Suttle, for a brief moment, was nonplussed. He’d come to inquire about a murder, not watch daytime TV.
‘Do you mind?’ He bent to the set and turned it off.
Before she had a chance to protest, he pulled up a chair and sat down. Half an hour ago he’d debriefed the D/C who’d managed to establish a name for Mallinder’s regular visitor. She was a Bengali prostitute called Aliyah, and with luck she’d be volunteering herself for interview at Kingston Crescent at some point this afternoon. For now, though, Suttle needed a domestic angle on the dead man.
‘Can I just say, Mrs Mallinder—’
‘How sorry you are? Sure. Of course. Thank you.’ She was still looking at the blankness of the screen. At length she glanced across at Suttle. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘It’s about your husband, obviously. In cases like these we try and establish a sequence of events leading up to what happened. It’s just a start, that’s all.’
She said she understood. Jonathan had left home around half eight on Monday morning. He’d dropped the kids at school and given her a ring from his mobile around lunchtime. Everything had seemed perfectly normal. He was cheerful about the meeting he’d just had and said he’d probably be back some time late tomorrow afternoon.
‘That’s yesterday afternoon,’ she added.
‘Of course.’ Suttle had his notepad on his lap. ‘Did he say anything else about the meeting?’
‘No. But then he never went into details. Jonathan was a man who lived his life in boxes. Business was box one. We were box two.’
‘Second best?’
‘Alphabetical order.’ She looked away. ‘Though sometimes, I admit, it was hard to tell.’
Suttle scribbled himself a note. Bitterness was like a bad smell, he thought. You couldn’t miss it.
‘You’re telling me you knew very little about your husband’s business life?’
‘I’m telling you he spared us the details. I knew broadly what he got up to - the deals he was doing, what might happen at the end of it - but if you’ve come here to ask me about his diary, about who he met, where they fitted, what happened, I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
‘Was it always like that?’
‘Yes. In many respects he was a very private man.’
‘And family life? Do you mind me asking?’
‘Not in the least. Family life was wonderful. He was active, he did stuff, he was funny, he’d stayed young at heart, the kids adored him. What else would a woman want?’
What else indeed. Suttle made another note. Then he looked up.
‘No problems, then?’
‘Domestically, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘None. We led a very full life, always have done. Jonathan worked hard and played hard. I respected that, gave him space if you like.’
‘Space for what?’
‘Space for this …’ She nodded vaguely towards the window. ‘I don’t know what it is with Portsmouth but my husband just loved it. Given half a chance, I’m sure he’d have moved us all down.’
‘And you?’
‘I never got it, never understood the charm of the place. We had a weekend down here once, the whole family. The dockyard was OK, the kids loved the old boats, but the city itself …’ She pulled a face, leaving the sentence unfinished.
‘What about business pressures? Can you think of anything recently? Anything that might have upset him?’
‘No.’ She shook her head, emphatic. ‘As I told you, Jonathan kept his business affairs to himself. But why would anyone want to kill him? Especially like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like … so professionally? So coldly? It makes me shudder even thinking about it. Someone like Jonathan, he’s canny, he’s clever, he just doesn’t get into situations like that. He knows the boundaries, he knows how far to push. He might take the odd liberty - we all do - but there are limits and he’d be the first to respect them.’
‘The odd liberty?’
‘Yes.’ She frowned, and Suttle became suddenly aware of the shapeliness of her hands, cradling the swell of her belly. ‘He takes a risk or two sometimes. But that’s fine. That’s what makes him fun.’
Suttle was wondering about her use of the present tense. Mallinder was clearly going to leave a very large hole in her life.
‘Was the call you mentioned the last time you heard from him?’
‘Yes. Sometimes he’d phone in the evening to talk to the kids, but on Monday he didn’t.’
‘No late-night call?’
‘No. But then I didn’t expect it. I go to bed early. He knew that.’
