Blood And Honey

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Never.’

  ‘We should go. Soon.’

  ‘We?’ Winter barked with laughter. This woman was like a crime scene. She had to be controlled, taped off, analysed, understood.

  ‘Yes …’ She was evidently serious. ‘We. You needn’t sleep with me. You needn’t feel threatened. But you’re a bright man. Africa will teach you stuff you never even dreamed about. You want me to tell you about Rimbaud? You think it might be time for that?’

  Winter hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. Rimbaud was a face on a T-shirt.

  ‘Your Victor …’ he began.

  ‘… was a great shag.’ She eased herself away from him. ‘You want me to be honest? A really great shag.’

  ‘You told Wishart that?’

  ‘No, but I bet Victor did. Maurice didn’t have much time for competition. Still doesn’t.’

  ‘So why did he….’ Winter was struggling to find the right phrase ‘… buy you for him?’

  ‘It was a boast. Fake solidarity. What’s mine is yours. Except it didn’t work out because I quite liked Victor.’

  ‘More than Wishart?’

  ‘Maurice was powerful. Is powerful. Like I’ve told you, that has its charms. But Victor’s funny and Maurice doesn’t do funny.’ She studied him a moment, her head cocked to one side. ‘You know something most men never understand? Laughter is the real turn-on, the real aphrodisiac. Show me a man who can make me laugh and I don’t care what size dick he’s got. Victor was perfect.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Don’t be neurotic. Listen, we were talking about Africa. I’ve still got a bit of money tucked away. We could do it – take a flight, couple of weeks, whatever you can manage. Change your life, I promise.’ She reached for him again, cupping his big face in her hands. ‘Those headaches of yours? Gone. Blown away. New perspectives. Lots of laughter. Lots of everything. Does that sound too daunting? You think you could cope?’

  Winter gazed at her for a moment. He’d slept in this bed for the best part of twenty years. It held all kinds of memories, not all of them happy. There’d been nights, too many nights, when he’d roll back in the early hours, reeking of booze and cheap perfume, oblivious to the pain these small acts of treachery might inflict on the woman beside him. From time to time Joannie would erupt, retire to the spare bedroom, threaten divorce, tell him he was a greedy fool, but the marriage had somehow survived. Since she’d gone, to his bewilderment he hadn’t touched another woman. The opportunity had been there, all too often, but in ways he still couldn’t fathom it had become impossible to betray her. Married, he’d cheerfully shag anything. Alone, a widower, any kind of relationship seemed fraught with menace. Now this.

  ‘Let me …’ Maddox took his hand. Instinctively, Winter recoiled.

  ‘Lakemfa pissed Wishart off,’ he said. ‘I need to know why.’

  ‘Ask Victor. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  The news silenced Maddox. She asked if Winter was joking. Winter shook his head. Maddox stared at him for a long moment, then plucked at the sheet and covered herself. Winter explained the circumstances as gently as he could, but when it came to the hit in the darkened lane the best he could manage was a cold recitation of the facts. Lakemfa had nearly made it to the top of the hill. Someone had hit him from behind. Falling, he’d fractured his skull. End of story.

  ‘And you think Maurice did that?’

  ‘I think he probably paid for it.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘Exactly. But I need to know why.’

  Maddox was shaking her head. Her eyes were moist in the semi-darkness. She began to say something about Victor Lakemfa, about how considerate he could sometimes be, but the memories overwhelmed her. She reached for Winter again, then changed her mind and rolled over.

  ‘Fuck,’ she whispered.

  Sixteen

  Saturday, 28 February 2004

  Ryde Esplanade was busy on a Saturday morning. Already, barely nine o’clock, shoppers were spilling off the buses in the seafront terminal and there was a queue of cars waiting to drop passengers for the hovercraft crossing to Portsmouth.

  Faraday paused to check his ringing mobile in the bright, cold sunshine. It was a number he didn’t immediately recognise though the voice, when he finally answered, put him in a position of some embarrassment. The woman who’d given him a lift home from last weekend’s celebratory wake, the woman whose mother had sent him Harry’s letters. But what on earth was her name?

