Faraday nodded.
‘And you’re telling me this stuff’s collected from the skip outside?’
‘It’s a wheelie bin. It’s locked. Tarrant’s got the key. Off it goes to be incinerated. As far as I know, it’s not checked, opened, nothing. Straight in the furnace and up the chimney. Beautiful. Us lot? We come round six weeks later and there’s absolutely fuck all left. Why? Because chummy’s a puff of smoke. Like I say, sweet.’
‘You need to check all this. The waste chain, link by link, how it works.’
‘Of course, boss. I’ll get it sorted.’
Faraday was frowning, looking for the holes in Winter’s explanation. A human body wasn’t a small thing. Seventy kilos of flesh and bone might attract attention. ‘Would Tarrant really risk dumping all those parcels at once?’
‘I doubt it. If he could keep some in the fridge for later, I expect he would.’
‘Who else has access to the fridge?’
‘His oppo. Young bloke. Simon someone.’
‘Check him out too.’
‘Of course.’ Winter paused. ‘On the other hand, boss, Tarrant might just have taken the risk. He could have emptied the wheelie bin, filled it back up with chummy, saved the other stuff for later or just re-bagged it and taken it to the city tip. If he got the timing right, he could have had all of Givens en route to the incinerator within half a day of killing him.’
Faraday sat back. It sounded plausible enough. As, all too sadly, did Winter’s conclusion.
‘Without the body, as you say, we’re stuffed.’
‘That’s right, boss. We can haul him in and go over it all, time and again, and God knows he might drop a stitch or two and make it easy for us, but somehow I doubt it.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘I’m not sure … ’ Winter was stepping towards the door. ‘I’m still working on it.’
Faraday’s call found Daniel George on a train. He’d spent the night in London and was returning to give his wife a breather at the café. When Faraday asked for ten minutes of his time, he said there was no way. He had to get home from the station, drop some Respect stuff off at the printer’s and then get over to Albert Road. Faraday said it wouldn’t be a problem. He’d pick him up and run him to the printer’s place, then give him a lift back to the café. They could talk on the way. With some reluctance, George agreed.
The train, for once, was early. George shuffled down the steps with his briefcase and eased his lanky frame into the front of Faraday’s Mondeo. He was sweating in the midday heat.
‘Before we go any further,’ he said, ‘you should know I’ve talked to Jenny Mitchell.’
‘When?’
‘This morning. She phoned me on the mobile.’
‘How was she?’
‘Bloody upset.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
Faraday was trying to spot a break in the traffic. Finally, he darted out in front of an oncoming bus. George wanted to know whether this conversation of theirs was to be on the record.
‘You’re not under caution, if that’s the question.’
‘I know that. I’m asking you whether this is strictly for background, like last time.’
‘Last time you told me nothing.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And this time?’
‘This time might be different.’
‘Why?’
George didn’t answer. Faraday was slowing for a roundabout. The printer had premises in Milton. Milton was five minutes away.
‘You knew about Jenny and Mark Duley,’ Faraday said carefully. ‘What else did you know?’
‘I knew she was in the shit with him. And I knew she had to get herself out of it.’
‘You told her that?’
‘Of course.’
‘And afterwards? Did you talk to her again about it?’
‘I didn’t have the chance. She’d abandoned Respect by then and I understood why.’
‘Because she didn’t want to see Duley?’
‘Exactly.’ He nodded. ‘I like Jenny. She’s got a good heart. She worked hard for us. It was a shame she couldn’t have stayed longer.’
‘Were you surprised then? By her and Duley?’
‘Not really. You’ve met Jenny. She’s very attractive. She’s vulnerable too. Suggestible. Duley had an eye for that kind of weakness. To be frank, he could be a bit of a control freak.’
‘No love lost then? Between you and Duley?’
George was rolling himself a cigarette. Only when he’d lit it did he permit himself the slightest shake of the head.
‘We all have our needs, don’t we?’ he murmured. ‘Duley just happened to be needier than the rest of us.’
Needy, Faraday thought. Maybe it was as simple as that. Pure appetite. Unquenchable. The kind of need that could turn into a death sentence.
‘When did you last see Duley?’
‘The day before he died.’
‘Really?’ Faraday looked across at him. ‘The Saturday, you mean?’
‘Yes. He came round to the café. He’d obviously been in the wars. He wanted to borrow my car.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell me.’
‘How long did he keep it?’
‘Longer than I’d anticipated. He said he’d have it back by six. I was going across to Gosport that night.’
‘And?’
‘He turned up with it gone midnight. Said he’d had a puncture.’
‘Was it true?’
‘I’ve no idea. I never checked.’
‘What sort of state was he in?’
‘Agitated. Definitely.’
‘And he didn’t say where he’d been?’
‘No.’
They were in Milton by now. Faraday followed George’s directions to the printer’s premises. Until recently it must have been a garage of some kind. There was a Stop-the-War poster nailed to one of the big double doors and the ghostly shape of a large black cat behind the net curtains in the window upstairs.
‘I won’t be long.’ George was fumbling in his briefcase.
