No Lovelier Death

by Hurley, Graham

  It was dark by the time Winter met Bazza Mackenzie on the seafront, directly opposite the block where Westie had a flat. Mackenzie pulled in beside the Alfa. He was driving Marie’s Peugeot cabriolet, a present from last Christmas. The window purred down and Bazza waited while Winter crossed the road.

  ‘OK, mush?’

  Winter sniffed the night air, wondering whether Marie did prawns with her garlic. Mackenzie’s mouth and jaw were still shiny with grease.

  ‘Never better, Baz. Spot of twocking? Bring it on.’

  He knew the idea was reckless but just now he couldn’t think of an alternative. All it took was a single clue, a single oversight on Westie’s part, and for most of his ex-colleagues it would suddenly be party time. A chance sighting of a black guy picking his way across a bunch of allotments? Something Westie might have left in Cooper’s house? It didn’t matter. Once the Major Crime lot had a name in the frame, they’d start looking for an ageing Alfa Romeo. And what they’d doubtless find inside didn’t bear contemplation.

  Mackenzie got out of the Peugeot. He had a screwdriver in one hand and a tyre lever in the other. It wasn’t elegant but seconds later, with the door frame dented, he was sitting behind the wheel of the Alfa.

  ‘Turn off that fucking light, Baz. I’m sure it’ll all come back to you.’

  Mackenzie reached up and tried to kill the courtesy light but without success. Then he bent to the dashboard and began to fumble around beneath it. Winter wasn’t sure about his boss’s hot-wiring skills and he certainly took his time, but in the end the engine coughed into life. The courtesy light had at last gone out.

  ‘There you go, mush.’ Mackenzie stepped out, looking pleased with himself.

  Winter made himself comfortable, adjusting the seat and the rear-view mirror. Mackenzie was back behind the wheel of the Peugeot. He’d given Winter directions to an industrial estate in Portchester, up on the mainland. He’d be following behind, keeping an eye on things, but if they got separated in traffic they’d meet at the end of the journey.

  ‘Look for Perfect Glazing,’ he said again. ‘Geezer called Barry.’

  Winter backed carefully out, waiting for a couple of lads on scooters to whine past, then set off towards Bradford Junction. It was a while since Winter had a working knowledge of every CCTV camera monitoring the major junctions, and there’d doubtless be extra ones, but the route he’d chosen to get them out of the city still felt pretty safe.

  He settled down, checking the mirror. He could see Bazza’s face as they passed each street lamp. Mackenzie’s fingers were drumming on the steering wheel and Winter wondered what music he was listening to. From time to time the Alfa’s courtesy light flickered on.

  Beyond Bradford Junction, Winter nosed into Fratton Road, then pulled a hard right, entering a maze of side streets that would spit him out at the city’s northern end. Bazza was still tailing him.

  Most of these streets were one-way, with cars parked on both sides of the road. Winter took it easy, keeping his speed down. On a Thursday night traffic was light. One of the busier roads he had to cross was Stubbington Avenue. He slowed the Alfa to a halt, waiting for a car from the right. Moments later he realised it was a traffic patrol car. Two uniforms peered out at him as they passed. Then the driver hit the brakes, stopped. Winter was already pulling out. He gunned the Alfa, aware of Bazza behind him. The traffic car was reversing fast into the road they’d just left. The driver had already switched on the blues. Next he’d hit the siren. Shit.

  Winter eyed the speedo. Fifty in streets like these was asking for trouble. He tried to relax, tried to tell himself he was making the right decision. With his reputation there was no way he’d risk a stop-check. These guys would like nothing better than the chance to drive him down to the Bridewell and book him in. And what would happen then? Once they had a proper look at Westie’s precious fucking Alfa?

  He took a chance on the next intersection, never taking his foot off the throttle. Thankfully the road was clear in both directions. Bazza followed, a squat figure hunched behind the wheel, and it occurred to Winter that he was probably enjoying this. Being a grown-up businessman doubtless had its advantages but nothing beat the raw adrenalin buzz of a traffic car halfway up your arse. So how come the woollies had stopped in the first place? Winter shook his head. He knew there were a million explanations. Someone must have clocked them on the seafront and phoned the car in, he thought. Two dodgy guys round an Alfa. Too fucking right.

