‘And what was she like?’
‘Sound. And beautiful. A beautiful person. And a laugh too. I could tell you all kinds of stuff but I’m not going there.’
‘What kinds of stuff?’
‘The kind of stuff we used to get up to, girlie stuff … You don’t want to know.’ She turned her head away, fumbled with a lighter, sucked at the roll-up. A thin grey light through a crack in the curtains washed over the room. ‘She used to stay over a lot, Kim. Like I say, she was a laugh.’
‘Did she talk about her home life at all?’
‘All the time.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Mad. Her dad was off the planet most of the time, total headcase. Actually he wasn’t her dad at all but he used to … you know …’
‘Used to what, Nadine?’
‘Used to get really heavy.’
‘Physically, you mean?’
‘Not really. He never hurt her or anything, not that she ever said. It was more the way he was out of it all the time, just falling around, shouting at everyone, really irritating stuff. Kim would defend him sometimes, say it was the drink talking, say it wasn’t his fault. She was silly like that, Kim. She knew how to look after herself, stand up for herself, but she always gave people the benefit of the doubt, even Rat Face.’
‘That’s what you called him? Rat Face?’
‘Yeah. He must have had this really bad acne, you know, horrible pitted scars. And his face had gone a kind of funny colour, a yellowy colour, maybe with all the booze.’
‘What about Julie? Kim’s mum?’
‘She was lovely, really nice.’ For the first time there was a tiny catch in Nadine’s voice. ‘She’s the one that held everything together. Rat Face was hopeless that way. Couldn’t hold a job down. Couldn’t bring the money in. Total waste of space. To be honest, I don’t know how Kim’s mum put up with him. If it was me …’ She bent to the roll-up again.
‘So you’re saying, between her mum and her dad …?’
‘Nothing. They had nothing. Just rows all the time. That’s why Kim spent so much time here. She couldn’t stand it at home …’ Her voice trailed away.
It was dustbin day. Suttle could hear the truck grinding up the street and the hollow thud-thud as the dustmen returned the empty bins.
‘Kim had a boyfriend,’ he said. ‘Robbie Difford.’
‘You know Robbie?’ She seemed surprised.
‘No. We’re trying to find him. Do you know where he might be?’
Nadine gave the question some thought.
‘It’s Tuesday, yeah? He’ll be at work. That exhaust place on the industrial estate.’
‘They haven’t seen him since Saturday.’
‘Maybe he’s off sick then. He lives with his mum. Like all of us do.’
‘No. He’s not there either. We checked.’
‘His mum’s away. She went to Tenerife for a week. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe you should knock harder.’
Suttle exchanged glances with Patsy Lowe. If they couldn’t find Difford by lunchtime, Faraday had authorised a forced entry to the house. These days grief could do the strangest things to kids.
Lowe wanted to know more about Kim and Difford. How long had they been together?
‘Not long. Couple of months? I dunno.’
‘So what’s he like? Difford?’
‘He’s good, really cool. He sings in a band, pub stuff mainly. The music’s crap but he’s got an OK voice. He really looked out for her, Kim. She liked him a lot.’
‘And Robbie?’
‘He was mad about her. Couldn’t get enough of her. We used to laugh about it sometimes, me and my mates. They were always at it.’
‘Where?’
‘Where?’
‘Yeah. Here? Other friends’ houses?’ Lowe paused. ‘Or Kim’s place? Out at the farm?’
‘I dunno. Wherever, I guess. Definitely here a few times, when my mum was out. Why? Is this kind of stuff supposed to matter?’
Lowe didn’t answer. Suttle leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
‘Did you ever get the impression that Robbie could be jealous?’
‘About Kim?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure he could … you know … if anything ever kicked off.’
‘And did anything ever kick off? That you can remember?’
Nadine looked at them both, then reached for her Rizlas. Neither Lowe nor Suttle said a word.
‘You’re talking about that stuff that happened last week, aren’t you?’ she said at last. ‘You must know about that. It must be on all those records you keep.’
