‘How did you know?’
‘Ollie wrote and told me when she got home. Come to think of it, she mentioned you too. You made quite an impact from what I can understand.’
Ginnie said something to Gabrielle in French. Gabrielle began to laugh. Faraday reached for his glass. The wine was truly foul.
‘What else did Ollie tell you?’
‘She said the village had been overrun with policemen. She also said there hadn’t been any trains for a couple of days, which I take to be a bit of a blessing. She was over here at the time, of course, Ollie. She told me the village was still full of gossip when she got back. Funny that, isn’t it? How it takes bad news to really bring les Anglais out of themselves?’ She laughed, plunging a fork into a corner of cheese.
Faraday wanted to know more about Duley.
‘You had a relationship,’ he suggested carefully.
‘I took him to bed. Once. There’s a difference.’
‘But he came to see you afterwards. In Buriton.’
‘He did, more’s the pity. Pathetic bundle that he was.’ She dismissed the memory with a toss of her head. Sometimes you got these things wrong. ‘Tant pis.’
‘Wrong, how?’
‘You want me to make you a list? He was self-obsessed. He was boring. He could talk of nothing but himself and his own wretched situation. And on top of that I’m afraid he was hopeless in bed. It was probably the booze but in the end he fell asleep on me.’
Gabrielle was smiling again. Faraday sensed she liked this woman.
‘Tell me about the tunnel.’
‘Nothing to tell, really. The poor lamb was desperate to make us understand how unhappy he was. The tunnel was just another way of putting it. He went up there for effect. He slept in there to shock us. It was pure melodrama. With someone like that, you need a great deal of patience. I’m afraid I had none. That’s why Ollie and I left early to come back here. I couldn’t stand another minute of the man.’
Faraday nodded, then helped himself to a chunk of bread.
‘I understand you bought him a padlock.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he tell you why he wanted it?’
‘Yes. He had some half-baked idea about tying himself up. He said he had a point to make. To be frank, I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.’
‘Did you tell your sister about this?’
‘God, no. I felt guilty enough about the boy as it was, having him around all the time like that. The last thing Ollie needed was anything else on her plate.’
‘How many keys came with the padlock?’
‘Two. He kept one. I had the other.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He wanted me to untie him, unlock him, whatever.’
‘When?’
‘Sunday night. In the tunnel. At four in the morning. On the dot.’
‘He said that?’
‘Word for word. And then he made me swear I’d do it. We were sitting in the car in Southsea by this time, outside his flat. That was the Friday. I’d had to run him back from Buriton. The poor lamb refused to get out until I gave him an answer.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said yes. He was talking nonsense, obviously.’
‘But he wasn’t, was he?’
‘No, as it turned out, he wasn’t.’
‘And you left the next day? On the Saturday?’
‘That’s right, that’s what we decided, Ollie and I, spur of the moment thing, once I got back to the cottage … though he couldn’t have known that, le pauvre. He was still assuming we’d be off on the Tuesday.’ She laughed again, a toss of the head.
Faraday gazed at her. In the end, he thought, it was simple. Sally Spedding had been right; Peter Barnaby too. Duley had never meant to kill himself. The tunnel had been a performance, a tableau, conceived and mounted for Jenny’s benefit. This was how much she’d meant. These were the lengths to which she’d driven him. He’d taken it for granted, of course, that she’d summon help. But just in case that didn’t happen, he’d come up with a fallback - someone he’d trust with a spare key, someone he thought he’d impressed, someone who thought he mattered, someone who’d turn up in the darkness and set him free. The plan must have seemed foolproof. Except that Ginnie Bullen had better things to do. And Andy Mitchell wanted him dead.
‘Mad,’ Faraday said softly.
Ginnie caught the word, shook her head, reached for the bottle.
‘Rubbish.’ She snorted. ‘Madness is interesting. Duley was a child.’ She shaded her eyes against the dying sun, looking for Gabrielle. ‘Encore du rouge, ma petite?’