  ‘It’s Karen Corey.’ She spared him the trouble. ‘I thought it’d be better to leave this call to the weekend.’

  ‘Oh?’ Faraday had stopped on the seafront, arrested by the sight of a huge container ship nosing up the deep-water channel towards Southampton. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘It’s about those letters. Mum wondered whether she could have a word.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘We were thinking tomorrow if you could spare the time. Mum goes to the spiritualist temple at ten. Maybe the afternoon?’

  Faraday apologised. He’d be tied up all weekend and probably most of next week too. Might he give her a ring when things had eased up a little?

  ‘Of course. I’m really sorry to have bothered you. Mum’ll be mortified.’

  ‘That we can’t meet?’

  ‘That I called you. To be honest, all of this is my idea.’

  ‘All of what?’ Faraday was on the move again, looking for a break in the traffic to cross the road. Despite the pressures of Congress, Karen Corey had aroused his interest. Again.

  She was still apologising. She was sorry to have disturbed him. Best to leave the next call to Faraday.

  ‘But what’s this about?’ Faraday asked again. ‘Just give me some kind of idea.’

  With some reluctance Karen began to talk about Harry. There were one or two issues her mum wanted to resolve. For Madge’s sake, and for her own.

  ‘But why involve me?’

  ‘Because you’re a detective.’

  ‘Are we talking something criminal here?’

  ‘I don’t know. None of us do. But that’s the point, really. We’re after advice and little me thinks you’re the man who might be able to help. How’s that for cheeky?’

  Faraday thought about the proposition for a moment or two. He could see the turning that led to the police station now, up at the top of the High Street.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And it’s Joe, by the way.’

  The Major Incident Room at Ryde police station was up on the first floor. DS Pete Baker met Faraday at the top of the stairs. The outside inquiry teams, he said, had already been dispatched to Bembridge. He’d gridded the edges of the harbour and the rising ground behind and assigned the house-to-house calls accordingly. DCs Barber and Webster, meanwhile, were already interviewing residents at the nursing home in Shanklin.

  ‘Pelly?’

  ‘Good as gold. Met them at the door, even offered a pot of tea.’

  ‘How about Scenes of Crime?’

  ‘Ongoing, sir. Webster says they’re starting on Pelly’s own quarters this morning. Then it’ll be the garage and the rest of the stuff outside. They’re estimating getting shot of the bulk of it by close of play Monday.’

  ‘Anything to show for it so far?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  Faraday and Baker were joined by DS Dave Michaels. He’d been downstairs, talking to one of the desk clerks.

  ‘There’s an old boy came in a couple of minutes ago. Name of Castle.’

  ‘Wally Castle?’

  ‘That’s him. We tried for a statement first thing but he wasn’t interested. Not unless he could have a word with the guvnor. The lads drove him over. Thought it might be important.’

  ‘Of course. Give me ten minutes, eh?’

  Faraday walked down the corridor towards his office. Wally Castle was the fisherman who
’d first noticed that Pelly’s old boat had gone. What else might he have dredged up from those October days? Faraday stepped into his office. Amongst the messages awaiting his attention was an earlier phone call from Brian Imber. The circuit judge in Winchester had fallen ill overnight and been carted off to hospital. Imber was having to make other arrangements to acquire the Production Order but had meanwhile taken a call from another ex-squaddie who’d served in Vitez. This man, a sapper like Pelly, was only too pleased to mark Imber’s card but had no interest in committing himself to a written statement. Under the circumstances Imber had decided it was worth a trip to London. If Faraday thought that was a bad idea he had until half nine to head him off. Otherwise, the meet would go ahead.

  Faraday lifted the phone. Imber answered on the second ring.

  ‘Do it,’ Faraday said. ‘We’ll sort out a statement as and when.’

