‘He’s a fisherman? Your boy?’
‘Plays at it. Kids himself.’
The old man led the way to the front door. Before he managed to insert the key in the lock, the door opened.
‘What’s this?’
The old man mumbled something about an earlier phone call. The barefoot figure in the dressing gown at the door was evidently his son, Sean.
‘Fucking law?’ Sean looked far from pleased.
DC Yates flipped his warrant card and introduced Faraday. They’d welcome the chance for a brief chat.
‘Mr … ?’
‘Castle. Same as him, daft old bugger. You’d think one was enough, wouldn’t you?’ He looked at Faraday. ‘What’s this about, anyway?’
Faraday said he’d explain inside. After a moment’s hesitation Castle held the door wide while they stepped past. The house looked like a building site. The wall at the end of the tiny hall had been reduced to rubble. Beyond the twin Acrows supporting the floor above, there was a kitchen in a similar state of chaos. The old units had been ripped out. Pipes sprouted from the bare boards. Wires hung from the ceiling.
‘Got a bit of work on.’ Sean was rolling himself a cigarette. ‘Make yourself at home.’
Faraday heard someone moving around upstairs. Then came a woman’s voice, asking what was going on.
‘Tell you later. Go back to bed.’
‘Who else lives here?’ Yates had his pocketbook out.
‘Mandy. My other half. Get any sense out of her after last night and you’re a better man than me.’ Sean asked his father for a light, then turned back to Faraday. ‘What’s this about?’
Faraday briefly explained. He was investigating the disappearance of a Portsmouth man. He had reason to believe a row might have got out of hand. Did Sean know a Rob Pelly?
‘Yeah.’ Sean nodded. ‘For sure. Owns a nursing home. Shanklin way.’
‘He’s down here a bit too.’ Faraday nodded towards the harbour. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Doing what? Exactly?’
Sean was looking at his father. Later, there was clearly going to be a conversation.
‘Bits and pieces. Fishing mainly. He’s got one of those fancy Cheetahs – brand new, nice bit of kit. Must be money in old folks’ homes.’
‘You said “mainly”’. It was Bev Yates this time. ‘What does “mainly” mean?’
‘It means he works as hard as every other bugger. Then pushes off for a bit of fishing. Me? I do the reverse.’
‘But you said “mainly”’, Yates insisted. ‘What else does he do with the boat?’
‘Dunno. Ask him.’
‘OK.’ Yates scribbled a note, then began to prowl round the kitchen. ‘Must cost a bit, all this.’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe, yeah.’
‘The fishing game see you right, does it?’
‘You have to be fucking joking.’ Faraday and Yates spun round. A woman was standing in the wreckage of the hall. She was wearing a cardigan that was several sizes too big for her, unbuttoned at the front, and not much else. For someone closing on middle age, she was in extraordinary shape.
Faraday glanced back at Sean. His eyes were shut and he was shaking his head. A bad morning had just got abruptly worse.
‘And you are … ?’ Yates was smiling at her.
‘Mandy. What’s it to you, then?’
Yates dug out his warrant card again. She barely spared it a glance.
‘Ask him what we do for money.’ She was pointing at Sean. ‘Ask him who has to put out to pay the bloody supermarket bill. Go on. He won’t bite.’
‘Mr Castle?’ Yates was beginning to enjoy himself.
‘Pay no attention.’ He sounded weary. ‘She’s been pissed since the Christmas before last. Most blokes wouldn’t give her the time of day.’
‘Wouldn’t they?’ She stepped between the two detectives and thrust herself in Sean Castle’s face. ‘How’s that then? When half the fucking island can’t wait to shag me?’
Faraday noticed that the old man had crept away. Under the circumstances, he didn’t blame him.
Mandy hadn’t finished. She was sick of living in a tip, sick of getting by on chip butties, sick of all Sean’s banging on about the money he was going to make. Proper men, real men, knew how to look after their women. Not cart them round Lidl like some trophy shag.
‘What about you, then?’ She’d turned on Yates. ‘Married, are you?’
‘Very.’