‘And no indication that something might have upset him? No calls to the house you might have been aware of? E-mails? Anything like that?’
‘Nothing. I don’t make a habit of looking at his e-mails but if there was anything wrong, really wrong, I’d be able to tell, believe me. No, Jonathan had the lowest blood pressure of any man I’ve ever known. Nothing got to him.’ For the first time she smiled. ‘We’re moving next week, can you believe that? Much bigger place over in Wentworth. Me? I’ve been tearing my hair out for weeks. Jonathan? He just gets on with it. Take this last weekend. Boxes to pack? Arrangements to make? Little details you can’t afford to forget? It’s just never a problem. He copes. He keeps a little mental list. And come six o’clock, with the kids still rushing round, you know what? It’s all sorted. Amazing. I kept meaning to ask him. What’s the secret? Just how do you always manage to stay so calm? So cheerful?’ She sniffed, then turned her head away. Suttle found a box of tissues on the carpet beside the sofa. She dabbed at her eyes then blew her nose. ‘Shit,’ she said quietly. ‘I swore I’d never do this.’
‘It’s completely understandable.’
‘Yeah?’ She looked at him. ‘You’d know, would you?’
The interview came to an end shortly afterwards. Suttle gave her a phone number and told her to call if she thought of anything else he ought to know. She nodded, getting heavily to her feet. Benskin was going to drop by the hotel at some point and take her back to London. If she never saw Portsmouth again, she said, she wouldn’t be the least bit sorry.
Out in the corridor Suttle asked if there was anything else she needed.
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘The keys to my husband’s car.’
Suttle remembered a line from the preliminary SOC report. No one had been able to get inside the Mercedes parked in the drive.
‘You don’t have a spare set?’
‘No. I phoned the garage in the end. They’re dropping some off. Tomorrow.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘Do?’ She looked vacant for a moment then stepped back into the room. ‘Christ knows.’
Faraday took the call on his mobile as he stepped into Barrie’s office. He hesitated a moment, backed into the corridor, then returned seconds later. Barrie turned from his PC. Faraday rarely grinned.
‘Good news?’
‘Very.’
‘Billhook?’
‘My son. He’s just stepped off the plane at Heathrow. ’
Barrie took a moment to absorb this news. ‘But I thought he was deaf?’ he said at last. ‘I thought he couldn’t talk?’
‘He can’t. That was a friend of mine on the phone. She’s up there to meet him.’
‘Great …’ He stared at Faraday then frowned. ‘So where are we with Billhook?’
Faraday took a seat beside the desk, still trying to picture Gabrielle’s efforts to cope with his windmill of a son. J-J’s brand of sign language was never less than theatrical but if she could survive six months with Vietnamese hill tribes, he thought, then conducting a conversation with his deaf son should be a breeze.
‘Joe … ?’ Barrie was running out of patience.
Faraday apologised. He’d just had a call from Glen Thatcher, the D/S in charge of Outside Enquiries.
‘And?’
‘We might have a hit on CCTV.’
Nu
mber-plate recognition cameras on the M27, he said, had picked up a stolen car heading west at 03.47 on Tuesday morning, a black Ford Escort registered to a twenty-three-year-old from Southampton. The car had been nicked earlier on in the day from a car park in the New Forest and now the team at the CCTV control room had established further sightings.
‘Where?’
‘On the approach road to Port Solent, around half past nine, Monday night.’
‘Details?’
‘None, I’m afraid. All we got was a rear shot but the blokes are pretty sure it’s the same car.’
‘And later, on the motorway?’
‘Two up. A guy behind the wheel and a bloke beside him. They’ve both got the visors down so I’m afraid there’s no detail but the passenger was much smaller. He was wearing a grey hoodie so we can’t really see his face. There could be other people in the back, of course.’
‘And you think these sightings might be significant?’
‘Very.’
‘Why?’
‘The visors, for one thing. That tells me these guys are aware.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. The car was found this morning, back in the New Forest. Burned out.’