If you have enjoyed
ONE UNDER
Don’t miss
THE PRICE OF DARKNESS
Graham Hurley’s latest novel featuring DI Joe Faraday
Coming soon in Orion hardback
Price £9.99
ISBN 978-0-7528-6884-4
Prelude
Monday 4 September 2006. Cambados, Spain
Uncomfortable in the heat, Winter followed the funeral cortège as it wound up the narrow path towards the cemetery. From here, high on the rocky hillside, he could sense what had drawn the dead man to Cambados. Not simply the lure of Colombian cocaine, delivered wholesale across the Atlantic. Not just the prospect of ever-swelling profits as he helped the laughing powder towards the exploding UK marketplace. But the chance to settle somewhere remote, somewhere real, to make a life for himself among these tough, nut-brown Galician peasants.
The cortège came to a halt beside the ruins of the Santa Marina church while the priest fumbled with the gate of the tiny cemetery. Winter paused, glad to catch his breath. The view was sensational. Immediately below, a tumble of houses crowding towards the waterfront. Further out, beyond the estuary, the aching blueness of the open sea.
Last night, after an emotional tour of his brother’s favourite bars, Bazza had ended up locked in an embrace with Mark’s girlfriend’s mother. Her name was Teresa. She was a plump, handsome woman who walked with the aid of a stick and, as far as Winter understood, the funeral arrangements had been entirely her doing.
The priest had accepted her assurances that Mark had been a practising Catholic. The friends he’d made had secured a plot in the cemetery. God had doubtless had a hand in the jet-ski accident, and Mark’s death doubtless served some greater purpose, but the only thing she understood just now was that her daughter’s life would never be the same. Bebe had been only months away from becoming Mark’s wife. There would have been children, lots of children. God gives, and God takes away, she’d muttered, burying her face in a fold of Bazza’s linen jacket.
The mourners began to shuffle upward again, and Winter caught a whiff of something sweet, carried on the wind. Beside him, still hungover, was a lifelong friend of Bazza’s, a survivor from the glory days of the eighties. The last time Winter had seen him was in court, a couple of years back. He’d been up on a supply charge, coupled with accusations of GBH, and had walked free after a key witness had changed his mind about giving evidence. Last night, by barely ten, he’d been legless.
‘What’s that, mush?’ He had his nose in the air.
‘Incense.’ Winter paused again, mopping his face. ‘Gets rid of bad smells.’
Late evening, the same day, Winter was drinking alone at a table outside a bar on the waterfront. The bar belonged to Teresa. According to Bazza, she’d won it as part of a divorce settlement from her husband, an ex-pro footballer, and for old times’ sake it was still called the Bar del Portero - the keeper’s bar. Winter had been here a lot over the last couple of days, enjoying the swirl of fishermen and high-season tourists, conscious of the black-draped photos of Mark amongst the gallery of faces from the goalie’s past.
Tonight, though, was different. Bazza and his entourage had disappeared to a restaurant and, to be honest Winter was glad of an hour or two on his own.
The first he knew about company was a hand on his shoulder, the lightest to
uch. He looked up to find a tall, slim Latino helping himself to the other chair. He was older than he looked. He had the hands of a man in his forties, and there were threads of grey in his plaited hair. The white T-shirt carried a faded image of Jimi Hendrix.
‘You’re a cop,’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Si.’
‘Who says?’
‘Me. I know cops. I know cops all my life. You tell me it’s not true?’
‘I’m telling you nothing. Except it’s none of your fucking business.’
There was a long silence. The Latino produced a mobile and checked for messages. Then he returned the mobile to his jeans pocket, tipped his head back against the chair, and stared up into the night sky.
‘We’re wasting time, you and me. Señor Winter. I know who you are. I know where you come from. I know …’ He shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Winter leaned forward, irritated, pushing his glass to one side.
‘So why bother checking? Why all this drama?’