  ‘Fine.’ Imber was evidently already on the train. ‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’

  Faraday hung up. The first of the HSU teams had left a report on his desk. Pelly had spent the night at the nursing home. The surveillance teams changed shift at 05.00 and the lads on the next watch would doubtless be in touch.

  Faraday studied the report for a moment or two, then reached for the Policy Book, wondering whether the expense of the HSU was really justified. Everything he knew about Pelly told him that the man was all too aware of the investigative options at Faraday’s disposal. Letting the SOC team waste the best part of an afternoon boshing the wrong boat had been a classic spoiler. Would someone as vigilant as Pelly really be reckless enough to pay a visit to a key potential witness?

  There came a knock at the door. Faraday looked up to find Dave Michaels with an elderly man who peered at Faraday with some interest.

  ‘You the boss, then?’

  ‘Mr Castle,’ Dave Michaels explained. ‘Come down specially.’

  Michaels stepped out of the office and shut the door. Faraday extended a hand. Castle ignored it. With his bright eyes and shock of snow-white hair, he reminded Faraday of a bird. An egret, maybe. Faraday judged him to be at least eighty.

  ‘You mind?’ Castle found himself a perch on the chair Faraday kept for visitors. ‘I was in half a mind not to come but what’s the harm, eh?’

  Faraday offered tea or coffee. Castle said no to both. He wanted to sort out this business about Pelly. He’d no intention of keeping Faraday long. He plucked at the creases in his trousers, big raw-knuckled hands, joints swollen with arthritis.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What’s the bugger done?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mr Castle, not until our inquiries are complete. It may turn out to be nothing. Who knows?’

  ‘Serious though, eh? You don’t put this many men on the ground. Not on a Saturday. Not without good reason.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Still not going to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm …’

  For a moment Faraday thought the old man had finished. He’d simply come over to find out what Pelly had been up to. Once a fisherman, always a fisherman.

  ‘You know Mr Pelly well?’

  ‘No.’ The shake of the head was emphatic. ‘Nobody does.’

  ‘But you see him around?’

  ‘Of course. Even at my age, you take an interest. Always have, if you want the truth.’

  ‘And what do you see?’

  The old man was gazing up at the wall board. Imber had brought over one of J-J’s colour shots from Faraday’s Pompey office, a little domestic gesture that Faraday had found oddly comforting.

  ‘Gannets.’ Castle nodded in approval. ‘Saw a couple once, off the back of the Wight. Bloody rare though, round these parts. Keen on birds, are you?’

  Faraday nodded. Nothing would have pleased him more than a leisurely chat about the RSPB reserve that stretched south from Bembridge Harbour but he knew this was neither the time nor place.

  ‘I understand you’ve something to tell us, Mr Castle. Am I right?’

  The old man’s gaze returned to Faraday. He wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to land anyone in trouble.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Can’t say. Not without you telling me it’s all OK. That’s the point, see?’ He jabbed a bent finger in Faraday’s face. ‘You get my drift?’

  ‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. This is a major inquiry, Mr Castle. You have my absolute assurance that we take everything in the way of information extremely seriously.’

  ‘That’s as may be but it don’t answer, does it? See …’ He bent forward and tapped Faraday on the knee. ‘What I’m saying is this. I can tell you something about somebody and that somebody might not thank me for it. Especially since he’s my nipper.’

  ‘We’re talking about your son?’

  ‘We might be. Depends. You tell me it’s going to be OK with him, and I might see my way to telling you one or two things. Now then.’ He leaned back and folded his arms. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Does he know you’re here? This boy of yours?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You think you might get him into trouble?’

  ‘Dunno. Might, I suppose.’ He shrugged. ‘You fellas would know best.’

  Faraday eyed the old man for a moment, trying to gauge what kind of deal he was after. Finally, he suggested they talk in confidence.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You trust me.’

  ‘And that son of mine? You’ll see him right? Handle it personally? Yourself?’

  ‘Depends what he’s done.’

  ‘He’s done nothing, see? Just a favour, that’s all.’

