‘Busy?’
Irving took the question at face value. He was still describing a recent series of encounters with the Animal Liberation Front when a kindly-looking management assistant appeared with coffee. Faraday took his chance to change the subject.
‘Tolly …’ he began. ‘What else do we know about him?’
‘Not a lot. He’s Pompey born and bred. Shame he didn’t stay, really. Saved us all a lot of bother.’
‘Is that what this is about?’
Irving shook his head but said nothing. Both men understood the reality of divisional CID work only too well. Successful detections on dwelling burglaries or thefts from vehicles won lots of brownie points from the Home Office but serious offences – stranger rape, homicide – brought you nothing but grief and a heavy overtime bill. Hence the bid to offload onto Major Crimes.
‘So why isn’t he done and dusted?’ Faraday tapped the file. ‘What’s happened?’
‘We’ve picked up good intelligence. Stuff we can’t ignore.’
‘About Tolly?’
‘Of course. That’s why I phoned Mr Willard.’
An informant, he said, had come forward with information about a prisoner on the island, a Scouse drug dealer serving seven years for supply. The Scouser had a girlfriend who made regular prison visits and it seemed she’d run into Tolly. After a couple of meetings they’d started some kind of relationship.
‘Which prison?’
‘Albany.’
Faraday nodded. HMP Albany was one of a complex of three prisons on the road to Cowes. The Isle of Wight had long become a temporary home for relatives of convicts, especially those banged up for years on end. Wives and mothers liked the island so much they often stayed forever.
‘So what happened?’ Faraday asked again.
‘We think the Scouser may have put the word out. There’d be no shortage of takers if he was talking decent money. Maybe he only paid for a beating but these things get out of hand.’ Irving offered a bleak smile. ‘Know what I mean?’
Faraday nodded. On the face of it Irving’s theory sounded plausible enough but the total absence of supporting evidence argued for caution. According to Hayder’s investigation, no one had seen Tolly in company. Neither were there any physical signs of assault prior to Tolly’s death. Not that Irving cared. The recent intelligence had become part of the file and that meant he had to cover his arse.
‘How good is this intelligence?’
‘It exists.’
‘That’s not my question. I’m asking you where it came from.’
‘You’ll have to talk to his handler. You know the score.’
‘Of course I know the score. I’m simply asking what else you’ve done before you lifted the phone. Have you checked this guy out? Is he a regular? Has he got debts of his own to settle? You know Willard’s views on crap intelligence.’
Mention of Willard brought colour to Irving’s face.
‘You’re telling me I’m jumping the gun?’
‘I’m suggesting you might need to do a little more footwork.’
‘Like how?’
‘Like getting one of your blokes to poke around a bit, find out what this informant of yours is really up to. There’ll be a story in there somewhere, you know there will.’
‘And you think I’ve got the bodies to waste on something like that?’
Irving had abandoned any pretence of indignation. He was angry now, the anger of a hard-pressed divisional DI, but Faraday could cope with that.
‘I know there’s no brownie points in homicide,’ he said gently. ‘But I’ve got a boss you wouldn’t believe and he thinks you’re cuffing it.’
‘Willard said that?’
‘Good as.’
‘And you’re the messenger?’
‘Not at all. But I know the way he works, what he thinks, and on the evidence of this –’ Faraday tapped the file ‘– he’ll tell you you’re taking the piss. What are your PIs looking like?’
‘Bloody good. Best on the force. Plus a clear-up rate most DIs would die for.’
‘And you want to keep it that way.’
‘Of course we bloody do.’
‘But you’re stretched, like we’re all stretched.’
‘Too right.’
‘So the more running around we do on your behalf …’
Irving began to shake his head, then abandoned his seat at the little conference table and stepped across to the window. Home Office Performance Indicators had become the bane of divisional life. Devoting precious CID resources to Aaron Tolly would do absolutely nothing when it came to ranking Irving’s PIs against other Basic Command Units, a merciless comparison tool that was driving good coppers insane.