‘Yeah? What a fucking waste. Me? I’m out of here.’
She disappeared down the hall. Moments later Faraday heard the tramp of footsteps overhead, then a door slammed and with it came a brief moment of silence.
‘Well, son? You going to tell them or shall I?’
It was the old man. He was back between the Acrows.
‘Tell them what? She’s on the Jim Beam again. You can smell her from the top of the hill.’
‘I meant Pelly. The boat. They’re going to find out anyway. Best you get it off your chest.’
‘Boat?’ Faraday’s interest had quickened.
Sean was examining the remains of his cigarette. Finally he shot his father a withering look and told Faraday it was nothing, just a favour.
‘Yes, but what boat?’
‘Mine. Back last year Pelly wanted a charter. I know he’d asked around and no one was very keen. In the end he came to me. He knew it would cost him but he didn’t turn a hair.’
‘How much?’ It was Yates.
‘Five hundred.’
‘What kind of boat are we talking about?’
‘An Aquabel Sports.’
‘Yeah, but what’s that? Big boat?’
‘Twenty-seven foot.’
‘And how long did he want it for?’
‘A night.’
‘A night? For five hundred quid?’
‘Yeah. He knew it was over the odds but it made no difference. He was in a hurry. He even paid on the spot. Cash. Full whack.’
Faraday propped himself on the table. At last, he thought.
‘So why would he need this boat of yours?’
‘He never said and I never asked. That kind of money, you don’t want to know.’
‘What do you think he wanted it for?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘Did he take it out himself, your boat?’
‘Yeah. That was my only condition. He knows what he’s doing in a boat, Pelly. I showed him the ropes and off he went. There’s no way I was having some stranger at the wheel.’
Yates was busy scribbling notes. Faraday still wasn’t clear why Pelly hadn’t used his own boat. At first Sean wouldn’t answer. When Faraday put the question again, he dug his hands deeper into the pockets of the dressing gown and looked him in the eye.
‘His own boat went out the same night. They left in convoy, him and another bloke. High tide was around eight.’
‘We’re talking the Tidemaster?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So who was it at the wheel?’
‘I’ve no idea. Honest to God.’
‘You didn’t see him at all?
‘Not properly. Not close up. A young-looking guy? Tallish? I don’t know. It can get really dark out there.’
Faraday let the silence stretch and stretch. The old man was looking happier.
‘So when did all this happen?’ Faraday asked at last.
Sean Castle had stepped over to the window. He wiped off the condensation with his sleeve, then peered out.
‘October time, beginning of the month. I was down on the harbour next day. Pelly gave me the keys back.’
‘OK was it? The boat?’
‘No, it fucking wasn’t. Couple of bloody great gouges out of the gunnel on the starboard side. Told me he hadn’t a clue how it happened. Nerve of the guy.’
‘What kind of gouges?’
‘So big.’ Castle held his thumb and forefinger apart, the width of a cigar. ‘Looked to me l
ike he’d taken a swing or two with an axe, but the bugger wasn’t having it.’
Faraday nodded, exchanged a glance with Yates.
‘And Pelly’s own boat?’ Yates enquired. ‘The Tide-master?’
‘Dunno. Never saw it again.’ He shrugged, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around him. ‘Five hundred quid, you don’t ask too many questions.’
Winter was still in bed when Suttle finally turned up. Winter made it to the front door, pausing in the hall to catch his breath. Suttle stared at the paisley pyjamas.
‘What’s the matter? You look crap again.’
‘Long story, son. Come in.’
‘I thought we were going down to see Cathy Lamb? I thought you wanted a lift?’
‘Later.’
Suttle’s car was parked outside, door open, engine still on. He locked it and returned to the bungalow.
‘Through the back?’ Suttle nodded down the hall.
‘No.’ Winter indicated the adjacent door. ‘Come in here.’
The bedroom couldn’t have been changed since the death of Winter’s wife. Suttle tried to take it all in. No man would have chosen this wallpaper, these curtains, this particular brand of carpet, all of them studies in pink and powder blue. Waking up in a room like this, thought Suttle, would be like drinking tea with four sugars. You’d spend the rest of the day getting over it.