Faraday waited at the kerbside, trying to nudge this latest piece of the jigsaw into the puzzle. He could see George in the upstairs window, sorting through sheaf after sheaf of paper. Minutes later, he was back out on the pavement.
They drove back towards Southsea. Only when they were in sight of the café did George break the silence.
‘What now?’ he wanted to know.
‘We soldier on. I’ll need to take a statement.’
‘I thought you might.’ He glanced across. ‘Have you finished with Jenny?’
‘I doubt it. We need to know exactly what happened on the Sunday. She might be able to help us there.’
Faraday drew the car to a halt. Half a dozen students were chatting in the sunshine outside the cafe. Recognising George, they looked curiously at the bearded figure beside him.
‘Tell me something,’ Faraday said. ‘Duley’s dead now. He’s gone. What was your real take on him?’
George was already opening the door. The question brought him to a halt.
‘There are people in my bit of the wood who are badly damaged,’ he said at last. ‘That’s why they’re drawn to the far left. They’re alienated. They’re on the run.’
‘From what?’
‘From us, Mr Faraday. And from themselves.’ He reached for his briefcase. ‘Does that answer your question?’
Winter treated himself to a cab to St Mary’s Hospital. Dawn Ellis had said she’d run him up there but he turned down the offer. He was due a check-up session with one of the consultants, he told her. These guys were always running late and he’d hate to have her hanging round for hours in the car park.
The cab dropped Winter outside the main block. He stepped into the sunshine and followed the road round the administration HQ until he found the cul-de-sac that led to the mortuary. A gleaming hearse was backing caref
ully towards the doors that opened into the chapel of rest. Tarrant’s assistant, Simon Hoole, signalled the driver to stop, then spotted Winter.
‘You after Jake?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s up at QA all day. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Winter wandered across to the main entrance where 7713 on the keypad took him into the lobby. It was cooler in here, and there was a sharp chemical smell gusting in from the post-mortem room. He hesitated a moment, looking at the row of battered fridge doors, knowing how easy it must have been for Tarrant to dispose of the body. Winter had never had much time for theories about the perfect murder but for once he was prepared to make an exception. All you need in life, he thought, is the right job.
The office door was open. Jake must have been in first thing because Winter recognised his Pompey sports bag abandoned on the armchair. He shifted the bag and sat down. From outside came the purr of the departing hearse. Then Simon’s bulk filled the doorway.
‘What can I do you for, Mr Winter? Only Jake’s not back until late. One of them big management meetings. Me? I’d be bored to fuck.’
‘What time’s he back then?’
‘Round six,’ he said. ‘Then he’s off to five-a-side. Big night tonight. Three wins and they’re top of the league.’
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘Southsea Town.’
‘Where’s that then?’
‘On past Fratton. Down round the Pier. Big place with a beach.’
‘I meant where are they playing, son.’
‘Soccer City, over at Fareham.’ He grinned down at Winter. ‘Fancy it, do you?’
Tracy Barber brought Faraday the news about the padlock. Outside Enquiries had despatched a DC to the ironmongers in Petersfield. The manager had confirmed they sold identical padlocks, but the woman who might have served Ginnie Bullen only worked at weekends. Once he’d had the chance to check his till receipts for 9 July, he’d get back. Odds on, he thought it was probably one of theirs.
‘That’s a yes, then.’ Faraday was smiling. ‘And what about the return visit to Mrs Cleaver’s place?’
Barber smiled. She’d pressed Outside Enquiries to add it to their list of actions but the team were still swamped with follow-ups on the CCTV checks so in the end she’d driven out to the Cleavers’ place herself.
‘And?’
‘You were right. Duley turned up on the Thursday afternoon.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not much. Apparently he never got past the front gate. He rang the entryphone and then just stared up at the camera. When she wanted to know what he was after, he just lifted his T-shirt and told her to take a good look, and then ask herself what else her husband did for kicks.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very dramatic.’
‘Quite. And effective too. If we’re talking MO, it fits Duley like a glove. She said it scared her half to death.’
‘And her husband?’
‘Apparently she never told him.’
‘Why not?’
‘She wouldn’t say. From where I’m sitting, she couldn’t cope with an honest answer. The place is a dream. It must have cost the earth. Maybe she’s better off not knowing where the money came from.’ Barber glanced at her watch. ‘Are we still OK for St James’?’
They drove east across the city. St James’ Hospital was ten minutes away. Faraday had phoned ahead for an appointment with the psychiatrist, Peter Barnaby, and he’d agreed to meet them at two. Faraday parked on the tree-lined avenue that swept up to the imposing entrance. A couple of patients were sitting on a nearby bench, back to back, staring into nowhere.
Barnaby occupied a big sunny office on the ground floor. He was a tall, slightly rumpled figure in corduroy trousers and a denim shirt. His auburn curls were beginning to recede but his eyes were bright behind a pair of thick-lensed glasses. He waved them into the chairs in front of his desk.
‘I’m completely in the dark,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you’re after.’
Faraday’s attention had been caught by a photo balanced precariously on a line of books behind the desk. It showed Barnaby at sea at the helm of a sizeable yacht. There was a woman with him, grinning at the camera, together with a couple of kids. Looking at the photo, Faraday was reminded at once of Willard. Nearly three days, he thought. And not a single call about Winter.