‘Because we need to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘About you.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Si … You want to tell me what you’re doing here? In Cambados?’
‘Not especially.’
‘You’re a friend of Señor Mackenzie.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’ve come over because of his brother.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Because you and Señor Mackenzie are …’ He frowned. ‘ … Friends.’
‘Spot on, son. Bazza and me go back a while. And it happens you’re right. I am a cop. Or was. I’m also a mate of Bazza’s. A family friend. Here to support the lad. Here to help. Here to do my bit.’
‘But cops never stop being cops. And that could be a problem.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Si.’ His gaze had settled on Winter’s face. ‘I have a question for you, Mr Winter. It’s a very simple question. As it happens, I know about your friends, about Señor Mackenzie, and I know about you. This man is a cop, I tell them. It’s all over his face, the way he talks, the way he moves, his eyes, who he watches, how he watches, everything. Sure, they tell me. The man’s a cop. And a good cop. A good cop turned bad. But clever. Useful. Me? I tell them they’re crazy. Loco. And wrong, too. Why? Because, like I say, cops never stop being cops. Never. Nunca. Not here, in Spain. Not in my country. Not in yours. Nunca. Whatever they say. Nunca.’
‘And the question?’
‘Tell me why you’re really here.’
‘You’d never believe me.’
‘I might.’
‘OK. And if you don’t?’
‘It will be bad, very bad. For you. And maybe for us also.’
‘How bad is very bad?’
‘The worst.’ He smiled. ‘Lo peor.’
Winter took his time digesting the news. Bazza had pointed out this man twice in the last couple of days, once pissed, once sober. His name was Riquelme, though everyone seemed to called him Rikki. He was Colombian. He was said to hold court in a four-star hotel along the coast. Not a gram of cocaine came into Cambados without his say-so.
Rikki was still waiting for an answer to his question. Winter swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm lager and glanced at his watch. Conversations like this he didn’t need.
‘I’m fifty in a year or two …’ He looked up …‘ And you know the present I’ve always promised myself? Retirement. No more fannying around. No more working my arse off for people trying to stitch me up. No more chasing brain-dead junkies around. But you know something about my line of work? It doesn’t pay. Not the kind of money I’m going to need. So what do I do? I look for someone who might take me seriously for once. And for someone who might understand what I’m really worth. Happens I’ve found that someone. And that someone, just now, needs a bit of support. Comprende?’
Winter waited for some kind of response. The Colombian studied him for a moment or two, then produced a thin cheroot.
‘Bullshit,’ he said softly.
One
Tuesday 5 September 2006. Portsmouth, England2006.
There are no post-mortem clues for last impressions. Was this body on the slab really asleep when it happened? Was he dreaming? Or did some faint scrape jolt him into wakefulness? Did he half discern a strange shape - mysterious, uninvited, inexplicable - beside the bedroom door? Did he hear the lightest of breaths? A footfall on the carpet? Was he aware of a looming shadow in the darkness? And maybe the soft rustle of clothing as an arm was slowly raised beside the bed?
Faraday, watching the pathologist lift the glistening brain from the cup-like remnants of the shattered skull, could only wonder. Soon, he thought, they’ll be developing a test for all this, some kind of clever biochemical method for reproducing a man’s last thoughts imprinted before the neurones shut down for ever. The process would doubtless be both lengthy and expensive but days later investigators would find themselves looking at a multicoloured printout, admissible in court, a digital snapshot of this man’s final seconds of life. What had gone on inside his brain. What he’d seen. What he’d felt. The green line for apprehension. The red for disbelief. The black one, the thickest, for terror.
Looking up, the pathologist caught Faraday’s eye. Earlier, before peeling back the face, he’d indicated the powder burns on the pale skin of the man’s forehead. Now he pointed out the pulpy blancmange of the frontal tissue, pinked with blood and tiny fragments of bone where the bullet had tumbled into the deep brain, destroying everything in its path.
