With Duley back in the UK, the usual pattern of calls had abruptly changed. Instead of the normal series of lengthy conversations, the billing recorded lots of briefer calls, 32 seconds, 53 seconds, 43 seconds - seven or eight of them a day. This non-stop bombardment smacked to Faraday of desperation. Something had happened between them. Time and time again, Duley was trying to get through to her, trying to talk to her, trying - perhaps - to put his case. But she must have been resolute because, as May crept into June, the barrage of calls slowly fell away. Faraday reached for a pencil, circled the key date when the pattern changed: 18 May.
Then another entry caught his eye. On 28 June Duley had been on the phone to Jenny Mitchell for fifteen minutes. The following morning, at 09.32, he’d called her again. This time the conversation had lasted nearly an hour. After that more calls, much briefer. Then, on 5 July, a longer chat, ten minutes or so. Two days later three attempts - none successful - to coax her into conversation. Finally, on Sunday 10 July, two last calls. The first, again, was brief. The second, at 12.03, was logged at nearly fifty minutes. By early next morning Duley was dead.
Faraday tidied the sheets of paper, wondering whether he wasn’t committing the cardinal sin. Every detective learns not to load the bare facts. These were simply phone calls. They might have been in business together. They might have been political junkies, bent on dissecting the day’s developments. They might have been discussing the weather. Any of this was possible. Except that every last shred of circumstantial evidence argued otherwise.
In his prize-winning story Gethsemane the writer had met the woman in the depths of winter. In real life, according to the Vodafone billing, this relationship had begun on 24 February. From Venezuela, Duley had dispatched a card to his own address. It had been sent to Mia Querida, but the day after Duley returned to the UK, something had brought their phone conversations to a close, and - maybe as a direct result - the card had never been picked up. On 26 June, according to the entry in Hantspol’s own Records Management System, Duley had been admitted to A & E after a severe beating. Two days later, a little better, he’d been on the phone to her again. Faraday’s eye drifted back to the first page of entries. In the Gethsemane extract the woman had kissed the writer. Was this the Judas kiss? The sweet taste of betrayal? Had it triggered a passionate affair? With consequences too horrible to contemplate?
The answer, Faraday knew, lay in the hours before and after Duley’s death in the tunnel. He reached for the phone again. Babs answered at once.
‘Get onto TIU,’ he told her. ‘Ask them to chase up Vodafone for historical billings and cell site on the Mitchell number. Tell them it’s urgent.’ He read her the number, then put the phone down.
By the time Winter got to Kingston Crescent, Faraday had gone. Babs updated him on the Vodafone development and mentioned that Faraday had been looking for him. Winter grunted something about having had to wait in for a plumber and settled behind his desk. A call to PC World, with the details on Givens’ direct debit payments, secured a promise to get back with details of the equipment under warranty. The morning’s post produced nothing of real interest. He glanced at his watch, wondering whether Dawn Ellis had finished the report she was doing for Faraday about the injuries to Jimmy Suttle. He picked up the phone.
‘You ready, love?’
They drove north, through the city. At the mouth of the cul-de-sac that would take them to Tarrant’s house, Winter laid a precautionary hand on Ellis’ arm.
‘I’ll take the lead,’ he said. ‘That OK with you?’
‘Whatever.’ She shrugged.
Rachel Tarrant was trying to fix the younger kid’s high chair when the ring brought her to the front door. She scowled at Winter, ignoring the proffered warrant card.
‘He’s at work,’ she said. ‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘We’ve come to talk to you, love. This is DC Ellis, a colleague of mine.’
‘Talk to me, why?’
‘Let us in and I’ll tell you.’
She looked at him, uncertain now, then stepped aside. Both kids were in the sitting room, watching television.
‘We’ll do this in here.’ Winter was already in the tiny kitchen. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’
He nudged the high chair aside with his foot, dislodging a clamp Rachel had fixed to a broken strut at the bottom. Ellis bent to retrieve it.
‘Handy round the house, are you?’ Rachel was watching her attempts to reattach the clamp.
‘Have to be, Mrs Tarrant. Living on my tod.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Yeah?’ Ellis glanced up at her. ‘Haven’t got any more glue, have you?’
Rachel passed down a tube of No-Nails. Ellis quickly resealed the joint.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Nipper-proof.’
Winter was debating the chances of coffee. When Rachel didn’t offer, he gestured her towards the vacant stool.
‘This is about Alan Givens,’ he told her. ‘There’s a couple of things that are troubling us.’
‘What’s that got to do with me? I thought we’d been through all this.’
‘We have. I just need to check on some details.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like when you last saw Mr Givens.’
‘You asked me that the other night.’
‘I’m asking you again. Only this time I want you to think a bit harder.’
She looked at him, startled, then leaned back against the kitchen work surface.
‘It would have been a while ago,’ she said at last. ‘A couple of months, nearly. May time.’
‘So where is he, do you think?’
‘I haven’t a clue. I ask Jake the same question.’
‘And?’
‘He doesn’t know either.’
‘He’s just gone? Disappeared? No warning? No explanation?’
‘None.’
‘Don’t you think that’s odd?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘To tell you the truth, I do.’
