‘What kind of help?’ Gabrielle sounded shocked.
‘I’m not sure.’ It was the truth.
‘Is it something physical?’
‘No, not really.’
‘What then?’
Good question. Suttle was watching a seagull chase a fragment of bread roll across the landing ramp. Faraday, as far as he could judge, had suffered a crisis of belief, but how would you ever put that into words?
‘I think he’s a bit lost,’ Suttle said.
‘Lost, how?’
‘He doesn’t know who he is any more. He doesn’t trust himself. He can’t make decisions. In our business that can be a problem.’
‘Bien sûr. So where is he?’
‘At home. In bed.’ Suttle was about to suggest she got over there, saw him for herself, made up her own mind, but Gabrielle beat him to it.
‘I’m in Salisbury,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the train home.’
Faraday left the Bargemaster’s House at half past nine. He’d checked out Paris flights from Southampton airport and knew that the next one left early that afternoon. After a peaceful night’s sleep he told himself he was in the mood for some serious detective work. Not because he couldn’t bear the thought of Gabrielle having a fling with some old boyfriend, but because he wanted to know who this person might be. Reading the email on her laptop had broken his heart. Now he was left with nothing but the vaguest sense of curiosity. Shame, he kept telling himself. Just such a shame.
Car parking at the airport presented him with a challenge: short or long stay? He went for the latter, not caring any more where the next few days might take him. He took the shuttle bus to the terminal building and studied the destinations board. The Air France flight to Orly was already showing. He bought a single ticket, browsed the bookshop, wondered about a paper, decided against it. The flight left at 14.45, giving him four hours to kill. Maybe a nap, he thought, heading across the concourse towards a distant row of seats.
Suttle had to wait until late morning before he could get in to see Parsons. With Faraday off the plot, she’d had to take hour-by-hour command of Gosling herself, something that Suttle knew she’d resent. Over the last couple of years Faraday had been the most reliable of Deputy SIOs, a trusty backstop who’d been more than happy to take on the bulk of the work. Now, as Parsons was about to discover, that pressure could be crushing.
She was alone in the office vacated by Faraday. The news from west London was less than brilliant. Martin Skelley was away in the north on business. His sidekick, a woman, had been difficult about giving the Scenes of Crime team access to the van that had toured the Isle of Wight. In the end she’d had no choice, but neither Parsons nor Meg Stanley anticipated any kind of forensic result. It was ten days since the van had been on the island, ample time – in the words of one D/C – to steam-clean the arse off it.
Parsons wanted to know about Faraday. Suttle told her about taking him home and about staying the night, and managed to steer her away from any referral to Personnel. Faraday, he said, was now being looked after by his partner. She, surely, would know what to do.
Parsons agreed. She’d already had a word with Mr Willard about the situation. In due course, given a thumbs up from the appropriate medical authority, it might be possible for Faraday to return to active duty in one capacity or another. He still had a year to serve before he could retire on a full pension, and these were early days to bring his career to a premature end. On the other hand it would be unrealistic not to accept that his days on Major Crime were probably over. Maybe something on the community involvement front, she murmured. Or maybe a stint talking to kids in schools.
Her hand was reaching for the phone. Gosling was grinding ever onward. She wanted Suttle back at his desk, developing the intel on Skelley, looking for any tiny cracks that Gosling might explore. Suttle lingered, not wanting to leave.
‘You heard about Stanton?’
‘Who?’ Parsons was only half listening.
‘Benny Stanton. Sadler’s brief. The guy from London.’
‘What about him?’
‘It turns out he represents Skelley as well.’
‘Really?’ He’d got Parsons’ attention at last. ‘Are we sure about that?’
‘Positive. I got it from a Met source. It tells us nothing that we didn’t know before, boss, but it makes that link with Sadler all the more important.’
‘Good. You’re right, Jimmy. Excellent.’ She paused. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve had a long conversation with Winter.’
‘Another one?’
