No Lovelier Death

by Hurley, Graham

  Sam was watching over Suttle’s shoulder. He followed her prompts. The screen cleared to reveal yet more mobile footage. Faraday felt himself stiffen. These were new pictures, the camera at the foot of the stairs, angled upwards. At the top of the shot a couple of youths were necking cans of Foster’s. One wore his baseball cap sideways, the other was squatting down with his back to the wall, scratching himself. Between them and the camera, halfway up the stairs, the girl with the shaven head was slashing at a painting, big diagonal crosses, top to bottom. The angle of the camera hid the painting itself but Faraday couldn’t take his eyes off the knife in her hand. Right size, he thought. With a black handle.

  ‘Shit, boss.’ Suttle had seen it too.

  Faraday wanted to know what it took to upload material like this onto Facebook. Sam didn’t understand the question.

  ‘Do you have to be registered? Do you have to be a member?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And how easy is that?’

  ‘You need an email address, a user name and a password. It’s really simple.’

  ‘And the email address can be Web-based, boss.’ It was Suttle. ‘Something like Hotmail or Yahoo. If you’re thinking sender details, trying to get a handle on whoever posted all this stuff, it’s a nightmare. It might take months. And that’s if you’re lucky.’

  ‘And tracing the computer it came from?’

  ‘Total no-no. I’ll check it out with Comms at Netley but Facebook must handle millions of hits every day. Capturing every single IP address? My guess is you wouldn’t even try.’

  ‘So the sender’s invisible?’ Faraday nodded at the screen. ‘Is that what you’re saying.’

  ‘Pretty much. We might get lucky but I doubt it.’

  Faraday bent forward. The sequence had cut to a close-up of the girl with the knife. Her bony face was pale. There was no shadow of hair on her shaven skull. She was striking, even beautiful. She lunged at the mobile then stuck out her tongue. The tiny silver stud glittered under the nearby wall light. A smile widened into a leer, then she began to lick the lens with the tip of her tongue, blurring the whiteness of her face, before the shot changed again.

  Now the ruined portrait filled the screen. Someone had already attacked the picture with a spray can but behind the loops of black paint a man’s face hung from the gilded frame, the reflective smile reduced to shreds of canvas. Faraday recognised the picture from Jerry Proctor’s laptop. The Scenes of Crime photographer had been there twenty-four hours later.

  ‘That’s Rachel’s dad.’ Sam sounded shocked. ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’

  Chapter thirteen

  TUESDAY, 14 AUGUST 2007. 15.57

  Five minutes with the phone book had given Winter an address for Nikki Dunlop. She lived in a tiny flat-fronted house near the seafront in Eastney, barely half a mile from Craneswater. Twice he’d called round in the early afternoon but both times there’d been no answer. Now he’d decided to park down the road and wait for her return.

  Nearly an hour later the BMW rounded the corner at the end of the road and came to a halt at the kerbside. Nikki Dunlop was behind the wheel. The tall figure beside her was talking on a phone. She was at the front door, looking for her keys, by the time he ended the call and got out. Winter watched, beaming. Patience, he thought. Never fails.

  He gave them time to put the kettle on, then locked the car and sauntered across the road. It was Berriman who opened the door. He had a puppy in his arms and his face was pinked with exercise. The pool again, thought Winter.

  Nikki appeared behind him. The front door opened straight into the sitting room.

  ‘Invite the gentleman in, Matt. He won’t bite you.’

  Berriman stepped to one side. He shut the door and let the puppy run free. He dug in his pocket and unwrapped a wafer of chewing gum. Nikki was watching the puppy as it pounced on a cushion and began to drag it across the room. Then she glanced up at Winter.

  ‘Tea?’ Her smile was icy.

  The minuscule kitchen was at the back. One wall was dominated by a poster for an international swimming meet in Düsseldorf. Shelves on another were home to an assortment of photos, postcards and souvenirs. Some of the photos featured Berriman. Winter was reminded of the kitchen at the boy’s home in Somerstown. Wherever he went, wherever he lived, he seemed to leave a calling card.

  Winter helped himself to the kitchen stool. He could see Berriman through the open door to the sitting room. He was draped across the imitation-leather sofa, watching Countdown. The puppy kept trying to clamber onto his lap. Sometimes he cuddled it but mostly he pushed it away.

  ‘You never called me,’ Winter said to Berriman. ‘Which is a pity.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I could have saved you the price of a new mobe.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Berriman’s finger found the mute button on the remote. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘This. You want to take a look?’

  Winter produced the phone that Guy had recovered from the sandpit. He fired it up and found the camera icon. Berriman hadn’t moved but Winter was aware of Nikki Dunlop standing behind him. The sequence from the bathroom began to play. He dropped a shoulder to give her a better view then glanced round. She didn’t look the least amused.

  ‘It’s a question of ownership, love.’ Winter nodded at the tiny screen. ‘We have to be sure who it belongs to. And we’re not talking about the phone.’

  ‘Is that how you got my number?’ It was Nikki.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So that was you who phoned this morning?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  Berriman was on his feet at last. When he saw the phone, Winter sensed a flicker of alarm in his eyes.