  They were in North End now, and with a cold certainty Winter knew they were running out of options. The next intersection would take them onto one of the main roads funnelling traffic off the island. If they got that far, they were dead.

  Winter was still debating whether to risk a high-speed turn into one of the side streets to the left when he heard a squeal of brakes behind him. Then, milliseconds later, came the sound of tearing metal and splintering glass as the police car smashed into Marie’s new Peugeot. Already, in the rear-view mirror, the accident was receding. In seconds it would be no more than a dot. Winter, slowing for the turn into the main road, heard the sound of his own laughter. Bazza, he thought. What a fucking star.

  The big roundabout at the top of the island took him onto the dual carriageway that ran to the foot of Portsdown Hill. Within minutes, he knew, the woollies would have every traffic car in the city looking for him. He took the Alfa up to seventy, slowing for the new junction beside the Marriott Hotel. Thankfully, the lights were green. He powered across, then slowed for traffic on the other side. Under normal circumstances the Marriot to Portchester was a five-minute drive. Tonight, once he’d passed a couple of dawdlers, he did it in three. He knew the industrial estate well. He’d spent hours here over the past decade, plotted up with half a dozen other guys, waiting to lift some scrote or other. Perfect Glazing was round the back of the estate next to the railway line.

  He turned the Alfa onto the forecourt and killed the lights. After a while a figure emerged from the shadows and strolled across to the Alfa. Winter wound the window down. Barry Cassidy. An old face from the 6.57. From far away came the howl of a siren. Then another, much closer. Barry was grinning. He nodded at the gaping mouth of the industrial unit.

  ‘In there, mush. Quick as you like.’

  Jimmy Suttle gave up on Winter shortly after eleven. He’d spent the best part of the evening in a fish restaurant in Gunwharf. One of the management assistants on Major Crime had been raving about the Loch Fyne in the old Vulcan Building, and Lizzie Hodson had been happy to join him.

  Now, strolling along the waterfront, Suttle paused beside Blake House. He was still curious to know why Berriman had been of such interest to Winter. Someone I need to talk to, he’d said. He looked up at Winter’s apartment. The lights were off in the windows at the front and when he rounded the corner there was no sign of life in the kitchen or either of the bedrooms. Earlier he’d warned Lizzie that he might have to bring this evening of theirs to a premature end. Now there seemed no point.

  He stepped back onto the waterfront, pausing to watch as the big night ferry to Ouistreham rumbled past. He and Lizzie had been talking earlier about a promotional offer in the News. Twenty quid all up for two night crossings and a day ashore. Watching the huge white bulk of the ferry, he wondered whether she’d been serious.

  ‘Fancy it?’ He nodded towards the harbour mouth.

  ‘France?’ She nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘How’s your French?’

  ‘Not bad.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘Maybe we ought to practise first.’

  Chapter twenty

  FRIDAY, 17 AUGUST 2007. 08.46

  Faraday took the call from D/C Jessie Williams as he was driving to work. The Aults had just phoned. They’d been offered a lift down to Southsea and they’d be in Sandown Road around nine o’clock. Jessie had agreed to meet them outside the house. Was Faraday still interested in joining the party?


  Faraday checked his watch. Nearly ten to nine.

  ‘I’ll meet you there.’ He checked his mirror and began to signal left.

  ‘Hang on till I arrive.’

  As it turned out, his was the first car to make it to Sandown Road. He parked opposite the Aults’ house and got out. After a week of sunshine the weather was on the turn. The forecast first thing had warned of rain by lunchtime. Already he could feel the first shivers of wind stirring the trees along the road.

  The Aults arrived within minutes, dropped by their friend at the kerbside. Faraday half-listened to the two women making arrangements for a lift back to Denmead later. Belle clearly wasn’t planning on moving back in, not yet.