‘It’s barmy, isn’t it?’ Irving might have been talking to himself. ‘No fucking way to run a whelk stall.’
‘I agree.’ Faraday drained his coffee. ‘Does your canteen still do toast?’
The canteen was virtually empty, just a single figure bent over a magazine at the table beside the microwave. Faraday found himself a jar of coffee and refilled the electric kettle. The remains of a loaf of sliced white lay in an open cake tin and Faraday was still looking for something to put on it when a voice prompted him to try in the cupboard beside the fridge.
‘There’s peanut butter and some of those sachets of jam. Uniform finished the marmalade first thing. Animals.’
Faraday turned round. The figure at the table hadn’t stirred. The mail beside the hang-gliding magazine was addressed to DC Darren Webster.
‘DI Faraday. Major Crimes.’ Faraday extended a hand. ‘Any butter?’
‘In the fridge.’ Webster at last looked up. ‘Sir.’
His handshake was firm and the smile came as a slight surprise. Webster had a stubble-cheeked, outdoor face. There were hints of strength in the set of the jaw, and the newness of his suit was offset by the loosened tie. Here was a young detective, thought Faraday, who knows exactly who he is.
‘Over from Pompey?’ Webster enquired.
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else you need?’ His eyes had returned to the magazine.
Faraday shook his head. He made himself a couple of slices of toast, then decanted boiling water onto a spoonful of Happy Shopper instant.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Faraday sat down without waiting for an answer. Webster was deep in a feature article about hang-gliding in New Zealand. With some reluctance he finally closed the magazine and put it to one side.
‘These guys fly over glaciers.’ He sounded wistful. ‘Can you imagine what that must be like?’
Faraday thought about the question over a mouthful of toast. He hadn’t tasted peanut butter in years.
‘You do it yourself?’ He wiped his mouth. ‘Hang-gliding?’
‘Yep.’
‘Here? On the island?’
‘Yep. Last weekend we were down at St Catherine’s.’
‘Good?’
‘Crap. They were giving a steady force four, south-south-west, but the wind was all over the place. Bloody cold, too. We never got off the cliff.’ He hesitated, uncertain about the real strength of Faraday’s interest.
‘I watch birds,’ Faraday said simply. ‘I’ve been at it for years. Fascinates me.’
‘The flying or the birds?’
‘Both.’
Webster hesitated for a moment longer, then plunged into what the last couple of months had yielded for him and his mates. They’d flown most of the cliffs along the south coast of the island, and spent a dodgy weekend trying to stay airborne from a new launch site on Culver Down, the looming chalk shoulder that fell into Sandown Bay. Winter flying wasn’t to everybody’s taste but you could normally rely on a good blow, and if you had the right kit, and the bottle to go with it, the views could be awesome.
‘You’ve got a favourite?’
‘Needles, without a doubt. We kick off from a little bowl above the emplacements. There’s a bay below it, a cove really, and
you can’t see it from the landward side which I suppose makes it even more special. The colours can be incredible, especially those times when a front’s on the way and the wind’s spot on the nose and the vis is so good you just know it’s going to piss down before very long.’
Faraday answered Webster’s grin with one of his own. He’d lost count of the days when he’d been up before dawn, tucked into a niche on a cliff top or a woodland copse with his binoculars and his Thermos and the much-thumbed notebook he carried to record bird sightings, waiting to read the weather from the clues scrolled across the slowly lightening sky. Miles from the nearest road life took on a totally different feel. You’d feel exposed, yes, but infinitely less vulnerable.
‘I used to live down in Freshwater,’ he murmured. ‘Years back.’
‘You grew up here?’
‘No. Bournemouth. After school I went off to the States for a bit. By the time I came back my folks had moved onto the island. Dad had a health problem, couple of strokes. Mum ran a B. and B. in Freshwater Bay. They had to put up with us for a couple of months before we found a place to rent.’
‘Us?’
