flattered to begin with but then you realised he did it with everyone else too. It’s the way he related to people. I know it sounds horrible but it’s a bit like the dog and the lamp post. He had to mark his territory. He had to take charge. Are you with me?’

  Faraday had jotted down the odd word. He underlined ‘perspective’. Then his eye went back to the top of the pad.

  ‘I still don’t understand “proper ending”,’ he said slowly.

  ‘It means he had no sense of … ’ she struggled to frame the thought ‘ … completion. The best writers have a sense of wholeness. Their books are no more than metaphors. There’s a circularity, a feeling that events are feeding off themselves, pushing a story forward, yet reinforcing something important that’s happening underneath. It’s a very hard thing to put into words, which I guess is why there are so many crap writers around, but what I think it boils down to is a sense that these people have well and truly got it together. They’ve had a bit of a think about life. They’re sure of their bearings. They’ve got the measure of their own situation, and that means they’ve got the measure of the raw material that goes into the book. Mark didn’t have that. He didn’t have it in his writing, in his ideas, in what he wanted to do on the page. And I suspect that means he didn’t have it in his life either. To be frank, he was all over the place.’

  ‘A mess?’

  ‘A mess, yes. But more than that. Mark’s problem was you couldn’t avoid him. And because you couldn’t avoid him, you pretty quickly came to the conclusion that he couldn’t avoid himself. Like I say, the best writers are ghosts in their own lives. They dwell in the shadows. They watch. They listen. They remember. Mark wasn’t like that at all. Sometimes he was a very noisy little puppy. Other moments you had the feeling that he was a bomb about to go off. Oh dear … ’ She started to giggle. ‘The poor man’s dead. That sounds awful, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Yes, in a way I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he was what he was. That sounds daft, doesn’t it, after everything else I’ve just told you? But the thing about Mark was his honesty. He was a one-role actor. If you didn’t happen to like that role, then he had a problem because sure as hell you didn’t like him either, but the charm of the man was his absolute lack of interest in, you know, social camouflage. These kind of events, you meet so many people who fall over backwards pretending they’re someone else. Mark couldn’t pretend to save his life. He didn’t know how to do it and he didn’t see the point. Now that can be a problem if you’re planning to write fiction but, one to one, if you’re drunk enough, it can work.’

  It was Faraday’s turn to laugh. He liked this woman. She’d thought hard about Duley and she pulled no punches. He wondered what her own books were like.

  ‘You say drunk,’ he said carefully. ‘We recovered a photo from the place where he was living. It must have been taken at Winchester during that weekend.’

  ‘Oh God … ’ She laughed again. ‘Am I in it?’

  ‘Describe yourself.’

  ‘Black hair? Roll-neck top? Red skirt? Pendant thing round my neck?’

  ‘That’s it. That’s you. Front row. It looks like some kind of bar.’

  ‘You’re right. It must have been the Saturday night. Mark had pushed the boat out. He’d just picked up one of the prizes and there was no way we weren’t going to celebrate. I wouldn’t fault him for generosity. Far from it.’

  Faraday was tempted to ask how a writer this flawed had collared a prize but thought better of it. Instead, he asked what happened next.

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘After the bar closed.’

  ‘With Mark, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah … ’ There was a longish silence. ‘You’re asking me for a name?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘What did Barbara say?’

  ‘She told me to talk to you.’

  ‘I see. Well, that’s a bit tricky, isn’t it?’

  ‘The man’s dead, Sally.’

  ‘I know.’

  Another silence. Just a question of time, Faraday told himself. And patience.

  ‘Is she married, this person?’ he enquired at last.

  ‘No. Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel, you know, right. How about I talk to her and ask her to give you a ring? I’d feel better about it that way, to be honest. Then it’s her decision, not mine.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Faraday was eyeing the photo again, wondering which of these women Duley had taken to bed. ‘Barbara gave me the impression it was someone older than Mark.’

  ‘She’d be right.’

  ‘Taller than him? Grey hair? Strong face?’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘On the contrary. He’s got his arm round her. That’s what we detectives call a clue.’

  She laughed again, then said she had to go. Faraday thanked her for her time and made sure she’d written down his mobile number. Then he bent to the phone again.

  ‘Tell me somet
hing, Sally.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do you think Mark committed suicide?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she said at once. ‘This was a man who did everything for a purpose. There’d have been no point.’

  Jimmy Suttle was asleep when Winter and Dawn Ellis turned up at his hospital bedside. Winter commandeered a chair from the other end of the ward and settled down to wait while Ellis departed to find a hot-drinks machine.