Heaped on the floor beside the bed was a pile of clothes. Since when had Winter taken to wearing lacy black knickers?
‘Maddox,’ he said briefly.
‘She’s here?’
‘Gone to Sainsbury’s.’
‘Shit. No wonder you’re looking so rough. Sort you out, did she?’
Winter let the comment pass. He’d phoned Cathy Lamb and asked for an urgent meet. Before they drove down to Kingston Crescent, they ought to be sure what they wanted out of it.
‘Wishart, for starters,’ Suttle suggested. ‘You had a good look through the billing?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter eased himself back into bed and reached for the flannel. ‘One of the numbers was his. I checked it out. Lafemka was on the phone to him most days. The last call he made to Wishart was after lunch the day he died.’
‘OK.’ Suttle perched himself on the edge of the bed, stirring the heap of clothes with the toe of his trainers. ‘So we can definitely link the bloke to Wishart. It’s not enough, though, is it? Not if we’re right about a hit?’
‘No. I’ve got a couple of numbers you might like to phone. Blokes you ought to talk to.’ Winter dug under the pillow and tossed over a mobile. Suttle didn’t pick it up.
‘Are these guys snouts of yours?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So why don’t you do it?’
Winter eyed him for a moment, then collapsed back against the pillows. This was the moment he’d been avoiding for the last couple of months. Suttle, like most detectives, rarely noticed the obvious. Until now.
Winter rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m not too well, if you want the truth.’
‘How’s that, then?’ Suttle looked startled.
Winter told him about the headaches, about the moments when he thought he was going blind, about this morning.
‘You were sick again?’ Suttle was looking hard at the carpet. ‘Like the other day?’
‘Yeah. But worse.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Shit …’ He shook his head. ‘Does Cathy know any of this?’
‘No.’
‘Then tell her. Else I will. You shouldn’t be working at all. You need a doctor.’
‘I’ve got one. And a consultant. And another bloody appointment, Monday morning as it happens. We should get rat-arsed Sunday, just in case.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Suttle reached for the mobile. ‘You think it’s that bad?’
‘Yeah.’
Suttle shook his head, sobered now, and scrolled through the list of numbers until Winter told him to stop. He scribbled down a couple of names; looked up. A car had come to a halt outside. Suttle got to his feet. Maddox was unloading shopping from the boot of Winter’s Subaru. Suttle watched her for a moment or two as she pushed in through the gate.
‘So where does she fit in to all this? Give us a clue.’
‘Wish I could, son.’
‘You mean that?’ Suttle glanced round.
‘’Fraid so.’ Winter shut his eyes, wincing with pain. ‘Toms I can handle. Wives, no problem. Maddox? You tell me.’
‘Nice, though, eh?’
‘Very.’ His hand clawed towards the strip of tablets on the duvet. ‘As if that helps.’
Maddox took the shopping straight through to the kitchen. Already, to Winter, the house felt different, warmer, shared. He listened to Suttle listing all the clever ways Wishart had distanced himself from the hit. Payment would have been in cash. The car would have ended up on some industrial estate in Manchester or Newcastle, just another torched statistic. The hitman, with every incentive to keep his mouth shut, would have banked his money and gone to ground. Wishart’s fingerprints would be invisible.
‘So what’s the problem?’ Maddox was standing at the door. She’d evidently overheard everything.
‘We need to put him away. Evidence would be nice.’ Pursuing this thought was more than Winter could manage. He lay back again, shading his eyes against the noonday sun.
Suttle nodded. A mobile billing was a start, he said, but no jury would convict for taking regular phone calls.
‘You need to hear it from the man himself … n’est-ce pas?’
‘That would be favourite.’ Suttle grinned at her. ‘Think you can manage it?’
‘Yes.’ Maddox crossed the room and bent over Winter. ‘I think I can.’
