Blood And Honey

by Hurley, Graham

‘This isn’t a joke,’ Michaels reminded him. ‘We’re talking murder, not some jolly.’

  ‘You’re talking murder. Me? I’m just telling you what happened that night. We went fishing. Fishing isn’t a crime, not yet anyway. Then we came home.’

  ‘And sold the boat.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘French bloke. Nice as pie. Saw it on the mooring, went for a tootle round the harbour, made me an offer, took it away.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Three grand? Four? We’re talking euros here.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘Put it in a bank account in Bosnia. You want to see the paperwork? That could be difficult.’

  There was a murmured conversation as Pelly consulted his solicitor, a plump, pleasant-looking woman from a big island practice in Newport. Finally, Pelly decided he might have left the money with a friend in Sarajevo. Strictly for safe keeping.

  Dave Michaels, unusually, was running out of patience. When Pelly’s amnesia extended to the sale of his Volvo, Michaels accused him of lying.

  ‘Can you prove that?’ Pelly’s voice had hardened. ‘Only lying’s a big word.’

  There was a long silence. Michaels wasn’t an easy man to wind up. Tracy Barber intervened. Between them, thought Faraday, they must have decided to go for broke.

  ‘Chris Unwin’s back on the island,’ she began. ‘Are you aware of that, Mr Pelly?’

  ‘Yeah. He dropped by yesterday. Came up with his mum to sort out young Mary’s stuff. Nice to see him again.’

  ‘You know we’ve been looking for him?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Faraday could picture Pelly’s dismissive shrug.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Don’t understand the question, love. What’s any of that got to do with me?’

  ‘I just thought you might have got in touch.’

  ‘About Unwin?’ He laughed. ‘Listen, you blokes are supposed to know your business. If you choose to spend thousands of pounds looking for a guy who’s been away for a while, good luck. Me? I’ve got a list of jobs as long as your arm. Doing yours for you isn’t one of them. OK?’

  ‘Do you know where Unwin’s been?’

  ‘He said something about France.’

  ‘That’s right. And do you know why he went over in the first place?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Then let me tell you.’

  Faraday bent towards the speaker. This was the crunch, he thought. This was the moment when Congress played its one and only court card.

  Barber was detailing Unwin’s account of the night he helped Pelly dispose of the body. From time to time she paused, asking Pelly whether he had any comment.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Tell me the rest of it.’

  At length she got to the end of Unwin’s story. He was back in Bembridge Harbour, back in his van, freezing cold, waiting for dawn. Eighteen hours later he was driving that same van and a handful of possessions onto the Le Havre ferry.

  ‘It checks out,’ Barber warned. ‘P & O have confirmed the booking.’

  ‘Fine.’ Pelly sounded totally unruffled. ‘What’s any of that got to do with me?’

  ‘Unwin says you had a body to dispose of.’ Michaels this time. ‘It’s not an unreasonable supposition to suspect that you might have had some connection with this person’s death.’

  There was a long silence. Faraday reached for a pad, waiting. Finally Pelly began to laugh again.

  ‘It’s bollocks, isn’t it? Unwin lives in a world of his own. Always has done.’

  ‘You’re denying it?’

  ‘Of course I fucking am.’

  ‘There was no body?’

  ‘Not that I ever saw. The guy’s made it up. Like he makes everything else up.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘We had a row, like people do. He tell you about that at all? He thought I was short-changing his nan. Happens he was wrong but I don’t blame him for having a go. Maybe he took it personally. Fuck knows. Maybe he can’t resist making stuff up. Some people are like that. They’re kids. Prefer make-believe to the real world.’

  ‘And Unwin’s like that?’

  ‘Course he is. You just have to look at the guy. He’s a child. He makes it up as he goes along.’

  Another silence, longer this time. Then Dave Michaels came in. His appetite for Pelly’s brand of bullshit was exhausted.