  The car drove off, leaving Faraday and the Aults on opposite sides of the road. At that moment there came a whirr from the electronic gates next door and another figure stepped onto the pavement. At first Faraday didn’t recognise Mackenzie. He was wearing a neck brace and walking with a pronounced limp. His head was crooked, cocked to one side as he limped down towards the Aults. Then came the trademark grin and the pumping handshake.

  It was Belle who asked him what had happened.

  ‘Car crash,’ Mackenzie explained. ‘Got whacked up the backside.

  You think I’m bad, you should take a look at the Peugeot. Marie’s livid. I’m blaming the guy behind.’

  Belle began to sympathise but Mackenzie’s eyes were on her husband and Faraday remembered the scene in the interview room moments after Dawn Ellis had broken the news about Rachel Ault. Mackenzie must have been rehearsing this moment all week, he thought. What do you say to a man who’s just lost everything?

  ‘Peter? You OK?’

  ‘OK?’ Ault was looking pained. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Really sorry. If there’s anything … you know …’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I mean it. We both do. Marie’s got the guest suite ready, in case you fancied kipping round our place … you know … while you get things sorted. Be handy, just next door.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m serious.’ He glanced towards their house. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be dossing down here for a while, will you?’

  Ault looked down at him, saying nothing. Icy was a word that didn’t do justice to the expression on his face. Mackenzie dug his hands in his pockets, doing his best to warm the exchange with a grin, but Ault shook his head and turned away.

  Moments later Jessie Williams’s Fiesta coasted to a halt beside them. She was sorry she was late. Traffic again.

  Faraday joined them on the front door step while Peter Ault wrestled with the new key. Mackenzie had beaten a retreat.

  Once the door was open, it was the smell that hit Faraday first, a foul gust of Scenes of Crime chemicals, stale cigarette smoke, spilled alcohol, sodden carpets and a ranker - more human - odour. Ault paused on the threshold and for a moment Faraday thought he might turn on his heel, find himself a bus, take the train to the airport, go back to Australia. Under the circumstances he wouldn’t have blamed him. Not for a moment.

  ‘Darling?’ He turned to his wife. ‘Do you really want to do this?’

  She nodded, holding her nose. She looked like she wanted to throw up.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Please, Peter,’ she muttered, ‘Let’s just get it over with.’

  Faraday and Jessie Williams followed them into the hall. Scenes of Crime had been as good as their word. They’d touched everything, moved nothing. This was the way Faraday remembered it from early Sunday morning. All it needed, he thought grimly, were the war cries from the Force Support Unit as they cornered the last of the stroppier kids.

  Ault was gazing down at the remains of a bottle of wine. He picked up the bottle, sniffed it, examined the label.

  ‘They went through the lot?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mr Ault.’ It was Jessie.

  He nodded, said nothing. A padlocked door beside the staircase led down to the basement room he’d used as a cellar. The door had been kicked in then wrenched from its hinges. Ault bent to retrieve a scrap of yellow paper. It was a Post-it. He showed it to his wife. The warning was handwritten. Locked, it went. Keep Out.

  ‘That’s Gareth’s handwriting,’ she said. ‘At least he tried.’

  Ault raised an eyebrow, said nothing. He looked briefly at the wreckage that had once been his lounge and then turned to mount the stairs. Faraday stood back then followed. The study was on the left at the top of the stairs, the door already open. Ault lingered a moment on the landing, staring in. His leather-topped desk was covered in the smashed frames of the photos trashed by the kids. The sour taint of urine hung in the air and there was glass underfoot. You could hear it crunching as Ault crossed to the window. An old engraving of the Victorian Dockyard that hung beside the window had been tagged in black. The message couldn’t have been simpler. Lying cunt.

  Something else had caught Ault’s eye. He was staring at the PC on his desk. Someone had put a boot through the screen.

  ‘Where’s my computer?’ He was looking at Faraday.

  ‘I’m afraid we seized it.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘We need to download the hard disk. We think there’s a chance that Rachel might have used it to send the Facebook invite. We’ll need to evidence that.’

  Ault nodded.

  ‘So when do I get it back?’

  ‘Just now that’s hard to say. I’d give you a firm date if I could but we’re snowed under.’ Faraday gestured round at the ruined study. ‘I expect you’ll understand why.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’ It was his wife. She was playing the diplomat.