Seventeen
Saturday, 28 February 2004
Faraday was on the phone to Willard when DS Dave Michaels appeared at his office door. DC Barber needed to speak to him. It sounded urgent. Faraday nodded, bringing the conversation with his boss to a close. Willard had just received a supplementary estimate for the analysis on Pelly’s hard disk, £3,500, a lot of money for a punt that might take the investigation nowhere. How was the rest of the case shaping up?
Faraday mentally reviewed the facts he knew he could rely on. Apart from Pelly’s cash windfalls and his subsequent purchase of the new boat, it amounted to very little. The charter of Sean Castle’s fishing boat might yet prove a breakthrough but Castle himself had no interest in making a formal statement. Computer analysis, on the other hand, was regularly proving to be an evidential gold mine. With luck, the techies might turn up something priceless.
Willard agreed.
‘We’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Ring me if anything develops.’
Michaels disappeared to transfer Barber’s call to Faraday’s extension. The DC was still at the nursing home.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Slowly. They’re sweet, some of these old dears, but you wouldn’t set your clock by them.’
‘Anything useful?’
‘Quite a lot about Pelly’s so-called missus. She’s a bit of a favourite here; the oldies adore her. Apparently she helps out all the time, really hands-on. And you pick up the feeling she doesn’t get out much, her choice as far as I can gather. This is her bit of England. She doesn’t seem that keen on the rest of it.’
‘Is that you saying that?’
‘No, there’s one old lady who really dotes on her, thinks she’s wasted running around after a bunch of geriatrics. She thinks Lajla pines a lot for home. Apparently she’s very close to her brother; gets regular letters.’
‘From Bosnia?’
‘Berlin. He’s a mechanic. Shares a flat with their father; just had a baby himself. He sends his kid sister piccies and Lajla shows them round.’
‘What about the relationship with Pelly?’
‘Father–daughter. That’s what this same old lady thinks. Actually she’s a youngster, spring chicken, barely seventy. Keeps her eyes open. She says Pelly’s got a regular girlfriend, bi
g woman. Often spends the night. As far as Lajla’s concerned, Pelly seems to play the protector. Maybe brother–sister, not father–daughter.’
Faraday shut the office door with his foot. Gary Morgan had mentioned a local woman Pelly was seeing. Must be one and the same.
‘So why the call?’ Faraday asked.
Barber took her time explaining. She and Darren Webster had agreed that the key interviewee would be Mary Unwin, Chris Unwin’s treasured granny. They’d put her top of the list but getting anywhere near her had been a bitch. First, she’d alarmed the care staff by not eating her breakfast. Then she’d felt giddy and retired from the shared lounge to take a nap. Finally, after lunch, there’d been yet another problem. She always watched Neighbours, never missed an episode, couldn’t possibly be disturbed. Finally, half an hour ago, Tracy Barber had practically forced her way into Mary’s tiny bedroom. She’d found her reading a copy of Woman’s Weekly. The TV, when she tried it, didn’t even work.
‘So who kept you out?’
‘Pelly. He’s been around all day. Nice enough with everyone else but in this case a pain in the arse.’
‘And Mary? When you talked to her?’
‘Genuinely off the planet. She must read Woman’s Weekly for the pictures. Her hearing’s not too great either, so you have to shout.’
Barber described the course of the interview. With every new conversation, she and Webster had tried to establish the pattern of visits from Chris Unwin. They had copies of his photo and most of the old dears recognised him. Yes, he used to drop in to see his nan. Have a cup of tea with her in the lounge, clown around a bit, make everyone laugh. And no, they hadn’t seen him recently, not since way before Christmas.
‘And Mary?’
‘She wasn’t sure. One minute she knew him, the next minute she didn’t. Then she wrecked the whole thing by asking whether he was still delivering the papers every morning. Turned out she’d got the wrong bloke, complete muddle.’
‘Useless then. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Well, no, it’s not. That’s why I called. This is going to sound freaky.’
Barber, it transpired, had been on the point of giving up the interview with Mary Unwin. Nothing she said made any sense. She had a real problem with time: kept talking about the war as if it was yesterday, couldn’t remember what she’d had for lunch. Then, unprompted, she’d suddenly started talking in sign language.
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