‘A different one. This time I think he’s serious.’
‘About what?’
‘About giving us Mackenzie.’
‘Really?’ She was listening again.
‘Yeah, really. And you know who might be the key to all this? Assuming we’ve got it right?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Martin Skelley.’
Gabrielle was at the Bargemaster’s House by midday. Thinking Faraday might still be in bed, maybe even asleep, she let herself in very quietly and made her way upstairs. The bedroom door was wide open, a scatter of Faraday’s clothes on the floor.
‘Joe?’
She called his name again, went from room to room, stepped back outside, looked in the garden, went to the front of the house, eyed the rising tide, felt a choking wave of panic deep inside her. Something terrible had happened. She knew it. For a moment or two she wondered whether to get her bike out and ride up the waterside path towards the bird reserve at the top of the harbour in case he’d gone for a walk, but then she remembered Jimmy Suttle on the phone, only hours ago. She knew cops always favoured understatement. In which case Faraday very definitely had a problem.
She hurried inside again and dug in her bag for her mobile. She’d logged Suttle’s number from the previous call. He took a while to answer.
‘Jimmy?’ By now she was tearful. ‘He’s gone.’
Faraday landed at Orly in the last embers of a sensational sunset. Away to the left of the aircraft, as it wobbled down the approach path, the middle of Paris was necklaced with lights in the gathering darkness. Before joining the departures queue back at Southampton, Faraday had bought a map of the city. The address he wanted, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, was within walking distance of Charles de Gaulle – Étoile on the Metro. A shuttle bus from the airport would take him to the RER station. From there it was a short hop to the middle of the city.
He was emerging from the Metro by half past five. The Champs-Elysées was thick with rush-hour traffic. He ducked across on a green pedestrian light, heading for the avenue de Friedland. He didn’t know Paris well but realised at once that this was an affluent area: four-star hotels, extravagant pavement displays outside florist after florist, suited waiters hurrying from table to table in expensive-looking café-bars.
The rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré ran north-west. The address he was after lay on the left-hand side. Opposite, of all things, was a police station. Faraday stood on the pavement for a moment or two, watching a couple of detectives in dark suits deep in conversation at the foot of the station steps. They were laughing together, sharing a joke and a cigarette, another long day coming to a close. That was me once, he thought.
The address on Philippe Stern’s card, as Faraday had imagined, belonged to an antiques shop. It was closed. There was no light on inside the shop, and he stepped close to the plate-glass window, peering in. The objects on display spoke of Africa, maybe some long-forgotten outpost of the French empire: two wooden carvings of what looked like lions, a handful of brass pots, a native drum with a bold motif in thick black zigzags around the top, a fold of carpet in rich blues and reds. He wiped the glass, trying to get a better view, trying to penetrate the darkness inside. The shop seemed somehow neglected. There were no prices on display, no sign of the hard sell.
He was still trying to imagine what kind
of man would own a place like this, and what kind of living he might make from it, when his attention was caught by a handwritten card he hadn’t noticed before. It was crudely taped to the glass door of the shop. En Cas d’Absence, Votre Contact au 06 03 144 045. He stared at it, fumbled for his mobile, then had second thoughts. He made a note of the number, stepped back.
Next door to the shop was a bar-brasserie. Unlike the places he’d passed earlier, it was narrow and slightly scruffy. A wall-mounted TV was showing horse racing. There were a couple of punters at the bar, laying tote bets. An older man at a table near the back was reading a copy of L’Équipe and picking at a bowl of frites. He too had the look of a cop. The way he’d glance up from time to time, scoping the faces around him. The way his hand lingered on the barely touched demi of lager beside the plate.
Faraday found an empty table and ordered a beer. He still had the phone number from the shop next door. For the first time he wondered exactly what he was going to do about this man. Did he want a conversation? Or would it be enough to come back tomorrow, stake the shop out and wait until Stern arrived so he could at least put a face to his raging fantasies?