‘Me and my wife.’ Faraday looked at him for a moment, surprised by the directness of the question, wondering whether to elaborate, but decided against it. Instead he talked about those first days on the island, the mornings he’d abandon the hunt for a job and simply walk on Tennyson Down, out towards the Needles.
‘I’d never been anywhere like it,’ he said. ‘Not then, not now. God’s country.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Absolutely. And the birds make it better. Ever catch a lark – May, June, way up in the blue – belting its little heart out?’
‘Yeah.’ Webster was grinning again. ‘Yeah … and those bloody gulls, giving us grief when we launch. Listen to them and you’d think they owned the bloody cliff.’
‘But they do. Nesting time, they’ve got parental rights. Ever think about that?’
‘Never.’ Webster pushed his chair back and stretched. ‘What’s Major Crimes like then? Hectic?’
‘Comes and goes. Just now it’s quiet … which is why I’ve got time to pop over.’ Faraday’s fingers strayed to the last corner of toast.
‘You’ve come on a specific job?’
‘Yes.’
‘One of ours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mind if I ask which one?’
‘Not at all. Aaron Tolly? Name ring any bells?’
‘Of course. The Ryde Skydiver.’ He glanced towards Faraday. ‘You bring a car over, sir?’
Faraday shook his head. ‘Cab from the hovercraft.’
‘OK.’ Webster checked his watch again. ‘I’m off to Freshwater on a load of calls. Should take a couple of hours. I don’t know how you’re placed time-wise but I could drop you down by the Albion if you fancied it. Pick you up again afterwards.’
Faraday thought about the invitation for a second or two, then glanced towards the window. The rain seemed to have stopped and the first daubs of watery blue were beginning to appear above the rooftops across the car park. At Freshwater Bay a footpath climbed up from the Albion Hotel onto Tennyson Down. It might be a touch muddy, and there’d doubtless be the odd shower, but just now he couldn’t think of a better way of preparing himself for the file review.
‘Great idea,’ he said, getting to his feet.
*
In the privacy of the unmarked squad Fiesta Webster opened up about Aaron Tolly. The man had been, he said, a pain in the arse. He’d fled to Ryde after a run-in with a Pompey drug dealer. He had no friends, no visible means of support, and a thirst for White Lightning cider that had put him in front of the magistrates on a shoplifting charge within a month. Over the first couple of pints Tolly could string together a sentence or two, even manage the beginnings of a conversation, but after that he talked the purest nonsense. Webster knew women in Ryde for whom twat was too kind a judgement. Tolly, they said, was fit for nothing.
‘No one special in his life?’
‘You mean ladies?’ Webster shot Faraday a look. ‘You have to be joking. Bloke was a disgrace. On a windy night you could smell him from the end of the pier.’
Faraday nodded, settling back in the seat as a row of bungalows gave way to bare fields and the distant swell of Brighstone Down. The crime scene photos of Tolly sprawled by the dustbins had lodged deep in his brain. It was an image that seemed to sum up so many of the case histories that passed through Major Crimes. Young men trapped in cul-de-sacs of their own making, lost, adrift, wasted. At length he mentioned the possibility of some kind of contract.
‘On Tolly?’ Webster laughed. ‘Who’d bother?’
‘Someone he’d pissed off, obviously.’ Faraday was watching the faraway silhouette of a hawk, maybe a falcon, circling high above a copse of trees. ‘How about some Scouser banged up in Albany?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘It’s bollocks, sir. With respect.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I heard the same whisper. It comes from a local guy in Ryde, fancies himself as a bit of a dealer. He’s putting the word around about some kind of contract to see the opposition off. Didn’t want Tolly’s death to go to waste.’
‘Opposition?’
‘Scousers. They’re running serious gear in. Mondays usually, off the Fast Cat. Set your clock by it.’
‘Does DI Irving know about this?’
‘Of course he does. He’s as keen on stitching up the Scousers as everyone else, our Ryde dealer included. This used to be a nice island once. Can’t have scum like that around.’