  To Winter’s immense relief, Suttle was clearly on the mend. There was a blush of colour back in his face and someone had given him a decent shave. The only sign that he’d just spent a couple of days in Critical Care was a tiny wisp of adhesive plaster on his arm where one of the drips must have been attached.

  Winter looked at him a moment, wondering whether to give him a shake, then thought better of it. On the bedside locker, behind a thicket of get-well cards, he found a recent copy of FHM magazine. He was still inspecting a raunchy Brazilian newscaster with an all-over tan when Suttle stirred, yawned and opened one eye.

  ‘All right, son?’ Winter abandoned the magazine.

  Suttle gazed at him, uncomprehending. ‘Paul?’

  ‘Yeah, son. Me.’

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘Ages, mate. You look shit.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  His voice was barely a whisper. Winter grinned at him, then gave his hand a pat.

  ‘Brought you a little present, son. Here … ’

  Winter rummaged in the Tesco bag at his feet. His attempt to gift-wrap a box of fudge put a smile on Suttle’s face.

  ‘My favourite,’ he managed. ‘You must have parted with money for that.’

  ‘Pleasure, son. How do you feel?’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘Hurt, does it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Suttle had caught sight of the magazine. ‘Trude brought me that.’

  ‘Trude? Here?’

  ‘Yeah. She came in at lunchtime.’ His tongue flicked out, moistening his lips. ‘Nice to see her.’

  Winter edged his chair closer, thinking he should spare Suttle further conversation, but when he suggested bringing the visit to an end, Suttle shook his head. He wanted to talk. He was sick of being flat out like this. He shifted his weight in the bed, wincing at a sudden stab of pain.

  ‘Steady, son.’ Winter was on his feet.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Suttle nodded. ‘Could you sort these pillows out?’

  Winter gently lifted his head then rearranged the pillows. Trude was Misty Gallagher’s daughter. A couple of years back she and Suttle had got it on, until a couple of Mackenzie’s heavies had given the young DC a beating.

  ‘How is she then? Young Trude?’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘You be careful, son. Don’t want to end up in hospital, do we?’ He finished with the pillows and eased Suttle’s head back. Suttle grunted a thank you, then managed a smile.

  ‘She was talking about you. Says you’ve been a bad boy with Mist. What’s been going on?’

  Winter feigned ignorance. Said he hadn’t a clue. Suttle didn’t believe him.

  ‘Seriously, son, I don’t know what she’s on about. You know Mist. She gets bored. Has to have something to keep her amused.’

  ‘You’ve been shagging her?’

  ‘You have to be joking.’

  ‘So you pissed Mackenzie off some other way? Is that it? Only Trude seemed to think it was funny.’

  ‘Yeah? Well you tell her to keep her gossip to herself.’

  ‘It wasn’t funny?’

  ‘It never happened.’ Winter looked down at him. ‘End of story.’

  Dawn Ellis returned with two plastic cups. She gave one to Winter.

  ‘It’s hot chocolate,’ she said. ‘I must have pressed the wrong button.’ She looked down at Suttle, then kissed him on the forehead. ‘How are you?’

  Suttle pulled a face. Ellis wanted to know more but he shook his head.

  ‘Tell me about Ewart,’ he whispered.

  ‘We’ve done him for attempted murder.’ Ellis sipped at her chocolate. ‘And fraud. He’ll be looking at twelve to fourteen years. Minimum.’

  ‘And Givens?’

  Ellis glanced at Winter, then explained about the story Ewart was running. A kid from Somerstown had flogged him the debit card. He’d never seen Givens in his life.

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Ewart says it happened around the end of May. The kid found the wallet in the newsagent next to the offie. That’s about a week after Givens didn’t turn up for work. The dates fit with the withdrawals from his bank account. Ewart was buying season tickets a day or two later.’

  ‘So … ’ Suttle was fighting to get the words out. ‘We’re saying Givens was in Somerstown a week after he went missing? Then disappeared?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Winter had abandoned his hot chocolate. ‘Either that, or someone deliberately left the wallet. There was cash in it too. Sixty quid. Think about it, son. It’s a clever move. That kind of area, it’s odds on no one’s going to hand the thing in. The cash is easy. Then there’s the card. In the end it’s going to find its way to someone like Ewart. Ewart figures out some scam to empty Givens’ bank account but leaves a trace. We do the necessary and hey … ’

  ‘You’ve got a name.’ Suttle’s eyes were closed now.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Ellis was looking impressed. She turned to Winter.