‘Single shot.’ He murmured, reaching for the scalpel, ‘Unusual, eh?’
It was. Driving back to the Major Crimes suite at Kingston Crescent, Faraday pondered the investigative consequences of the pathologist’s remark. The post-mortem he’d just attended was a coda to the day’s events, a painstaking dismemberment of flesh, bone and connective tissue that normally yielded a modest helping of clues. Killings were usually ill-planned, spontaneous explosions of violence, sparked by rage or alcohol, or a simple desire to get even, and that kind of retribution left a telltale spoor of all too familiar wounds. In this case, though, it had been evident from the start that the Major Crime Team were dealing with something very different.
A single bullet at point-blank range was the mark of a professional hit, a calling card rarely left at Pompey scenes of crime. The news had found its way to the duty D/C at Major Crimes at 07:56. An agency cleaner, failing to raise the tenant at a leased house in Port Solent, had let herself in. In the master bedroom lay the body of the man she knew as Mr Mallinder. At first she’d assumed he’d overslept. Only when she saw the blood on the sheet beneath his head did she take a proper look at his face. She’d never seen an entry wound before and the statement she’d volunteered that afternoon had recorded the faintest disappointment. So small. So neat. So different to what you might have expected.
Faraday had driven up from the Bargemaster’s House, pushing north against the incoming rush-hour traffic, summoned by the Duty D/S at Kingston Crescent. Port Solent was a marina development tucked into the topmost corner of Portsmouth Harbour. No. 97 Bryher Island was an end unit in a tightly packed close of executive houses, and uniforms had taped off the scene within minutes of their arrival. By the time Faraday added his ageing Mondeo to the line of cars in the central parking bay, an investigator from Scenes of Crime was already sorting out a pile of silver boxes from the back of his van.
‘Beautiful job.’ He nodded towards the open front door. ‘Nice to have a bit of quality for once.’
Back at Kingston Crescent, early evening by now, the car park was beginning to empty. Faraday slotted his Mondeo into a bay beside the rear entrance and spent a moment or two leafing through the post-mortem notes he’d left on the passenger seat. Amongst them was a reminder to phone home and tell Gabrielle that their planned expedition to the Farlington bird reserve would have to wait.
He peered out through the open window. After an
other glorious September day, it was still warm, the air thick with midges. Shame, he thought. There would have been swallows everywhere, a manic scribble of scimitar wings overhead, and later a chance for Gabrielle to pit her camera skills against a classic Pompey sunset.
He took the stairs two at a time, with a steely resolution that lasted until the first landing. A minute or so later, still out of breath, he put his head round the door of the office that housed the Intelligence Cell. D/C Jimmy Suttle occupied one of the three desks.
‘So what’ve you got for me?’
Suttle abandoned a packet of crisps, wiped his fingers on the chair, and reached for a notepad. Still on light duties after a serious run-in with a Southsea drug dealer, the young D/C had surprised even himself with his talent for coaxing some kind of picture from a multitude of databases and carefully placed phone calls.
‘You want the story so far?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The guy was a property developer. Jonathan Daniel Mallinder. The firm’s called Benskin, Mallinder. His oppo’s name is Stephen Daniel Benskin. They work out of a suite of offices in Croydon. The stuff they do is mostly residential, town-centre developments, mainly in the south. I talked to the FIU and belled a couple of contacts they gave me. Seems that the blokes themselves, Benskin and Mallinder, are a bit of a legend in the business. Came from nowhere but put together some really shrewd deals. Class operators. Staked out some territory of their own. Real respect.’
Faraday nodded. The Financial Investigation Unit was an obvious port of call in a case like this.
‘You’ve talked to Benskin?’
‘Yeah, this morning. I assumed the news would have got through but it turned out it hadn’t. The bloke couldn’t believe it. He was sitting in Heathrow waiting for a flight to Barcelona. He’ll come straight back after the meeting and says he’ll be down here first thing tomorrow.’
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