If that was the case, then maybe he’d go into the shop and spend a while browsing, watching all the time for tiny clues that might explain this sudden revival in Gabrielle’s interest. Her last birthday had been a couple of months ago, just before Christmas. She was still only thirty-seven. Was Philippe Stern someone of Faraday’s age? Did she have a thing about older men? Or had she originally bedded him because of his youth? Because of his vigour and vitality? Because he drifted from day to day in this select little quarter of Paris – handsome, arty, rich, untroubled by the need to earn a proper living?
Knowing that he had no idea, Faraday decided to defer the decision. Tomorrow seemed an age away. He’d have something to eat and find a hotel nearby. Expensive, maybe, but what the fuck. He was suddenly very tired.
Willard summoned Suttle to an evening meet in the Major Crime suite at Fratton nick. For the second time in two days Suttle found himself on the hovercraft, bouncing back across the Solent, wondering just what lay in store. Not for a moment did he underestimate the implications of the decision he was asking his bosses to make. Over the last couple of years, since turning his back on the force, Winter had destroyed the last shred of any trust they might once have had in him.
This latest initiative, as Suttle would be the first to admit, reeked of self-interest. Pompey’s rogue ex-cop was clearly in the shit and desperate for a deal that would keep him out of prison. The prospect of a long sentence for Winter was the answer to Willard’s prayers, yet the payback for keeping him out, as Winter knew only too well, was huge. Bazza Mackenzie. Pompey’s top face. On a plate.
None of this, as it turned out, was lost on Willard. He was waiting in Parsons’ office. Of Parsons herself there was no sign.
He asked Suttle to go through what had happened last night. He wanted no embellishments, no omissions, just a bare account.
Suttle obliged. The fact that the meet had taken place at Faraday’s house raised an eyebrow or two.
‘How is he? Faraday?’
‘Bad, sir. And he’s disappeared.’
‘So I understand. Do we know where?’
‘No, and neither does Gabrielle. She’s his partner.’
‘How’s she taking it?’
‘Not well. I get the impression things haven’t been great between them lately. I think she’s blaming herself.’
‘Has she any idea where he might have gone?’
‘None. I think that’s part of the problem. She’s everything to him. He’s not a man with many friends.’
‘And she knows that?’
‘Yeah. Which is why she feels so guilty.’
‘Is there someone else then?’
Suttle hesitated. The someone else, he guessed, was the little girl, Leila. But that, just now, was a complication too far.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Not as far as I know.’
Willard went back to Winter. How could he be sure that the guy was on the level?
‘He’s not, sir. He’s never been on the level. But that, with respect, isn’t the question we should be asking.’
‘So what is?’ Willard was attentive. He wanted to know. This was easier than talking to Parsons.
‘From where I’m sitting, sir, Winter’s had enough. I know the guy. He trained me. Believe it or not, I owe him lots. Deep down he’s a decent man. Stuff has been happening, he won’t tell me what, but it’s definitely got to him. You’ll probably laugh at this, but he still knows right from wrong. Just now he’s in a very bad place.’ Suttle paused. ‘Does any of that make sense?’
‘It does, Jimmy. And I’m not laughing.’ Willard looked away for a moment, deep in thought. ‘So what’s worst case?’
‘Worst case is he fucks us about again. In which case I suggest he’s on a nicking.’
‘For?’
‘Perverting the course of.’ He risked a grin. ‘Plenty of previous too.’
‘Best case?’ Willard wasn’t smiling.
‘Best case?’ Suttle took his time. ‘We set a trap. We point Mackenzie at Skelley, and we see what happens.’
‘But who sets a trap? Who are you talking about?’
‘Winter, sir. With a little help from us.’
Gabrielle, after an exhaustive search of the house, was close to despair. She’d been looking for any tiny clue that Faraday might have left, any hint of a destination or plan. To simply disappear without leaving a note, without leaving anything, was so totally out of character that she was beginning to understand the seriousness of whatever it was that had happened.