Barrie permitted himself a smile. He was itching for a roll-up, Faraday could tell.
‘Witnesses?’ he asked.
‘We’re talking a different car park in the forest, quite remote. The fire was called in by a passing motorist at five in the morning. It was windy last night and by that time the fire had spread a bit. According to Outside Enquiries, it took three appliances to put it out.’
‘What kind of state was the car in?’
‘Totally burned out. The fire investigators have been on site for about an hour. The way I see it, sir, we need more than that.’
‘You want to put Scenes of Crime in?’
‘Yes. But we’ve got to get a move on. Once the fire people have finished they’ll want to clean up.’
Barrie glanced at his watch. Three appliances meant a small army of firemen. Surely any worthwhile evidence would have been trampled to death by now?
‘Maybe, but in my view it’s still worth it. I’m not talking about a major operation. Just a single CSI would do it. I was going to drive out and take a look myself.’
CSI meant Crime Scene Investigator. Faraday waited for a decision. Like every Detective Superintendent, Barrie hated wasting resources.
‘You’re sure we can tie this vehicle to Port Solent?’
‘Definitely. Like I say, we caught it on the approach road.’
‘And then what?’
‘We don’t know. There are cameras at the main car park. It’s a different control room. The guys are still looking at the footage.’
‘How about leaving Port Solent?’
‘That’s a definite, too. The same camera on the approach road caught the Escort leaving.’
‘What time?’
‘At three thirty-eight. That ties in exactly with the ANPR sighting on the motorway.’
‘How many people?’
‘Two for sure in the front. Both visors are down, exactly the way they are on the motorway, and the smaller guy is wearing a grey hoodie.’
‘OK.’ Barrie scribbled himself a note. ‘Go for it.’
Faraday got to his feet but Barrie motioned him to stay put. He wanted an update on other developments, starting with Benskin.
‘You think he might be a runner?’
‘Possibly.’
Faraday quickly summarised the morning’s interview. Benskin and Mallinder had been close working partners, as they’d suspected. In deal after deal, they’d seen absolutely eye to eye, agreed on everything, and as a result they seemed to have come from nowhere to a position of some prominence in double-quick time. Only when they were getting towards the end of the interview had Faraday detected the slightest hint of daylight between them.
‘With respect to what?’
‘The Tipner project. Benskin was pretty frank. He thought Mallinder had got it all wrong for once.’ He gave Barrie the details.
‘We need someone to talk to the current developers.’
‘Of course. Outside Enquiries have got it down as a priority action.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon. We should have something in the pot by close of play.’
Barrie nodded. The regular Billhook squad meet was scheduled for 18.15. He’d be at HQ in Winchester for a meeting so he wanted Faraday to chair it. Any major developments, he expected a phone call.
‘No problem.’
‘Excellent.’ Barrie scribbled himself another note. ‘And the rest?’
‘We’ve got a name for the escort Mallinder’s been using, the Asian girl. We’re expecting her sometime this afternoon. She’s volunteered to come in.’
‘And the wife?’
‘Suttle says he drew a blank. The woman was a bit pissed off to be second best to his business interests but he thinks she loved him to bits. Apparently he was great with the kids, great with her, no obvious tensions, about to move house, everything apple pie.’
‘Except he’s using a prostitute.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And got himself killed.’
‘Exactly.’
Faraday was out in the New Forest within the hour. He’d had a brief phone conversation with the fire investigator who was already on site and had warned him that Scenes of Crime personnel were en route from Fareham. Faraday recognised the white Peugeot van as he pulled into the car park from the road that wound through this corner of the forest. Barrie, as Faraday had suggested, had asked for a single Crime Scene Investigator.
His name was Tim Riddick. Faraday found him on the other side of the van pulling on a grey one-piece forensic suit. The last time they’d met was a couple of months back on a rape in woodland near Waterlooville.
