‘He’s the guy with the boat. He’ll take you out there.’
The DS was scanning the harbour. Faraday pointed out the distinctive twin yellow hulls a hundred metres or so from the shoreline. Earlier, on the phone, he hadn’t gone into any detail, simply asking for tests to establish the presence of blood, tissue or other body fluids.
‘What’s the story?’ The DS was on his feet now, struggling into the suit.
Faraday patched in some of the background. They were dealing with a Misper. One candidate had disappeared around October and there was a possibility that Pelly might have been involved. He used the boat for fishing trips; took blokes way out and charged them for a day at sea. If the Misper was down to him, he might have used the boat to dispose of the body.
The DS nodded and walked round to the back of the van. A DC acting as Crime Scene Investigator was already checking a couple of grab bags of equipment.
‘October, you say?’
‘There or thereabouts.’
‘That’s a while. And the boat’s been in use since?’
‘We assume so.’
‘Blokes tramping on and off?’
‘Bound to have been. The boat’s used for charter parties, like I said.’
‘What about the dinghy?’ The DS nodded towards the waterline.
‘Pelly says it’s new. Christmas. I’ll check it out before you’re through.’
‘So just the boat, then?’
‘Yes. Probably.’
The two men exchanged glances. Faraday had been in this situation a thousand times before, relying on forensic science to reconstruct a crime scene, but he knew there were limits to the magic these blokes could conjure from their chemicals and paper filters. The winter would have given Pelly every chance to tidy up the evidence and his purchase of a new dinghy was, on the face of it, suspicious. As far as the fishing boat was concerned, a couple of gallons of bleach might work wonders for a man’s sense of guilt, and the weather on an exposed mooring like this – months of rain and seawater – might well have done the rest.
‘We’ll do our best, eh?’ The DS picked up one of the bags. They’d take a preliminary look first, assess the scale of the job, then call for reinforcements if needed. With a full four-man team, they might be here three days. Depended.
Faraday took him down the beach to introduce Pelly. The two men shook hands. They obviously knew each other.
‘All right?’ The DS was gazing down at the inflatable with its pair of tiny oars. ‘Can’t you do any better than this?’
Pelly laughed and gave the dinghy a kick.
‘I’d have brought the outboard if I’d known it was you,’ he said. ‘Except the bloody thing’s bust.’
They manhandled the inflatable into the water and Pelly held the painter while the DS clambered in, pulling up the hood on his suit against the chill of the wind that cut across the harbour. Watching them as the little inflatable nosed out towards the fishing boat, Faraday asked the DC about Pelly’s reputation.
‘Everyone knows about him.’ The DC was decanting clear fluid into a plastic bottle. ‘But that’s the thing about this place. Even a bad bastard like Pelly can’t hide.’ He grinned, looking up at Faraday. ‘One happy family, that’s us caulkheads.’
Caulkhead was island-speak for a native.
‘Bad bastard how?’
‘Throws his weight around. Doesn’t care who he upsets. Me and Dave –’ he nodded at the DS crouched in the stern of the inflatable ‘– we quite like him but he’s certainly got himself a reputation, especially with the women. Serial shagger. Puts it around a bit.’
‘What else?’
‘Word is, he’s into people smuggling.’
‘True?’
‘Aye. Says me.’
‘So why hasn’t anyone boxed him off?’
‘Fuck knows. Leads a charmed life, our Rob. Always has done.’
Minutes later Pelly returned in the inflatable for the DC. Faraday had walked back to the van. He’d spotted a pair of binoculars tucked into the glove compartment and found himself a perch amongst a stand of marram grass across the road from the harbour, protected from the icy wind. All he could do now was wait for word on how the search was progressing.
Inland from the harbour lay Brading Marsh, an area of wetland recently declared an official RSPB site. Faraday and J-J had scouted the marsh years ago, spending the best part of a freezing December day taking their first look at water rail, a small, shy, stalk-legged bird that haunted the edges of the reed beds and squealed like a piglet at the least sign of danger. Deaf to the bird’s cry, J-J had nonetheless loved the way it emerged to poke around in search of food, stabbing at the rich mud then beating a rapid retreat in a flurry of wing beats.