  ‘This is the way it goes, right? It’s summer. You’re trying to raise money to buy a new boat but this seems to be a problem because the fact is you’re skint. We’ve talked to Cheetah Marine, the people down in Ventnor. We can evidence that. Come October, though, you’re suddenly rolling in dosh. Lots and lots of it. We can evidence that, too. Mysteriously, at exactly the same time a witness comes forward and says he helped you get rid of a body. The next day your boat disappears. You haven’t got a clue who bought it. Then the Volvo estate gets sold to some other stranger. Meantime you’re redecorating fit to bust downstairs at the back. New carpet, new curtains, new chair – total blitz. Five months later we find a body at the bottom of a cliff. And now we discover you’re selling up and getting out. You’re telling me none of that suggests a pattern?’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Like you killed a guy? Took his money? Emptied his bank account? Covered up after you?’ It was Michaels laughing this time. ‘Isn’t that the way it happened? Or am I missing something here?’

  Pelly didn’t answer. Michaels repeated the question, blunter this time.

  ‘You killed him, didn’t you? You killed this person?’

  Pelly’s sigh was all too audible. Here was a man, it suggested, whose patience had been stretched to breaking point.

  ‘You want to prove that?’ he said at last. ‘Only you wouldn’t believe how busy I am.’

  *

  It took the briefest phone call for Cathy Lamb to make time in her schedule to see Paul Winter.

  ‘You’re supposed to be resting,’ she scolded him. ‘The idea is to get better.’

  ‘Nice one, Cath. I’ll be down in half an hour.’

  Winter drove himself into the city. It was a beautiful day, early spring sunshine gleaming on the wide bright spaces of the upper harbour. In the distance the grey bulk of Portchester Castle. As a kid Winter and his gang had ridden their bikes across and played on the foreshore beneath the castle walls. One time, a fat kid – Richard – had found a human thigh bone. He’d taken it to the police station and months later he’d got a letter saying the bone had probably belonged to one of the French prisoners banged up in the hulks during the Napoleonic Wars. Winter, slowing for the exit to Kingston Crescent, smiled at the memory. We all cop it in the end, he thought.

  Cathy Lamb was even more stressed than usual but one look at Winter made her push the paperwork to one side. At least DIs qualified for an office, she muttered. Thank God for a bit of privacy, eh?

  Winter took the hint and shut the door. He and Cathy Lamb went back years. She’d had her share of troubles, both private and professional, and it wasn’t in her nature to waste time on small talk.

  ‘You look shit,’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’

  Winter told her about the morning’s visit to the hospital. He had a brain tumour. It was already the size of a golf ball. He filled her in on one or two details, remembering what he could about the ghostly grey shapes on the CT scan, and ended with the consultant’s frank assessment of Winter’s chances under the surgeon’s knife. Telling her this way was oddly detached, he thought. He might have been describing the early stages of a particularly challenging inquiry. There were a number of pathways forward but none of them, to be honest, looked particularly bright.

  Cathy nodded. She was a sturdy, big-hearted woman who’d spent half a lifetime trying to keep her emotions under control. Now she looked away. Her eyes were moist.

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  She got up. There was a fold of tissues in
the pocket of her anorak. She blew her nose and then sat down again.

  Winter, embarrassed, wanted to talk about Plover.

  ‘Fuck Plover.’

  ‘I’m serious, Cath. You’d be doing me a favour.’

  ‘The answer’s no. You’re sick, Paul. We have to get you better.’

  ‘Then listen. I need to box this thing off.’

  Ignoring her protests, Winter summarised his progress over the last couple of days. An informant had passed on the whisper about a black 4×4. Wishart’s wife had a black 4×4. Wishart himself had been driving the vehicle the week of Lakemfa’s death. Within days, after a couple of hours with the steam cleaner and the pressure hose, he’d traded the vehicle in for a brand new model.

  ‘Not a contract at all then?’ Despite herself, Cathy Lamb was interested.

  ‘No. He did the job himself. That way, no one else is in the loop. Stands to reason, Cath. This is a guy who trusts no one.’

  ‘But why would he do it? Why take the risk?’

  Winter told her about the way he’d tucked Lakemfa up. Meals. Probably money. Definitely Camber Court.

  ‘Lakemfa was on a freebie?’