‘You mean some kind of incident?’
‘Yeah. The Old Bill were involved, your lot. Kim told me.’ Suttle nodded.
‘So what happened?’
‘I dunno. Not the details.’
‘But you do know something happened?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Like what, Nadine?’
Her head went back. A tiny shred of tobacco on her lower lip.
‘Kim said her stepdad came on to her.’
‘Came on to her?’
‘He wanted to have sex with her.’
‘And was that the first time it had happened?’
‘No.’
‘It happened a lot?’
‘I don’t know. She never liked talking about it. But more than once. Definitely.’
‘So what happened last week?’
‘He did it again. It was in the evening. There was no one else in the house. He came in pissed and tried to … you know … grab her.’
‘So what did she do?’
‘She hit him. She yelled at him. She told him he was an animal. She was really upset.’
‘And he stopped?’
‘Yeah. And Kim says he apologised too. Said he hadn’t really meant it. Just a joke, yeah?’
‘So what did Kim do?’
‘She went outside and phoned 999. Then she had second thoughts and phoned Robbie as well.’
‘And?’
‘He drove straight up there. Confronted the bloke.’
‘They had a fight?’
‘Not really. Robbie’s a cool guy. He’s fit too. I think he just told Rat Face to sort himself out.’
‘And what else?’
Nadine let the question hang in the air. She was wary now. Suttle could see it in her face. She’d said too much. She wanted this conversation to end.
‘Well?’ It was Lowe again.
‘I dunno.’
‘Yes, you do, Nadine. Because Kim told you.’
‘Yeah? You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes.’ Lowe nodded. ‘And if Kim still matters to you, which I’m sure she does, then maybe you ought to tell us.’
Nadine gave the suggestion some thought. She lit the roll-up, took a deep lungful, then exhaled. The thin plume of smoke hung in the chilly air.
‘We’re talking about Robbie, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s really wound up. It’s the heat of the moment. All that stuff.’
‘And?’
‘You still want to know what he said?’
‘Yes, please.’ Lowe nodded.
‘Then we’ll leave you alone.’
‘Really?’ She frowned, then ducked her head.
‘Well?’
There was a long silence. Finally, Nadine stifled a cough before looking up.
‘Robbie said that if Rat Face ever touched Kim again …’ she shrugged ‘… he’d kill him.’
Lowe bent her head and scribbled herself a note. Nadine watched her, aghast.
‘There’s no way—’
‘No way what?’
‘No way Robbie had anything to do with what happened. Rat Face was the crazy one. Not Robbie.’ She looked from one to the other. ‘Yeah?’
Suttle shrugged, said he didn’t know. Police had responded to the 999 call. An area car had driven out to Monkswell Farm to find Kim, Robbie and her stepfather in the hou
se. On the phone, hysterical, Kim had talked about some kind of assault. By the time she was offered the chance to make a full statement she seemed to have had second thoughts. The boyfriend’s recent arrival may have had something to do with this, and on the RMS entry the attending officer had noted the details and suggested a possible referral to Social Services. At seventeen, Kim Crocker was still a minor. Better safe than sorry.
Suttle asked Nadine about Saturday night, the night of the fire. What had Kim been up to?
‘I dunno. I saw her at college on Friday and she said she’d phone Friday night in case anything was going down over the weekend. But …’ she shrugged again ‘… it never happened.’
‘So what do you think she might have done?’
‘I haven’t a clue. She worked at WH Smith’s on Saturdays. Saturday night she was probably with Robbie. They were getting to be like an old married couple. Cosy cosy.’
‘Her place? His? Out somewhere?’
‘Dunno. There’s a girl called Rachel works with her on Saturdays. She might know.’
Lowe made a note of the name. Nadine couldn’t supply a number.
Suttle was curious about access to Robbie Difford’s place. Might a neighbour be holding a key? Or maybe a close friend?
Again Nadine shook her head. She’d had enough by now. Her roll-up had gone out. She had a headache. She wasn’t sleeping too well. There was stuff she had to do before the funeral. She gave them a few more names, other mates of Kim’s, then walked them to the door. On the point of saying goodbye, she asked what had happened to Kim.