Now, hoping for another glimpse of the little bird, Faraday worked the focus ring on the binoculars until the blur of greens resolved itself into a distant reed bed. At this range he knew he’d be lucky to spot anything at all but there was an excellent website that tallied monthly sightings for Brading Marsh and the last time he’d looked, back before Christmas, the longish list had included a merlin.
The merlin was the smallest of the falcons, and another of J-J’s favourites. They’d first set eyes on one during an expedition to Dungeness, and J-J – barely nine – had clapped his hands in delight, watching the little hawk putting a flock of sparrows to flight. Faraday could remember the moment now, the merlin bouncing along, a flurry of quick wing beats then a fleeting glide, twisting and turning in pursuit of its prey. This little drama, all too predictably, had ended in a distant explosion of feathers, and J-J had returned to the Bargemaster’s House that night to rummage through Faraday’s growing library of bird books. For weeks afterwards, drawings of the merlin appeared in odd corners of J-J’s bedroom, carefully executed studies in brown and yellow crayon, and a couple of years later, when J-J’s interest had begun to extend to the Battle of Britain, his depiction of 1940 dogfights had always included a lone merlin entangled with the Spitfires and Messerschmitts, the plucky little hawk often badged with the RAF roundel and a helpful squadron number.
Faraday smiled at the memory, turning his attention back to the harbour itself. Fifty metres away, drifting peaceably amongst a cluster of moored boats, he spotted a small flock of teal. Some of them were asleep, their heads tucked beneath their wings, and Faraday watched them for a moment before easing the binos to the left until they settled on Pelly’s boat. Pelly himself was back on dry land now and Faraday could see the bulky shapes of the DS and DC working inch by inch over the exposed decking around the wheelhouse. Already the sun was beginning to dip towards the rising ground beyond St Helen’s and Faraday wondered whether they’d have enough time to complete the preliminary search in daylight. Whatever happened, Faraday suspected he’d be leaning on Colin Irving for an overnight watch on the boat.
Was Pelly himself the least bit concerned? Faraday thought not. The area car that had brought him down from Shanklin had long since disappeared, but with Newbery’s blessing Pelly had made himself comfortable in the back of the unmarked Fiesta. The car was barely thirty metres away and through the binoculars Faraday had a perfect close-up view of Pelly sprawled across the rear seat.
He was absorbed in a book, a paperback. He read quickly, nodding from time to time when a particular passage caught his eye, not remotely concerned by the small drama playing itself out on the nearby harbour. Once, as Faraday watched, he laughed out loud, throwing back his head with an abruptness that Faraday remembered from yesterday’s interview, and Faraday began to wonder again about the reputation that this man had acquired for himself amongst the locals.
On paper, Willard was undoubtedly right. It was easy to plot a sequence of events that would make Pelly responsible for Unwin’s disappearance. He was impatient. He was outspoken. And he almost gloried in settling quarrels with the brisk application of violence. That much, with Morgan’s help, they could evidence.
On the other hand, though, Pelly seemed a more
complex proposition. His affection for his elderly charges, most of them adrift in a foggy old age, was – in Faraday’s judgement – unfeigned. He appeared to be fond of these women and he might well do a good job of looking after them. Likewise, his anger at the irritations of daily life – the incessant inspections, the size of his tax bill, plus all the other hoops that the bureaucrats obliged him to jump through – was probably shared by every other self-employed adult in the UK. In a larger sense, Pelly clearly viewed the country as a lost cause. Family life had become a footnote in the history books, and in the shape of eighteen elderly cast-offs Pelly had living proof that society’s glue was becoming unstuck. Quite where this kind of rage might lead was anyone’s guess but Faraday couldn’t help recognising in himself a flicker of solidarity. The investigation of major crime took working detectives into ugly territory. What people did to each other these days, especially in a city as claustrophobic as Portsmouth, sometimes defied description.