  ‘Several.’

  ‘You can evidence that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Maddox.’

  Cathy looked at him, wanting more. Winter changed the subject. Jimmy Suttle, he said, had been on to ILET at Segensworth. The International Liaison Enquiry Team had links into all the London embassies and had made inquiries about a contract put out to tender by the Nigerian navy.

  ‘They were after inshore attack craft, Cath. This is Wishart’s game. They wanted a dozen. That’s around twelve million quid. Wishart thought he had it in the bag.’

  ‘Because of Lakemfa?’

  ‘Exactly. He’d done the research. Lakemfa knew all the big players in Lagos, had the ear of the man with the chequebook. Game, set and match.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The contract went to the Norwegians. Firm up in Stavanger. Maybe they bunged Lakemfa more than Wishart. Maybe he was crazy about Scandinavian women. Either way Wishart wasn’t having it. This is a guy who’s not into losing, Cath.’

  ‘So he killed him?’

  Winter held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘Dying’s no big deal, Cath.’ He offered her a weary smile. ‘Believe me.’

  The second interview session with Pelly lasted nearly two hours. Michaels and Barber went over the sequence of events time and again, testing every join, requesting clarification on this detail or that, constantly trying to provoke Pelly into a contradiction or a silly mistake. Not once did Pelly give them the slightest indication that he was prepared to shed precious light on areas of his story that remained bafflingly obscure. His life was his own. He led it the way he led it and he was under absolutely no obligation to share the details with anyone. If they really believed this nonsense story of Unwin’s, then it was down to them to prove it. And for that, as he was only too aware, they needed corroboration.

  ‘He’s stitched us up.’ Michaels was on his second coffee. ‘And he knows it.’

  Faraday listened to Michaels’ thoughts on where a third interview might take them. He’d been in and out of the second session, monitoring it from next door, only too aware of Pelly’s ever-lengthening silences. The clock was ticking. Soon he’d have to drive over to Newport and explain his case for a twelve-hour extension to Pelly’s period of detention. He knew and liked the uniformed Superintendent who’d have to make the decision, and anticipated no real problem keeping Pelly in for another day’s questioning, but more and more he was asking himself what else they had to throw at the man. It was only too clear that Pelly was beyond intimidation. After surviving Bosnia, as he was so fond of pointing out, there were precious few things in life that really bothered him. So just how could they prise open this absurd story of his?

  Michaels, uncharacteristically, had fallen silent. Tracy Barber was staring into space. It fell to Faraday to move the process on.

  ‘We need to take a hostage,’ he said.

  The third interview started an hour later. Faraday himself had replaced DC Tracy Barber. DIs rarely conducted interviews, but on this occasion Faraday believed that the gamble was amply justified. He was beginning to get a sense of where Pelly’s weak spot might lie, and if his instincts were right then the next few minutes would be crucial.

  Pelly and his solicitor were already seated at the small, bare table when Faraday and Dave Michaels walked in. According to the Custody Officer, Pelly had refused the offer of lunch, opting instead for a roll-up and a copy of the Guardian. He was, he’d told the turnkey, a vegetarian. No way was he going to trust a lukewarm burger from the microwave upstairs.

  Faraday settled himself opposite Pelly. Michaels joined him. Pelly looked from one face to the other

  ‘Where’s the lady?’

  ‘Otherwise engaged.’ Faraday was leafing through a sheaf of notes. ‘We’ve arrested your wife. We need a bit of a chat with her. I thought DC Barber was best suited for the job.’ He looked up, his finger anchored in the middle of a page. ‘Now then, where were we?’

  The transformation in Pelly was remarkable. The languid composure, the air of slight boredom, had gone. There was anger in his eyes.

  ‘You’ve done what?’

  ‘Arrested your wife.’ Faraday looked mildly surprised. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘Too fucking right I have a problem with that. You’ve got me. Here. What else do you need?’

  ‘A few sensible answers would be nice. Just for starters.’

  ‘And Lajla?’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll oblige.’ Faraday smiled. ‘I gather she’s a bit upset just now but I suppose that’s understandable. You don’t get arrested for murder every day of your life.’