‘Do you sail at all?’ Barnaby had noticed Faraday’s interest.
‘No. I’m afraid not.’
‘You should. Everyone should. It’s God’s therapy.’ He gestured at the mountain of correspondence on his desk. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I could get by without it.’
Faraday explained briefly about Major Crimes’ interest in Mark Duley’s death. They’d been working on the enquiry for nearly a fortnight now and one of the leads that had been thrown up related to Landfall.
‘Good Lord.’ Barnaby seemed surprised. ‘Why’s that?’
‘It seems there may have been a link between Duley and a woman called Jenny Mitchell. Do you know Jenny at all?’
‘Very well. I’m godfather to one of her children. Young Milo.’
‘I see. And were you aware of any … ah … link between them?’
‘What precisely do you mean by “link”, Mr Faraday? ’
‘Relationship.’
‘I see.’ He turned in his chair, rubbed his face, gazed briefly out of the window. ‘This is tricky,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not sure I’m in a position to help you.’
‘No?’
‘No. These things are personal. Someone confides in you, you’re obliged to offer them a measure of … ah … discretion.’
‘She’s not a patient of yours, Mr Barnaby.’
‘Indeed not. But she’s a friend, and a very dear one. To be frank, the last thing I’m going to do is discuss her private life. Not at least without her permission. Does that sound terribly unhelpful?’
His smile had real warmth. You’d tell this man anything, Faraday thought, if he was asking the questions.
‘You mentioned Landfall.’ Barnaby was sitting back in his chair now, his hands linked behind his head. ‘Care to tell me why?’
‘Of course. My understanding is that Jenny may have some involvement. Is that the case?’
‘She used to do the books in the early days, yes. Now?’ He shrugged. ‘Andy has a full-time accountant. He’s got no option. It’s a big organisation, turns over a lot of money. The audit obligations are terrifying. Jenny’s got kids to bring up and a life of her own.’
‘But she maintains some kind of interest?’
‘She’d have to. She can’t avoid it. She lives with the man who runs it. He might come home at night but looking after an organisation like that is a twenty-four-hour job. I’m sure there are days when Jenny wishes she’d never heard of Landfall. But that, I’m afraid, comes with the territory.’
‘I’m not sure I understand. You’re telling me she is involved?’
‘Only on the margins. My point is this: Andy’s chosen probably the toughest client group in the country. These are folk in whom you people will have a professional interest. A lot of them are recidivists. The only thing they know how to do is break the law, and believe me they’re not very good at that. The rest are in various stages of disrepair. It’s either drugs or alcohol, or some form of chronic mental illness. They have no homes, no prospects, nothing they can call their own. From my own point of view I have nothing but admiration for -’ He broke off. ‘Do you know Andy, by the way?’
‘No.’
‘He’s an impressive individual. I can’t think of anyone else in this city who could have taken Landfall to where it is now.’
‘It’s flourishing?’
‘More than that. It’s irreplaceable. If Landfall went down the tubes tomorrow you’d have to invent its twin sister the following day. In my view, that’s the true measure of Andy’s achievement. He’s built it up from n
othing, literally a couple of lines on a sheet of paper, and five years later people are queueing round the block to ask him how he did it. It’s true.’ He nodded at the pile of correspondence. ‘I’ve got letters here from Social Services departments up and down the country. One came in this morning. Walsall. The man wants to come and shake Andy by the hand, sit at his feet, learn.’
‘I understand you recently resigned from the board. Is that true?’
‘Yes, it is. Why did I do it? Frankly, because I had no option. I had some small part in setting Landfall up. That was five years ago. But it was always my intention to step back and leave them to it once the thing was well and truly up and running. They don’t need me anymore, Mr Faraday, and to be honest with you I need the time it buys me. In fact if I don’t get a grip on the rest of my life, I’ll probably go pop. That’s my wife’s phrase, by the way, not mine.’ The smile again, even warmer.
‘There are rumours … ’ Faraday began.
‘About Landfall?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course there are. Rumours, gossip, scuttlebutt - it all comes with the territory. And you know something rather sad? The more successful you are, the uglier - the more vicious - the rumours. People hate success in this country. I’ve never understood why, but it’s true. Do something difficult, make it work, build yourself a bit of a reputation, and there are people who can’t wait to see you fall flat on your face. If anyone’s going to go pop, it should be Andy. But he’s stronger than that, thank God.’
‘It must be a pressure though.’
‘Of course it is, of course it is. And pressure doesn’t stop there either. I’m not sure how much you know about social provision, Mr Faraday, but the truth is it’s turned into a bit of a nightmare. The government, to be crude, want shot of it. They want to hand it over to the marketplace. They want to freeload on the back of motivated young men like Andy. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with that if only they had the courage of their convictions. But they don’t. They meddle, and they micromanage, and they get up to all kinds of tiresome nonsense, and it’s people like Andy who end up as the meat in a particularly loathsome sandwich. He makes a profit, of course he does, but given the pressures he’s under I sometimes wonder why he simply doesn’t jack it in.’
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