Faraday was still looking through the binos, still wondering about the title of Pelly’s paperback, when a shadow fell over over him. It was Newbery. He was in radio contact with the SOC team on the boat and he had a message to pass on.
‘They’ve found blood, sir. Asked me to let you know.’
Winter was on his third issue of OK! Magazine by the time the nurse called his name. He’d always hated hospitals. He resented the way they took charge, the way they seemed to rob you of control, and forty minutes spent trying to interest himself in the sex lives of C-list celebs had left him feeling even more combative than usual.
‘How’s it going?’ The consultant was a small, neat man with heavy-rimmed glasses and perfect nails.
Winter sat down in the chair in front of his desk. He felt like a candidate in an interview, summoned to justify his fitness for the job on offer. Fail this, he thought grimly, and the consequences won’t bear thinking about.
‘Fine,’ he said at once.
The consultant looked surprised. His eyes strayed to notes that must have come from Winter’s GP.
‘Severe headaches?’ he queried. ‘Pains behind the eyes? Problems with your vision?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But not at the moment? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Good.’ The consultant got up and circled round the desk until he was standing behind Winter. Winter could smell the soap he must have used to wash his hands after the last patient.
‘Does this hurt at all?’
Winter could feel the light touch of fingertips at his temples. If anything, it was a pleasant sensation. In fact it reminded him of Maddox.
‘No,’ he said.
‘And this?’ The pressure increased, easing slowly across his forehead until the fingers met above his nose.
‘No.’
‘Or this?’
The side of his neck this time, the consultant probing upwards until he was feeling under the ledge of Winter’s jawbone.
‘Afraid not.’ Winter was beginning to feel a fraud.
A series of reflex tests followed. Then the consultant sat down and picked up a pen.
‘Are you allergic to anything that you know of?’
Winter laughed. His list of acute allergies extended from the breed of earnest young infants who toed the constabulary line and dared call themselves detectives to elderly couples who dawdled round Sainsburys on Saturday mornings and ended up buying a trolleyful of pink loo roll. Neither appeared to be an immediate threat to his health so he shook his head again.
‘Nothing in the way of food or drink?’
The mention of drink put Winter on guard. He knew what was coming next and when the consultant asked him about his average weekly alcoholic intake, he had the figures ready. These guys always doubled what you told them so he took the real figure, halved it, then halved it again.
‘Maybe a couple of Scotches a night. Say half a bottle a week.’
‘Beer at all? Lager? Wine?’
‘The odd Stella. I’ve never gone in for wine.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Yeah.’
If there’d been a window in this airless office, Winter would have been gazing out of it. As it was, he favoured the consultant with a cheerful grin.
‘What d’you think, then? Only I’d hate to be wasting your time.’
‘Not at all, Mr Winter.’ He was frowning at the notes. Then he looked up. ‘Describe the pain.’
The question was so direct it took Winter by surprise. He began to fumble his way towards an answer, then realised that this might be his one chance of coaxing some kind of result from the system.
‘It’s not like a normal headache at all,’ he said carefully. ‘We’re not talking hangover here. It’s really intense, really painful. In fact it’s bloody unbearable. You end up feeling like an animal, banging off the walls, trying to get away from it.’
‘That’s good.’ The consultant seemed pleased. ‘Very good. And your vision?’
‘Goes haywire.’ Winter looked round. ‘Take the floor, there. Or your tabletop. Or the wall. Or the screen over by the bed. Any flat surface.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s like you’re underwater. Stuff bubbles up. I told the GP. It’s the weirdest feeling, like you’re watching a film.’
‘You say you went blind a couple of times.’ The consultant had one finger in the notes. ‘How long did that last?’
‘A minute or so. Really scary. That’s when the pain was beyond belief. I thought the inside of my head was going to burst. I can’t do it justice, can’t describe it. I’d like to say it frightened me but it’s worse than that. It’s not just thinking I’d had it but being glad it might soon be over. Anything to stop it hurting. Know what I mean?’