  ‘Murder? Laj? You’re off your head.’ He looked sideways at his solicitor. ‘I don’t have to put up with this, do I?’

  The solicitor told him he didn’t have a choice. Lajla would herself be entitled to legal representation. Her rights would doubtless be respected.

  ‘Of course,’ said Faraday lightly. ‘The duty brief should be here any minute.’

  ‘The duty fucking brief?’ Pelly’s face had reddened. ‘What would someone like that know about what Laj’s been through, eh?’

  He let the question hang between them. Faraday sensed that Michaels wanted to dive in, wind Pelly up a little more, but Faraday extended a restraining hand. His eyes hadn’t left Pelly’s face.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’ He smiled again. ‘Been through?’

  ‘Yeah, been through. You people have no idea, do you? You’re clueless. Worse than that, you’ve no fucking interest. Just imagine. You’re eighteen years old. You’ve lived in the same village all your life. You’ve gone to school with the same bunch of kids, boys, girls; they’re like one family, moving on through. Then one day it all kicks off and suddenly you’re back at school, back in that same classroom, except now there are dirty old mattresses on the floor, and a bunch of hairy-arsed soldiers getting their fucking kit off, just gagging to dick you. And you know who some of those animals are? Yeah …’ He leaned forward, stabbing the air between them. ‘The blokes you grew up with, the blokes you called fucking brothers. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine how that must feel? Can you?’

  He slumped back in his chair, shaking his head, disgusted. His solicitor inched her chair sideways, widening the gap between them. Even Dave Michaels looked impressed.

  Faraday permitted himself the beginnings of a smile. The softness of his voice brought Pelly’s head up.

  ‘Fascinating,’ Faraday murmured.

  Winter was exhausted by the time he made it back home. A meet with Jimmy Suttle had left him feeling helpless and grumpy. Like Cathy Lamb, Suttle had taken one look at Winter and told him he was mad to even think about continuing his pursuit of Maurice Wishart.

  DI Lamb was due for a c
onference with Willard on the direction that Plover should now take. A possession charge had been laid against Singer, and the solicitor had also been made aware of his indiscretions on the DVD. The fact that he’d helped his clients fabricate evidence for use in court put Singer in deep, deep shit and celebrations had already started in CID offices across the city. As far as Wishart was concerned, on the other hand, Willard seemed to be cautious about committing too many resources. Available evidence was circumstantial in the extreme. With Congress bogged down once again, the Detective Superintendent didn’t want two enquiries that might last months and then dead end.

  Dead end, thought Winter, pretty much summed it up. He struggled out of the car, wrapped his coat around himself and then pushed in through the garden gate. The lights were on in the bungalow again, and Maddox met him at the door. He hadn’t phoned her all day. The three calls she’d made, he’d ignored.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘Work?’ She kissed him. ‘You look worn out.’

  Winter nodded, lacking the energy to argue. He’d spent all day building a dam against the real implications of his conversation with the neurologist. Now, with his head beginning to throb again, he felt miserable. The medics, in the end, were right. When the system failed, what’s left of your body took charge. You could try and fight it, of course you could, but what – in the end – was the point?

  Maddox wanted to know how the session at the hospital had gone. Winter told her. She stared at him.

  ‘Shit,’ she said finally. ‘How do you feel?’

  Winter shook his aching head and sank into a chair. The last thing he wanted to discuss was the prospect of his own mortality.

  ‘Tell me something cheerful.’ He was looking up at her.

  ‘You want a drink? Scotch?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head and then winced. ‘You have one for me.’

  Maddox disappeared into the kitchen. Winter heard one glug-glug-glug, then another. She returned with two sizeable glasses.

  ‘Here.’ She gave it to him, kissed him again, turned off the harsh overhead light. Winter looked at her in the semi-darkness. She’d been on the net, hunting for deals. There was a flight leaving early next week, Egyptair. They’d have to change planes in Cairo but the price was a steal. Up in the mountains, she said, they could start to sort things out. A change of continent, and anything might be possible.