  ‘When did you figure all that out?’

  ‘I didn’t, love. It’s obvious. If we accept it wasn’t Ewart. If we believe all the business with the wallet. Then it has to be deliberate.’

  ‘Unless Givens is still alive.’

  ‘No chance.’

  Ellis looked at him a moment. This was turning into a case conference. She glanced round the ward. There were six beds, all occupied.

  ‘You think we should pull the curtain?’ She gestured up at the track above the bed. ‘Give ourselves a bit of privacy?’

  Winter shook his head. His eyes were back on Suttle.

  ‘No point, love. Look … ’ He lowered his voice. ‘The boy’s asleep again.’

  Minutes later, they left the hospital. Dawn drove down into the city, Winter beside her. A scatter of gulls were fighting for scraps beside the Paulsgrove tip and the last of the sunset was dying over the distant bulk of Portchester Castle as they joined the motorway.

  ‘He’s amazing, isn’t he? Much better than I’d expected.’

  ‘He’s a good lad.’ Winter was deep in thought.

  ‘Yeah, but strong too. Has to be, a wound like that. Did you see the size of the knife Ewart had on him?’

  Winter didn’t answer. Something was bothering him, she knew. In his own good time he might tell her. Or not.

  She edged into the outside lane, took the little Peugeot to seventy-five. Ahead, the ivory spike of the Spinnaker Tower flagged her destination. After she dropped Winter off at Gunwharf, she was planning a drink or two with an old schoolfriend who was about to set up an alternative therapy clinic. This woman had substantial financial backing, plus a client list she already served in their own homes. The invitation was there for Dawn to join the new business and lately she’d begun to take it seriously.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ She was thinking of Jimmy Suttle again. ‘Too many bad things happen to good people. Bad things should happen to bad people.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Winter wasn’t interested.

  ‘You agree, Paul?’

  ‘Whatever, listen … computers.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Givens had one. Either a PC or a laptop.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’ve got his bank statements. He took out a warranty contract with PC World. Direct debits every month.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I couldn’t find it. Not at the flat. Not when I went through it.’ He paused, frowning. ‘The camera’s missing too. Funny that.�
�

  Sixteen

  Thursday, 21 July 2005, 08.34

  It was Babs who brought Faraday the letter from Vodafone. It had come in the morning post, the first envelope she’d opened.

  ‘Is this what you’re after, boss?’

  She laid the trophy on his desk. Billing on Duley’s mobile number went back six months and covered nine sheets of paper. Someone at Vodafone had been kind enough to do some basic analysis, identifying numbers which cropped up more than once. The calls to all of them were in single figures with one exception: 07967 633524. This too was a Vodafone number, and the helpful analyst had pre-empted a further enquiry from the Hantspol TIU by supplying caller details. Between 2 February and 12 July, Mark Duley had made 487 calls to a Ms Jenny Mitchell, 25 South Normandy, Old Portsmouth.

  Faraday stared at the name, aware of Babs still standing behind him. At length he looked round, grinning.

  ‘Is Winter around?’

  ‘No, boss, not yet.’

  ‘Seen DC Barber at all?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘OK.’ He nodded, tapped the letter. ‘Thanks.’

  Babs left the office, closing the door behind her. Faraday lifted the phone to Martin Barrie, but a recorded message told him that the Detective Superintendent was in London all day. Still grinning, Faraday contemplated putting in a call to Barrie’s mobile but then decided against it. On paper, this was the breakthrough he’d been anticipating for a couple of days - the name, the presence that shadowed everything he’d learned about Duley. He sat back in the chair, hearing Sally Spedding’s voice on the phone. He had no respect for physical distance. He had no perspective. He crowded you. He wanted to shut out the daylight. Faraday nodded to himself, doing the maths. Four hundred and eighty-seven calls in six months boiled down to an average of three a day. Crowded was an understatement.

  He went through the billing more carefully, week by week, aware of the way it fluctuated. Duley hadn’t called her at all until the last week in February. Over the next month the volume of calls had grown and grown. By April he was calling her five, sometimes six times a day. In early May it fell off for some reason, a couple of daily conversations at the most. Faraday paused, running his finger down the column of entries until he got to 14 May. From Venezuela, over the next three days, Duley had made eight calls. None of them had lasted less than twenty minutes. No wonder he’d needed to help himself to Mickey Kearns’ war chest.