  ‘It’s mine,’ he said simply. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘You know where I got it. I got it from where you left it. Just be grateful it was me and not some arsehole detective.’

  Nikki was looking hard at Berriman and the expression on her face told him everything he needed to know about their relationship. She’d looked after his best interests for years. On the way to the national squad she must have dug him out of endless scrapes; 132 mph on the M27 was probably the most recent. Now this.

  ‘Where did you leave it, Matt?’

  Berriman ignored her question. He had his hand out. He wanted the phone back.

  ‘Sorry, son.’ Winter shook his head. ‘Finders keepers.’

  ‘That’s the last time I saw her. The pictures are mine. They belong to me.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll squirt them over. The phone stays with me.’

  Winter slipped the phone back in his pocket then spread his hands wide. He wanted no fuss, no aggro. He gave Berriman a smile. The last time they’d talked Berriman had made it plain that he was going to get to the bottom of who’d killed Rachel. He’d made it equally plain that this task was down to him, and him alone. By now, the way Winter saw it, he’d have made some progress. He’d have been asking around, touching base with old mates, getting a steer or two, maybe even a name.

  ‘Am I wrong, son?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s a girl called Jax Bonner.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. And by now, unless you’re stupid, you’ll probably know all about her. Why? Because she was at that party. She carries a blade. And the way I hear it, she’s a psycho, off her head most of the time. Am I getting warmer?’

  Berriman looked away a moment, a smile on his lips. Nikki was watching him carefully.

  ‘Matt?’ she prompted.

  ‘I’m not getting into this.’

  ‘Why not? This guy’s not a cop. You can help, Matt. You can tell him.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that’s not what you do. I told him before. No one grasses. Not where I come from.’

  ‘Grasses? You’re crazy, Matt. Rachel’s dead. This isn’t some game.

  She’s dead. Gone. That’s why we’ve got the dog, for
fuck’s sake. Don’t you think you owe her this?’ She shook her head, turned away.

  Winter was looking at the puppy when he felt his mobile vibrate. ‘That was Rachel’s dog?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Berriman nodded. ‘It was.’

  Winter nodded, squatted beside the puppy, tickled it behind the ears. Then he fetched out his mobile and checked caller ID. Marie. Pocketing the mobile, he glanced up at Berriman.

  ‘I know some powerful people, Matt. People who make things happen. In this city we can get to anyone, any fucking person you care to name.’

  ‘I don’t need that kind of help.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’ It was Nikki. ‘You think you can do it all yourself? Everything?’ She shook her head again, exasperated.

  Winter got to his feet again while the puppy barked for more attention.

  ‘Listen, son. When I say I can help you, I mean it. You’ve had time to look for this girl, this woman, this Jax. You’ll have turned up something, I know you will. So … your call.’

  There was a long silence. Winter cocked an ear. From next door, through the thin walls, the sound of a child crying.

  He turned back to Berriman.

  ‘You gonna help us then? Do the right thing? Only the guy I work for might have a view on some of this. And he’s nowhere near as nice as me.’

  ‘You mean Mackenzie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘After what I did for him on Saturday night? You’re serious?’

  ‘I am, son. I know you go back a while. I know you did him a favour. But he’s got a crap memory sometimes and just now he wants to know about Jax Bonner. Me? I think you’ve got that knowledge, and that includes where to find her. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You gonna tell me then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Winter stepped towards the door, made to squeeze his way past Berriman into the sitting room.

  He didn’t move.‘My phone?’ Berriman held out his hand. His face was very close.

  Winter could smell spearmint on his breath. He looked at him for a moment longer then patted him on the shoulder. ‘No way, son,’ he said. ‘That’s not the way it works.’

  Outside, in the car, Winter returned Marie’s call. She was at home.

  ‘We need to talk, Paul,’ she said at once. ‘Can you come round?’

  ‘Is Baz with you?’

  ‘No.’

  Sandown Road was two minutes away. Winter found Marie in the kitchen, topping and tailing a big pile of runner beans. Esme had called by half an hour ago and picked up the kids. Winter said no to coffee when Marie offered. He wanted to know what was on her mind.

  ‘It’s about Saturday night,’ she said at once. ‘There are a couple of things I should have mentioned but never did.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like when I first got back from next door. I’d been out on the street, waiting for the police to arrive. Baz had got himself hurt and I’d sent him home, and once the police turned up I went back to check him out. He’d bolted the front door, which was why I went round the side. That’s when I found the two bodies.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Winter was wondering exactly where this might lead. ‘And what else?’

  ‘The kitchen door …’ She nodded at it. ‘It was wide open. The light was on inside.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Except that Rachel knew where we hid the spare key. I assumed she’d let herself in for some reason. God knows why.’

  ‘Did you tell the police this? At Fareham?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not?’ She was staring at him. ‘Since when did your lot ever do us any favours? There’s Baz upstairs, black and blue, two bodies on our patio, and on top of that the kitchen door’s wide open. You’ve been trying to nail us for years. Something tells me you’d start thinking it was Christmas.’

  ‘Not me, love. They.’

  ‘Sorry. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Of course. So what did you do with the kitchen?’