‘What’s the story, boss?’ Riddick zipped up the suit, looking across at the blackened remains of the Escort.
Faraday explained about the CCTV sightings. There was a possibility the Escort might be tied to the Port Solent hit.
‘How many blokes are we talking?’
‘Two.’
Riddick nodded The fire brigade investigator was still at work on the shell of the burned-out car, bagging samples from the charred debris beneath the front seats. The seats were nothing more than a framework of metal and springs twisted into grotesque shapes by the heat of the fire, and Faraday studied them a moment, imagining this tableau in some cutting-edge London gallery. Then he stepped back, gazing around. The acrid stench of the fire still hung in the air. The car park was surrounded by trees and shrubs, and the vegetation on one side of the site was blackened. At least an acre, he thought. Maybe more.
The fire investigator was writing labels for his sample bags. When Faraday asked whether it was too early to draw conclusions, he shook his head.
‘Peach of a job,’ he said. ‘Just look at that.’
‘What?’
The investigator was pointing at the window frames. Faraday assumed the windows themselves had disintegrated in the heat but evidently he was wrong.
‘They’re all wound down. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were about. A wind like last night’s, you park exactly on this line, broadside on. Then you wind the windows down, lift the tailgate, empty a load of accelerant inside, put a match to it and run like fuck. Loads of draught, burned a treat. Lovely job.’
Faraday watched Riddick. He was moving carefully across the sodden ash around the car park, scanning the ground. Everywhere there were footprints, tyre tracks, indisputable evidence of a couple of dozen firemen. Normally, Faraday wouldn’t dream of disturbing a crime scene but on this occasion there was nothing left to contaminate. Barrie had been right: putting in Scenes of Crime was a waste of time.
Faraday turned to the fire investigator again.
‘What happens to the car?’
‘We’ll take it back to the depot. I’ll need some more
photos. The recovery truck’s due any time now.’
‘We’ll grab a couple of shots before it leaves.’
‘Sure. Help yourself.’
Faraday waited for Riddick to return. As he’d expected, there was little value in extending the search any further. There might have been another vehicle here that the guys in the Escort had used to leave the scene but the fire and its aftermath had destroyed any surviving shred of evidence. Of course he’d pop off some shots for the file but the fire investigator had it about right. Class act.
‘Yeah.’ Faraday nodded. ‘Just like Mallinder.’
Winter was on the Gosport ferry when Suttle returned his call. It was hot for early September, and Winter had made himself comfortable in a seat on the top deck, enjoying the sun on his face.
‘The answer’s yes.’ Suttle was obviously in a hurry. ‘Round eight? Somewhere quiet? I’ll give you a bell.’
The line went dead and Winter struggled to his feet, a broad smile on his face. Standing at the rail, he watched as the ferry manoeuvred alongside, nudging the Gosport pontoon.
Jimmy Suttle, over the last couple of years, had virtually become the son that he and Joannie had never had. Unlike many of the younger D/Cs these days, the lad had a real appetite for the job. He’d always been happy to listen to Winter’s war stories, picking up tips wherever he could, and when Winter had found himself fighting a brain tumour, young Jimmy had made it his business to help out. At the time Winter had been involved with a part-time call girl with an unlikely name, and between them she and Jimmy Suttle had kept the demons at bay. An American neurosurgeon had finally saved Winter’s life but in truth he’d been inclined to give the proper credit to Maddox and to Suttle. Only the prospect of near-certain death, he thought now, had made him realise the importance of real friendship.
Winter joined the queue of passengers disembarking. Minutes later he was knocking on an office door in a new development overlooking the biggest of the harbourside marinas. The name on the door read ‘Harbour Events’.
He’d talked to Andrew McCall an hour or so earlier on the phone. In the flesh he was older than Winter had expected, a tall, slightly piratical figure with mischievous eyes and the faintest suggestion of a limp.
The Price Of Darkness Page 7