The last couple of times they’d been together, after the trauma of the accident and everything that had followed, had seemed like the old times. They’d been close. He’d made her laugh. He’d been supportive too about her plans for Leila, and although she knew he had reservations about adoption, she was convinced she could talk him round. The little girl needed a home, a future. And that’s exactly what they could give her.
If only.
Even Gabrielle was beginning to admit to herself that this thing was close to impossible. She’d had to cancel the social worker’s initial visit to the Bargemaster’s House, his opportunity to get a feel for the kind of couple who wanted little Leila so badly, because Faraday hadn’t replied to any of her messages. That was frustrating, of course it was, but even worse were the costs involved. She’d yet to share any of this with Joe, but the bill for the local authority assessment – without which nothing could happen – could be more than £15,000. So far she hadn’t paid a penny because the process had yet to start, but the Portsmouth Social Services Adoption Team wanted the money up front. In principle that was OK. She had modest savings, and she could think of no better investment than Leila, but there was yet another problem.
Leila had been admitted on a short-stay visa. If she had had relatives in the UK, this could be extended, but since she didn’t she’d be sent back to Gaza the moment she was discharged from the Burns Unit. This, to Gabrielle, made no sense at all. What about outpatient treatment? What about physio for her precious hands? This, it seemed, was of little consequence. Aftercare was assumed to be available in Gaza. And so Leila could only return to the UK if the Gazan authorities said yes and Gabrielle and Faraday were judged to be suitable adoptive parents. That was a process that would take at least eight months, and just now that felt like an eternity.
Gabrielle glanced at her watch. Nearly nine. She gazed round the kitchen, wondering where she hadn’t looked, what she hadn’t checked, then she realised where – God willing – she might find a clue.
She hurried upstairs. Faraday kept his PC on a desk in the bedroom. She fired it up and went online. A couple of keystrokes took her into his recent browsing history on the Internet. She rubbed her eyes, willing the ancient machine to speed up. Then, quite suddenly, she was looking at what he’d done with the machine before he�
�d left. At 07.47 he’d logged on to the Air France site in search of flights. His chosen destination? Paris.
She stared at the computer screen for a long moment, piecing it all together. Then she reached for the phone, dialling a number from memory.
After a while the number answered.
‘Philippe?’ she said. ‘C’est toi?’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
SATURDAY, 21 FEBRUARY 2009. 08.17
Faraday was dreaming. He emerged from the Bargemaster’s House on a sunnier day than he could ever remember. He stood on the path beside the harbour, gazing out, wondering where the water had gone. The gleaming mud stretched clear across to the distant smudge of Hayling Island. He clambered carefully down to the thin ribbon of pebble beach, picked his way between the scatter of driftwood, wisps of fishing net, curls of tarry rope, wondering why there was no smell to any of this stuff. Then came a tug on his arm and he turned to find himself looking at his son, Joe Junior. J-J, after a lifetime of silence, had shed his deafness. He had a strange accent, foreign, but there was no problem shaping the words.
‘There, Dad.’ He was pointing towards the far horizon. ‘There … Look.’
Faraday followed him onto the mud. Expecting to sink ankle deep, as usual, he found himself supported by a delicate crust, solid, weight-bearing, treacherous, slippery. It felt like brown ice underfoot. Father and son glided seawards, towards the breaking line of surf across the harbour mouth, hand in hand. A band was playing, miles away, and J-J’s thin frame swayed and bent with the lilt of the music. Then he came to a halt, catching Faraday in his arms as he began to fall.
‘There, Dad,’ he said again, pointing down this time.
Faraday followed his bony finger, lost but happy. A cormorant lay on its side on the glistening mud, limp, sodden, the long yellow beak half open. J-J bent to it, got down on his knees, put his mouth beside the sleekness of the bird’s head, asked about the time, then looked up, raising his thumb.
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