  ‘I turned the light off and shut the door.’

  ‘Locked it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was it like inside?’

  ‘Perfectly normal, as far as I could see.’

  ‘No signs of a fight? Any kind of struggle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK.’ Winter nodded. ‘And Baz? Once you were both released?’

  ‘I told him. Of course I told him.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said to keep it to myself. Just the way I’d done.’

  ‘So why tell me? Now?’

  ‘Because I’ve just realised what’s missing.’

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘From the kitchen. I should have looked earlier. I should have done a proper check. But somehow I never did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve got a favourite kitchen knife.’ She nodded at the beans. ‘I use it on the veggies. It’s gone missing, Paul.’

  ‘Have you told Baz about this?’

  ‘No, but I will. And I’ll say I’ve talked to you as well. This is serious, Paul. If that knife turns out to be the one that killed Rachel, then God knows what kind of shit we’re in.’

  Jimmy Suttle’s first call had gone to the manager of a project targeting young offenders in the city. He’d been to a presentation recently and had been impressed. The manager’s name was Bruce Marr. Suttle said he was interested in a girl his support workers might have come across. She was currently featured in a mobe clip uploaded onto a Facebook page. He gave Marr a Web address and suggested he take a look. Five minutes later Marr was back on the phone. It was nearly five o’clock.

  ‘We ought to talk,’ Marr said. ‘I’d drive down but it’s tricky just now. You want to come up here?’

  The Preventing Youth Offending Project occupied an office in an Edwardian red-brick villa on the lower slopes of Portsdown Hill. Among Marr’s front-line support workers was a soft-voiced Brummie with shoulder-length hair and mischievous eyes.

  ‘This is Paul. He’s been dealing with Jax Bonner on and off for years. Frankly, all this is no big surprise.’

  Suttle wrote the name down. He’d need to check Bonner’s record when he got back.

  ‘Jax?’ he queried. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Jane Alexandra.’ It was Paul. ‘And she’s a one-off, believe me.’

  Bonner, he said, was her mother’s maiden name. She’d married young, to a naval First Lieutenant called Andy Giles. She’d had two babies. The first was a boy, Scott. Four years later Jane arrived. The marriage seemed rock solid. Then Andy had fallen in love with someone else’s wife and bailed out. The mother, Stephanie, had done her best to cope but in the end the situation was too much for her. Clinically depressed, she’d swallowed every tablet she could lay her hands on. Released from hospital, she’d set fire to the family home. Only prompt action from a neighbour had saved the kids’ lives. ‘And the mother?’

  ‘She’d drunk half a bottle of gin and locked herself in the bedroom. There must be worse ways to die.’

  The kids, he said, had been transferred to the care of a relative. Jane was seven, Scott eleven. When that didn’t work, approaches were made to their natural father. He was happy in his second marriage. The last thing he wanted was two more kids.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘They were fostered out. Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t. In this case it didn’t.’

  The regime, he said, was tough but at least both kids were under the same roof. As they got older the bond between them tightened. They became inseparable. At school. During the holidays. At weekends. By the time they came to the attention of the project’s team the core situation was extremely clear: Scotty and Jane against the world.

  By now Suttle had begun to question the thrust of this story. Briefings like these were rarely so detailed.

  ‘What were they
up to?’

  ‘Pretty much everything. These are intelligent kids, middle-class kids, but they’re both hugely damaged. The boy, Scott, was probably the more devious. He was into all sorts but he kept his head down. The girl, Jax, was just angry. And she took it out on any one who happened to be in range.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Violence, mainly. She just lashed out. In these situations it’s often a question of boundaries. In her case there weren’t any. By the time she left primary school, she was close to putting other kids in hospital.’

  Moneyfields was a big comprehensive in Copner. They recognised Jax’s potential and did their best but finally realised they couldn’t cope. Exclusion followed exclusion. By her fourteenth birthday Jax was causing havoc at the Pupil Referral Unit.

  ‘Offences?’ Suttle was making notes.

  ‘Shoplifting. Assault. A spot of arson. Check out the records. She did an ISSP and then a spell at a Youth Offending Institute but I can’t remember exactly when.’

  ‘ISSP?’

  ‘Intensive Supervision and Surveillance Programme. She’d have been watched, tagged, the works.’

  ‘And her brother? Scott?’

  ‘He was still at mainstream school. In fact he was doing very well.

  Like I say, bright kids. But his big thing was money. He wanted to dig himself a little hole; he wanted to keep the world at arm’s length, and he decided the best way of doing that was to get rich. In his situation I’m not sure I blame him. He’d had a pretty shit time of it so far.’

  ‘So what did he do? To make money?’

  ‘Drugs of course.’ He shot Suttle a look. ‘What else would you do?’

  Suttle nodded, made another note. Paul was right. After a bummer of a life the drugs biz might have been a bright new start.

  ‘And did it work?’

  ‘It did. And he was bloody good at it. We watched from a distance, like you do, but he was obviously cutting the right deals. He was out of school by now, big handful of GCSEs, and he was flogging quality gear. He wasn’t silly either. He didn’t blow it all on flash motors and trips to Dubai; he invested.’