‘Hmm …’ The consultant studied Winter for a moment or two, then turned to his PC and entered a couple of keystrokes. ‘Diagnosis is never easy, Mr Winter. We’ll need to conduct some tests. Maybe a scan. You’ll have to bear with us, I’m afraid. It may take a week or two.’
‘What would a scan tell you?’
‘It’ll give us a picture of the inside of your head.’
‘And what will you expect to find there?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that question.’
‘Yes, you can. You’re an expert. That’s what we pay you for.’
‘You pay me for trying to get you better, Mr Winter. And if that means getting to the bottom of whatever’s wrong with you, then that’s exactly what we’ll do. Speculation isn’t helpful at this stage.’
‘Yes, it is. From where I’m sitting it is.’
The consultant appeared not to be listening. There was a grid of some sort on his screen. He ran the end of his pencil along a couple of lines, tapped in some more commands, then scribbled a note to himself.
Finally he looked up at Winter again.
‘We have a slot on the CT schedule next Monday at half nine. Could you manage that?’
It was dusk when the DS on the boat put through another call to Newbery. They’d done as much as they could for this afternoon and they needed Pelly to come and get them. Newbery walked across to the Fiesta and tapped on the window. Pelly abandoned his book and pushed the inflatable onto the darkening harbour. On the ebbing tide, the mooring was only an hour or so from drying out and it took only a couple of minutes before Pelly returned with the DS.
Faraday accompanied him up towards the van as Pelly returned to the boat for his colleague.
‘What’s the score, then?’
The DS dumped the holdall at the back of the van and fumbled for his keys.
‘We’ve got blood from the rear decking, and from the cabin forrard.’
‘Lots of blood?’
‘Yeah. Congealed, of course, but definitely blood. It could be fish, of course. The swabs have to go away for analysis. It’ll be days yet.’ He was peering towards the road, watching a pair of headlights slow for the turn into the marina car park. ‘The
re’s a bit of a galley down below, nothing elaborate but a couple of cupboards and a work surface, and a basin and two-ring stove. We’ll have to have that lot out, and the floorboards up as well. That’s where you find the real evidence. The rest, to be truthful, has been trampled to death. The boat looks pretty new to me but it’s obviously been used recently. We’d have trouble in court with what we’ve got so far.’
Faraday nodded, wondering about the implications. The inflatable was on its way back now, and he could hear the steady splash-splash of the oars as Pelly pulled for the shore. Should he arrest him on the basis of the afternoon’s tests? Or was it wiser to wait until the SOC team had stripped the boat to its bare bones?
Undecided, Faraday left the DS to load the van and walked down the beach. Pelly was dragging the inflatable up the pebbles towards the Fiesta. He needed the headlights. The last thing he wanted to do was to deflate the dinghy in the dark.
‘We need to talk,’ Faraday said. He nodded at the car.
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No.’
Pelly looked at him a moment, then shrugged. They both got in the car, Faraday behind the steering wheel. He read Pelly the formal caution, then produced a pocketbook.
‘That boat out there, it’s yours. Am I right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I ordered the fucking thing.’
‘When was that?’
‘Dunno …’ Pelly was staring out at the last of the light, a steely gleam on the water. ‘March, April last year. I can’t remember.’
‘OK.’ Faraday jotted down the dates, then looked across at Pelly. He’d tucked the paperback into the pocket of his leather jacket. The author’s name was Fitzroy Maclean. ‘The SOC team have found traces of blood aboard. Do you have any comment?’
‘SOC?’
‘Scenes of Crime.’
Pelly began to laugh.
‘We catch fish,’ he said softly. ‘What kind of crime’s that?’
‘You’re telling me it’s fish blood?’
‘I’m telling you we’ve been out pretty much every week for the past month or so. Sometimes it’s me on my jack. Sometimes we’re mob-handed. But however many rods we’re carrying we never fail to land fish. And what do we do with these fish? We gut them. And what happens when we gut them? They bleed. You ought to have asked me earlier. Saved yourself a lot of time and money.’ At last he looked across at Faraday. ‘Whose blood did you think it was, as a matter of interest?’
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