  ‘A favour for who?’ Faraday paused, beginning to sense the drift of this strange conversation. ‘Pelly?’

  The old man nodded, his eyes bright.

  ‘That’s the one,’ he confirmed. ‘Damn fool that he is.’

  Winter woke up late, knowing he was going to be violently ill. The experience of the last couple of months had prepared him for thudding headaches and a blinding pressure behind his eyes but nothing as unbearable as this. It began above the bridge of his nose, a small, intensely hot bubble of pain that spread with the quickening rhythm of his pulse until it seemed to fill his entire skull. It had an almost liquid quality and when he shut his eyes, hunting for images that might offer some kind of relief, all he could picture was a swamp of molten lava, viscous and evil, flooding into the deepest recesses of his brain.

  He reached out; found Maddox still beside him; tried to get out of bed. Seconds later he was sprawled on the carpet and she was kneeling over him, slipping a pillow under his bursting head then heaving his body onto one side as he started to throw up. She stripped off the T-shirt and used it as a bib, catching most of the vomit. Winter was gasping for air, for distraction, for a way out, for anything.

  ‘Bathroom cupboard,’ he managed at last. ‘Bottom shelf.’

  She brought the painkillers back with a glass of water. He swallowed three, then threw up again.

  ‘You need a doctor.’ Maddox was hunting for her mobile. ‘Where do I find the number?’

  Winter was past caring. He clawed at the bed. Sleep. Oblivion. An early grave. Whatever.

  ‘Here.’ She wanted him to drink more water, try again with the tablets. This time he managed to keep them down.

  She got him back to bed and he managed to doze for a while. When he awoke, she was still there, bent over him.

  ‘You told me you were going to see the consultant.’

  ‘I did. I’m up there again on Monday.’ Winter tried to get her face into focus. ‘Don’t leave me, eh?’

  ‘Leave you?’ She kissed him. ‘As if.’

  She adjusted the curtains against the bright sunshine, then slipped between the sheets again, her long body wrapped around Winter’s ample frame. With his face nestled between her breasts, he could hear the steady thump of her heart. The pain had seemed to ease a little.

&n
bsp; She began to murmur to him, something in French, nothing he could remotely understand. Then she slid away again, returning with a bowl of water and a flannel she used to bathe his face. She knew of a friend’s weekend cottage out in the country. She’d stayed there often, entrusted with the key and the occasional company of a stray cat that lived in an outhouse at the bottom of the garden. The cottage was down a lane, she said, miles from anywhere. The nearest pub was a forty-minute walk through woods and across a field. This time of year the fields were full of brent geese and you could lie awake at night listening to the wind in the trees and the dormice under the thatch, and the distant honking of the geese. Beyond the fields lay the salt marsh and a tiny patch of harbour and then the open sea. She’d never had much faith in paradise, she said, but this was pretty close.

  The thought put a wistful smile on Winter’s face.

  ‘Take me there?’

  ‘Today, my love. Now. Just as soon as you can manage it.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She kissed him. ‘Funnily enough.’

  She began to caress the swell of his belly, paused when his hand caught hers.

  ‘No? You don’t want to?’

  ‘Not like this.’ Winter managed a grin this time. ‘You’d see me off.’

  ‘Later, then. When you’re feeling better.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He closed his eyes and winced. ‘Just give me time.’

  Faraday took Bev Yates with him to Bembridge Harbour. A glorious day had brought out the weekend drivers, and Faraday’s borrowed Fiesta crawled up the hill towards the village of St Helens that overlooked the water below. Wally Castle sat in the back, supplying directions, one gnarled old hand shading his eyes against the low slant of the sun.

  ‘Here,’ he said at last. ‘One on the end.’

  Faraday coasted to a halt beside a modest semidetached house, red brick with a tiny patch of front garden. A battered Land Rover was parked outside, both windows down. As he got out, Faraday glimpsed lobster pots in the back. The old man had produced a key. Faraday was still inspecting the contents of the Land Rover.