The question stopped Lowe in her tracks.
‘I’m not with you, Nadine.’
‘Like where is she?’
‘Now? Still in the mortuary, I imagine.’
‘You’ve done one of those post-mortems? Cut her up? All that stuff?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Horrible. Yuk.’ She gave herself a hug, shivering in the chill wind, her face the colour of chalk. Then she brightened. ‘Tell Robbie to give me a ring, yeah?’
Suttle phoned Faraday from the Fiesta. He was in conference with Gail Parsons and couldn’t spare time for more than the briefest conversation. Suttle said they’d talked to the girl Nadine. In his view they needed to take a good look at Robbie Difford’s place. Like now.
Faraday smothered a yawn.
‘Do it,’ he said.
Winter was at the Royal Trafalgar by half ten. A couple of calls on other mates of Johnny Holman had been fruitless – no one at home at either address – and in the end he’d decided to wait and see what Leyman might come up with.
At the hotel he was supposed to share an office in the basement with Stu Norcliffe. Neither man had much liking for Bazza’s take on working space – two second-hand desks from a government surplus store in Highland Road, plus an enormous filing cabinet Baz had acquired from a repo company he was in the process of buying – but Norcliffe, for once, was sitting behind his battered desk.
One look at his face told Winter all was far from well.
‘You won’t fucking believe this …’ Stu said.
‘Tide Turn?’
‘Too right. You know that new minibus of ours? The one I bought a couple of months ago? It went missing last night. Henrik thought someone had nicked it and he was right. Three guesses.’
‘Kieron O’Dwyer?’
‘Spot on.’
Winter hid a smile. He’d spent the best part of a miserable year in charge of Tide Turn, trying to pretend that the likes of Kieron O’Dwyer were human beings. Thankfully that job had come to an end, but nothing he’d learned at the helm of Bazza’s favourite charity had changed his mind about the hard core of Pompey youth. These were the kids, he told himself, whose forebears had scared the French shitless at Trafalgar, and nothing had changed since. Afloat or on dry land, they were programmed to get in your face.
O’Dwyer, it seemed, had nicked the keys from the Tide Turn office in Albert Road, picked up a bunch of mates in Somerstown, made another couple of stops in Portsea and Buckland, and headed north. By the time the minibus demolished a garden wall in a pretty village on the West Sussex border, O’Dwyer and his crew had emptied the first litre bottle of vodka and were starting on the rest of the stash. When the police arrived, they were partying in a nearby graveyard, out of their heads on White Lightning and handfuls of assorted tabs.
‘The vehicle?’
‘I haven’t seen it. According to the police it’s a write-off.’
‘Baz’ll be pleased.’
‘I’ve told him already.’
‘And?’
‘He told me to leave it to him. I gather he’s got some ideas on the subject.’
‘You mean O’Dwyer?’
‘Yeah. He was after the boy’s address.’
Winter nodded. O’Dwyer had form. At fifteen, he’d forgotten what it was like to go to a normal school, to get up at a respectable hour, to lift a finger in anyone’s interest but his own. After endless skirmishes with the criminal justice system, and now Tide Turn, he’d realised that most of what he wanted in life was there for the taking, a conclusion that no adult had yet to contradict. Maybe Bazza would come up with something novel, he thought. Before O’Dwyer was old enough to become a proper criminal.
‘So where is he?’
‘Still banged up at Central. Still waiting to shout at his social worker.’
‘I meant Baz.’
‘No idea, Paul. According to Marie, he’s got a lot on his mind just now.’ He pushed his empty mug towards Winter and nodded at the coffee pot on top of the filing cabinet. ‘Surprise, surprise, eh?’
Meg Stanley was bent over her laptop in the Scenes of Crime caravan when one of the Crime Scene Investigators appeared at the door. He had a sheet of paper in his gloved hand. Part of the barn across the farmyard had been converted into a couple of rooms. One seemed to have served as a kind of bedroom while the other had been used as an office, chiefly by Holman. Before giving both spaces the full SOC treatment, the CSI had done a flash intel search, looking for anything that might, in his phrase, give Gosling a kick up the arse.