‘So why didn’t you do anything about it?’
‘I did. I made Jake report it. He told me he’d gone to the management but it turned out they’d already been in touch with you lot.’
Winter nodded. It was true. He’d checked the Misper log a week ago. On 31 May Human Resources had phoned Kingston Crescent. The duty sergeant had sent a couple of uniforms round to the hospital and they, in turn, had checked Givens’ premises. They’d taken a note of his mobile number but no one had bothered to apply for billing. Since then, nothing.
‘So he disappears at the end of May, leaving you holding his money. Am I right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No phone calls? Texts? Postcards?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Weren’t you worried about him?’
‘Of course I was. People don’t just disappear. Not just like that. Especially not people like Alan.’
‘What does that mean, Mrs Tarrant?’
Rachel turned to look at Ellis. She was in the corner of the kitchen, leaning against the door.
‘It means he was a bit … ’ she shrugged ‘ … vulnerable, I suppose. Needy. You know what I mean?’
‘No.’ Ellis’ eyes were cold. ‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t know. It’s difficult. He lived alone. He didn’t have anyone.’
‘You mean he couldn’t cope?’
‘No, not that. In fact he was very organised, looked after himself, sorted everything out. No, on a practical level he was fine. But that made it even more odd, the way I see it. Alan’s a bloke you can set your watch by. He’s completely reliable. If he says he’s going to do something, he does it. That’s a novelty in my house, believe me.’
Winter laughed. ‘I’ll tell him that,’ he said. ‘Young Jake.’
‘Don’t bother. He never listens.’
‘So Givens … ?’ Ellis wasn’t letting go. ‘You think what?’
‘I think it’s bloody strange. Like I said, one minute he was there, the
next he’s vanished. No warning. Nothing. ’
‘So you must have wondered, mustn’t you?’
‘About what?’
‘About what might have happened to him?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I … ’ for the first time, she hesitated ‘ … just don’t know.’
There was a silence. Through the thin walls Winter could hear the blare of the TV.
‘Some people think he was a bit keen on you, Rachel,’ he said at last.
‘Alan?’ The thought made her laugh. ‘Keen on me? That way, you mean?’
‘Yes. Why’s that so funny?’
‘Because it’s absurd. He needed a mother. Not, you know … ’
‘And does Jake think that?’
‘God knows.’
‘But say he did think that. Givens was round here a lot. Isn’t that true?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t say a lot, but yes. It’s been lovely weather. He’d bring that camera of his, take shots of the kids in the garden. They enjoyed having him here. We all did. That’s why we started talking about sharing the Southsea place.’
‘And Jake? He was part of that?’
‘Of course he was. In fact it was Jake who met him first, through work.’
‘Sure. I understand that. But then you and Alan got very -’ Winter shrugged ‘- pally. You spent a lot of time together. Maybe Jake thought all that went a bit too far. And maybe he didn’t fancy having a lodger all of a sudden.’
‘In Southsea, you mean?’ Rachel was getting angry now. ‘So how else do you think we’re going to get out of this place?’
‘I’ve no idea, love. All I’m saying is that Jake might have had a bit of a problem with Mr Givens. And that quite suddenly Mr Givens isn’t around anymore. We’re detectives, Rachel. We always think the worst of everyone.’
Rachel held his gaze. It took a while for the implications to sink in.
‘You mean Jake … ?’
‘It’s a question, Rachel. A suggestion. That’s all.’
‘After everything he’s done for you?’
‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘But you really think he might have … ’
‘I think it’s possible, yes. We deal in facts. Fact one, your Mr Givens isn’t around anymore. Fact two, you have most of his money. And then there’s something else, isn’t there? Jake might not be sad to see the back of him.’
‘That’s not a fact. That’s you talking. Jake’s as worried as I am.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. And if you knew him, if you really knew him, you’d realise he was a pussy cat. That’s Jake’s problem. He’s too nice to people. You ask anyone at work. He’s an easy touch. Go and talk to the blokes he plays football with. That five-a-side lot. They think the world of him - good player, good bloke - but you know the one thing they can’t believe? Anyone fouls Jake, he just takes it in his stride. Never retaliates. Never loses his cool. Complete pussy cat, like I say. Rolls over for anyone.’
This little speech temporarily silenced Winter. Then came the sound of a door banging outside, followed by tiny footsteps pattering up and down the hall.
Ellis stirred. Any minute now the kids would be in the kitchen, bringing the interview to an end. In these situations it was sometimes best to go for broke and watch what happened.
‘Let’s say Alan’s gone away somewhere,’ she began. ‘He likes the kids. The kids like him. You’re pissed off here. The pair of you have money.’ She smiled. ‘That’s do-able, isn’t it?’
Again, Rachel seemed to have difficulty following the logic. Finally, it dawned on her what Ellis was really saying.
‘Wash your mouth out.’ Her face had darkened. ‘You have to be bloody joking.’
Afterwards, driving back down to Kingston Crescent, Ellis wanted to know what Jake had done for Winter. Winter said he hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
‘Back there in the house. She had you down as some kind of special friend of Jake’s, a real mate. No?’
‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘Jake’s a good bloke. She’s right. Everyone loves him. Me amongst them.’
‘I don’t believe you. Something’s been going on between you and Tarrant. Am I right or what?’
‘You’re wrong, love. Women get confused.’ He shot her a weary grin. ‘It’s part of their charm.’
South Normandy was a cul-de-sac of post-war houses tucked into a quiet corner of Old Portsmouth. The last time Faraday had been there was years back, after the death of a wayward fourteen-year-old who’d plunged to her death from a block of flats a mile or so away. On that occasion he’d been dealing with the girl’s mother, unlocking a mausoleum of family secrets. Now he wondered whether something similar awaited him.
DC Tracy Barber had come too. They stood in the hot sunshine for a moment or two, inspecting the house at the end. There was a bicycle propped against the front wall of the house. It had a tiny seat on the back and a mini-saddle bolted to the crossbar for a second child.
Faraday hadn’t phoned ahead. The value of the next hour or so, he told himself, was the fact that the knock on the door would come as a complete surprise.
The door opened at once. She was Tracy’s height, late twenties, maybe a year or two older. She had wonderful hair, a wild perm that framed her face, and when she smiled Faraday knew at once what must have seeded the madness in Duley. She had huge eyes, the softest brown, and the tan suggested she’d made the most of the recent weather.
She was looking at Tracy Barber’s warrant card. She seemed to be having difficulty connecting it with the two strangers on her doorstep.
‘Police?’ she said blankly.
‘That’s right. You are … ?’
‘My name’s Mitchell. What’s this about?’
Barber suggested they all talk inside. Faraday could see two small faces peering round a door at the end of the hall.
Jenny took them into the front room. There were kids’ toys all over the floor. One look at her face told Faraday she was very, very frightened.
‘This is crazy … ’ she said.
Barber suggested she sat down. Faraday took the chair by the window. The faces were at the door now. The girl was the older, the boy a year or so younger, both pre-school.
‘They’ve been in the garden.’ She apologised for their nakedness. ‘This weather, who can blame them.’
The older, she said, was Freya. Milo, her brother, was a saint.
Barber asked whether there was someone handy who could look after them for an hour or so. A neighbour maybe.
She shook her head, alarmed.
‘My neighbour’s out at the moment. She goes swimming every morning. My mum’s got a flat round the corner but she’s in Malta. Is this going to take long? Only I promised … ’ She tailed off.
Faraday tried to reassure her. They were here to ask her about someone who might have been a friend of hers. It formed part of an ongoing enquiry. He was sorry to spring this on her but they worked for the Major Crimes Team, and there was a degree of urgency.
‘Major Crimes?’
‘Yes.’
‘So who is this person?’
‘His name’s Duley. Mark Duley.’
She nodded, reached for the younger of her children. The boy clambered into her lap. He must have been playing in a flower bed, Faraday thought. His tiny feet had left brown tracks across the carpet.
‘You knew Mr Duley?’ It was Barber.
‘Yes.’
‘How well did you know him?’
She was hugging the child now, holding him close. He kicked his feet and arched his back, loving it. His sister grabbed at her mother’s skirt, demanding the same kind of attention.
‘Mrs Mitchell?’
‘I knew him well. If that’s what you want to know.’
‘How well?’
‘I’m not sure I have to answer that question, do I?’
‘Of course not. We can continue th
is conversation at the police station, if you’d prefer. I’m sure you’ve got a lawyer.’
‘A lawyer?’ She looked aghast. A sunny day was getting darker by the minute.
‘Mrs Mitchell … ’ Faraday tried to soften the impact of these relentless questions. ‘I think it’s in all our interests if we’re frank with each other. Are you still married?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘What’s your husband’s name?’
‘Do I have to tell you?’
‘Only if you want to.’
She nodded, extended a hand to her daughter, hauled her up onto the sofa beside her.
‘Andy,’ she said at last. ‘Is he part of this too?’
‘Part of what, Mrs Mitchell?’
‘Whatever it is you want to know about?’
‘I’ve no idea, at this stage.’
‘But you think he might be?’
Faraday refused to answer. Milo was wrestling with one of his mother’s earrings, a long silver dangle that looked Indian.
Barber took up the running. ‘You’ll know that Mark Duley was killed last week.’
‘Of course.’ She shook her head. ‘Dreadful. Terrible. Poor bloody man.’
‘How did you find out, as a matter of interest?’
‘It was in the papers, on the TV. I can’t remember, to be honest. I just knew, that’s all.’
‘That would be on the Monday?’
‘Yes, the Monday, yes.’
‘What were you doing on the Sunday? Can you remember?’
Jenny frowned, one hand for Milo, the other for her fretful daughter. At length she said she wasn’t sure. Most Sundays they just slobbed out, she said. She took the kids swimming. They all went for a bike ride together, had friends round, other kids, sorted out a barbecue if the weather was nice - just routine stuff, family stuff, the kind of stuff you do with a couple of harum-scarum infants in a seaside city like this. Faraday watched her carefully. Already, he thought, she’s saying goodbye to this life of hers. She’s been expecting us for days, probably longer. She’s not yet ready for the truth, not quite. But she will be.
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