Faraday grinned, watching the hawk swoop earthwards. Twenty years in the job already told him that Hayder had been right about Tolly but it was still good to have his instincts confirmed. Irving wanted to rev up Major Crimes to take a run or two at the Scousers. That way they might fold their tents and bugger off. Nice try, he thought.
Webster was making good time. In a mile or so they’d be down on the island’s south coast, a couple of minutes drive from Freshwater Bay. The sodden fields beside the road were splashed with sunshine and Faraday could feel the thin warmth on the side of his face. He glanced across at Webster.
‘You like CID?’
‘Love it. Some days are a pain but there’s lots going on if you know where to look. People think this place is toytown – acres of bungalows, old blokes in Morris Minors, nothing happening – but they couldn’t be more wrong. Like I’ve said, we’ve got a drug problem you wouldn’t believe. Bits of Ryde are Smack City, Ventnor too; all these old Victorian spas, overrun with lowlife. You get blokes down from the north, not just Scousers but all sorts, Manchester, Glasgow, you name it. They drift in for the summer, work in the camps, the hotels, pubs, whatever; then come the winter they sign on, draw housing benefit, and end up selling decent amounts of gear. The DI put an operation together recently – Edith. Charge list runs to a dozen or so blokes, all of them up for supply. Not bad, eh?’
He shot a sideways look across the car but they were on the coast road by now and Faraday was gazing out at the startling whiteness of the chalk cliffs stretching away towards the Needles. In conditions like these – racing clouds, sudden bursts of sunshine – the view still took his breath away.
‘You’re happy here?’ He finally turned back to Webster.
‘Of course. But I can’t stay here forever, can I? Not if I want to get anywhere. That’s the problem with the island. Shut your eyes, count to ten, and you’re suddenly forty years old with a wife and three kids and absolutely no chance of ever doing anything else.’
‘What do you fancy then?’
‘Major Crimes would be nice.’ He glanced at Faraday again. ‘Sir.’
‘You think so?’
‘Definitely.’
‘You wouldn’t miss being your own boss? Making your own decisions? You think you could hack it in a bigger team?’
‘If the jo
bs were half-decent, of course I could.’
Faraday nodded, twisting in the seat and craning his neck backwards as a clifftop path he’d often used flashed by. The Major Crimes set-up had recently been reorganised and there was now a permanent team of DCs, sorting jobs county-wide, with two years rotation.
‘Vacancies certainly come up,’ he admitted, ‘but not that often.’
‘I know, sir. I keep checking.’
They were in Freshwater Bay by now, driving towards the hotel that flanked the beach. Beyond the low stone wall sunlight danced on the choppy green water. Faraday eyed a tidy-looking fishing launch secured to a buoy, bucking and rolling on the incoming waves, and he wondered what it might be like, measuring out your life to the rhythm of the tides and the seasons.
‘Here, sir?’
Beyond the Albion Hotel Webster had come to a halt beside the path that wound up through the trees to the foot of Tennyson Down. In a couple of hours he’d be back, same place, say half two. Then he paused, reaching back for a file from the briefcase on the back seat.
‘One thing I forgot.’
‘What’s that?’ Faraday had the door open. The wind was cold.
‘We had a G28 this week. Monday it was. Up there.’ He nodded towards the down. ‘Woman from the mainland called it in. Came over to check out the wildlife.’
Faraday shut the door for a moment. A G28 was the Coroner’s form for a sudden death. He’d been away on Monday and Tuesday, and thus missed the incident on the daily force-wide update.
‘What happened?’
‘This woman saw the body at the foot of the cliff. Happens more often than you might think. May have jumped, may have fallen off a boat, God knows. There must be something about this stretch of coast. That’s four in a year now.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Bloke. ID’s tricky. Prints are useless because he’d had been in the water a while and the crabs had eaten the flesh off his fingers. We’ve got no clothing to go on either; no tattoos, rings, piercings, nothing.’
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