‘And?’ Stanley was enjoying the thin sunshine through the open door.
‘I found this.’
He passed it over. Stanley found herself looking at a photocopied advert for a private clinic offering a variety of sexual goodies from penis enlargement to wholesale deals on vaginal lubricants. Consultations were available for most forms of dysfunction, confidentiality guaranteed. The address put the clinic in north London, and someone had scribbled a series of notes down the edge of the page.
‘That’s Holman’s handwriting. We found a couple of chequebooks in the same drawer.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Ninety per cent.’
Stanley returned to the advert. The handwriting was indecipherable but a date and a time caught her eye: 4 February, 14.45. She made a note of the contact details and then reached for the phone.
Suttle and Lowe drew a blank at Robbie Gifford’s address.
Local uniforms secured entry with a commendable absence of drama, and Suttle went through the property room by room. It was hard to be certain, but the general state of the place told him that Difford had been living here alone for at least a couple of days. The kitchen sink was piled high with unwashed plates and a cardboard box on the floor was full of discarded fast-food wraps. Half a pint of milk in the otherwise empty fridge was starting to go off and the pile of laundry at the foot of the stairs had yet to see the inside of the washing machine.
Upstairs were two bedrooms. The one with a double bed appeared to belong to his mum: frocks in the wardrobe and photos of a much younger son neatly arranged on the dressing table. Next door had to be Difford’s room. The bed was unmade and he hadn’t got round to pulling the curtains. There was an ankle-deep scatter of clothing on the carpet and a pile of men’s mags beside the single bed. The PC was on, with an offering from YouTube still hanging on the pause butto
n.
Next to the PC was a wallet. Suttle flicked quickly through the contents. Credit cards, cash-machine stubs, a receipt for twenty quid’s worth of petrol and a sheaf of passport-size photos. The cards were in Difford’s name and the shots showed a couple snapped together in the intimacy of a photo booth. He was dark, fashionably unshaven, grade-one haircut, black hoodie. She was blonde, striking, a curl of mischief in the smile. In three photos they had their heads together, gurning for the camera. In the last one they were necking. Gifford and Kim Crocker. Had to be.
Suttle checked the bathroom, just in case, then rejoined Lowe downstairs. One of the local uniforms was on the phone, making arrangements for repairs to the lock and the door frame.
Lowe lifted an enquiring eyebrow. Suttle shook his head.
‘No one here,’ he said. ‘But he’s definitely not done a runner.’
Faraday wanted a management catch-up meeting for two o’clock and it was already lunchtime. Suttle dropped Lowe at Newport police station to continue enquiries among Kim’s college mates and then drove over to Ryde.
Faraday was in his office with Parsons, toying with a half-eaten ham and tomato sandwich from the Spar shop round the corner. Parsons was finishing a call on her mobile.
‘Ma’am. Boss.’
Faraday waved Suttle into the spare chair. He wanted to know what Nadine had said. Suttle gave him the headlines. To no one’s surprise, life at Monkswell Farm had been a bit of a nightmare. Holman was pissed most of the time and had made a couple of passes at his elder stepdaughter.
‘We can prove that?’ It was Parsons.
Suttle explained that Patsy Lowe would be returning this afternoon to press Lorrimer for a statement.
‘And we believe her?’ Faraday this time.
‘Yes, boss. I can’t see why she’d lie about something like that. She and Kim were close. She’s also got a bit of a thing about Difford, the way I read it.’
‘No sign of him yet?’
‘None.’
‘Car?’ Difford drove an ancient red Corsa. Local CID had accessed the details a day and a half ago.
‘It’s not at the house, boss.’
Faraday nodded, reached for the remains of his sandwich. Suttle thought he looked exhausted. Parsons, as ever, wanted to build what little evidence they had into the beginnings of a timeline.
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