  Ault was looking at the drawers from the desk, both upside down on the carpet.

  ‘These were locked,’ he said stonily. ‘I assume they were forced.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. It’s the same everywhere. Downstairs in the lounge. In the bedrooms. Everywhere.’

  Belle was looking alarmed now. Faraday told her that Jessie Williams would be taking down a list of everything valuable that seemed to be missing. That was partly why they’d both come along.

  ‘Partly?’ Ault had sunk into the revolving chair behind the desk. ‘So why else would you be here?’

  ‘Moral support, Mr Ault. A time like this we find it often helps.’

  ‘Do you?’ He began to inch the chair left and right, getting the feel of it. At length he stood up again. He’d had a collection of antique coins in one of the drawers. In the other, as far as he could remember, was his address book.

  ‘And the coins have value?’

  ‘They do, Mr Faraday. But not as much as the address book. Lose that and you lose part of your life.’ He gazed round for a moment then shook his head. ‘This, to be frank, is terrifying. We left this place in good faith. It was our home. Maybe Rachel was foolish to do what she did, throw a party like that, but never … never … would you expect to come back to something like this. I feel …’ he frowned ‘… defiled. Dirtied. These people must hate us.’

  Faraday nodded. There was nothing to say. He was right.

  The tour of the house went on. The Aults’ bedroom was the next room they checked. The sight of days-old faeces caked on the pillows of the big double bed drew a gasp from Belle. She went to her dressing table. The contents of the drawers were scattered across the carpet. She was about to get down on her hands and knees to search for particular items when Ault pulled her back.

  ‘Don’t bother. The good stuff will have gone.’

  She looked up at him, mute, compliant, shocked.

  ‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘Silly of me.’

  Last on the tour was Rachel’s bedroom. Jessie went ahead, armed with the Scenes of Crime map of the house. If the Aults were going to need serious support, then it was surely here. She opened the door and then stepped respectfully back. It was Ault, once again, who went in first.

  Faraday could see most of the room through the open d
oor. The duvet cover on the bed had gone. Ault wanted to know why.

  ‘It went off for analysis, Mr Ault. We found traces of blood.’

  ‘Whose blood?’

  ‘That’s a question we can’t yet answer.’

  ‘Rachel’s?’

  ‘Possibly. Possibly not.’

  ‘You’re suggesting she might have assaulted someone else?’

  ‘I’m suggesting she might not have been here at all. It was open house. As you can see.’

  Ault turned back to the room. A poster for a swimming meet in Düsseldorf was hanging on the wall over her bed. The poster was covered in signatures. Ault stepped across and examined them. Finally he found what he was after.

  ‘There.’ His long bony finger hovered over a scrawl of crimson Pentel. ‘That’s Matt’s signature. If she’d still been with him, this would never have happened.’

  Faraday, aware of the anger in his voice, shook his head.

  ‘But he was here, Mr Ault. And it did.’

  Winter awoke to the beep-beep of the video entry phone. He rolled over, fumbling for his watch. Nearly half nine. He found a dressing gown and padded through to the hall. Whoever had their finger on the buzzer downstairs wasn’t giving up. He squinted at the tiny screen then hesitated. It was Jimmy Suttle, trying to shelter from yet another downpour.

  ‘Are you there, boss?’

  For once in his life Winter hadn’t a clue what to do. Last night he’d got a cab home from Portchester. He hadn’t been in touch with Bazza. Had one of the uniforms ID’d him before the chase began? Or was this visit of Suttle’s purely social?

  ‘For fuck’s sake, mate …’

  Winter shrugged, then buzzed him in. If it happens, it happens, he told himself. Better to be nicked by the likes of Jimmy than by a posse of gloating woollies.

  Suttle was at his door moments later, soaking wet. He wanted tea, toast and a natter. To Winter’s relief, he didn’t mention the word ‘arrest’.

  They talked in the kitchen while Winter hunted for bread. ‘What’s this about then?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. We pulled your boss last night. Has he been in touch yet?’