No Lovelier Death

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Baz?’ Winter feigned amazement. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Dangerous driving. We had a traffic car after a nicked Alfa.

  Mackenzie was in the way. Said he got panicked by all the fuss and put the anchors on. He totalled the traffic car and put a fucking great dent in his wife’s Peugeot. Bit of a result, really.’

  ‘Yeah? So what’s the story on the Alfa?’

  ‘Hard to say. Neither of the traffic guys managed to get a good look at the Alfa’s reg plate because Mackenzie’s Peugeot was always in the way.’

  ‘No ownership checks then?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘OK was he? Baz?’

  ‘Whiplash, apparently.’ Suttle touched his own neck. ‘Plus a bit of a leg injury. The woollies had to take him to the QA in the end. Mackenzie was threatening them with all kinds of grief if they didn’t.’

  ‘Health and safety?’ Winter was laughing now. ‘Don’t tell me.’ Suttle wanted Marmite on his toast. When Winter couldn’t find any, he settled for marmalade. Winter carried the tray in from the kitchen. Suttle eyed the dressing gown from the sofa.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Hotel in Dubai.’

  ‘It looks like silk.’

  ‘It is silk, son. Pay two grand a night, and no one minds if you nick it.’

  ‘Your money?’

  ‘You’re joking. I get my gear from British Home Stores.’

  ‘I meant the room.’

  ‘I know you did, son. Eat this fucking toast, will you?’

  Suttle demolished the toast. He said he owed Winter for last night. ‘How come?’

  ‘Lizzie Hodson.’

  ‘She came across?’

  ‘She certainly did. I think we’re in love.’

  ‘About bloody time.’ He reached for Suttle’s plate and tidied up the crumbs with a wetted finger. ‘You didn’t come all this way to tell me that, though, did you?’

  Suttle shook his head. ‘I’ve been talking to Faraday …’ he began.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Our bosses are seriously upset at some of the strokes you seem to be pulling.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like turning up at Berriman’s mum’s place before we got a look at it. Like obviously having an interest in Berriman himself. Like visiting Salcombe Avenue an hour or so before the lad probably gets the chop. Like hijacking a deckchair on the nudist beach and waiting until Berriman turns up.’

  ‘You told them about that?’

  ‘Not in so many words. Not yet anyway. But there’s definitely something happening here. People like Willard call it a pattern.’

  ‘Willard’s bothered? About me?’

  ‘He is, mate. Which kind of makes this official.’

  ‘They know you’re here?’

  ‘They fucking sent me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Good question.’ Suttle was warming up now, Winter could see it.

  ‘To put it bluntly, mate, they don’t know what to do with you.’

  ‘With me or about me?’

  ‘Makes no difference. Put it this way. There’s one school of thought says it might be better to give you lots of rope and see where you go …’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘We lock you up.’

  ‘You’ll need a fucking good reason. Last time I checked arrest without grounds was still illegal.’

  ‘Precisely. So the thinking is—’

  ‘You give me lots of rope.’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Suttle nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But what the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘It means you become an informant. We register you. We put you on PIMS. We give you money. We might even discuss limited immunity, if it comes to it.’

  ‘If it comes to what?’

  ‘If we find that you’re …’ Suttle frowned ‘… implicated in some way.’

  ‘But in what, son? What the fuck are you talking about?’

  Suttle looked at him for a long moment. Then he grinned.

  ‘I take it that’s a no.’

  ‘No to what?’

  ‘Putting you on PIMS. Taking advantage of your matchless contacts. ’ The grin widened. ‘Giving you lots of rope.’

  Winter stared at him, the penny beginning to drop. Was this some kind of joke? Probably not.

  ‘Too fucking right it’s a no. I’m a working man, son. I have a career in front of me. I earn decent money. I’ve got prospects, somewhere nice to live. I’ve got an employer who looks after me, sees me right. Have you got all that? Can you remember it? Or do you want me to write it down? For when you report back?’

  ‘I told them already.’

  ‘Word for word?’

  ‘Pretty much. I told them you’d piss yourself laughing. Then tell us to fuck off.’

  ‘And what did they say?’

  ‘They assume everyone else in the world sees it their way. Welcome to fairyland.’

  ‘You’re talking about Faraday?’

  ‘No, Willard. And a woman called Gail Parsons.’

  ‘She’s lethal.’

  ‘I know. I work for her. So does Faraday.’

  ‘On Major Crime? She made DCI?’

  ‘Yeah. And she’s no intention of stopping there, either. Another reason to get you onside.’

  ‘Are you serious? I risk my neck again? To help that fucking woman get even further up Willard’s arse?’

  ‘Nicely put. I’ll pass it on.’

  ‘Do, son. Do. My pleasure.’

  ‘Mind if I use the loo?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  Suttle got to his feet and left the room, conscious of Winter wagging his head behind him. He’d enjoyed the exchange immensely and was oddly glad that Winter hadn’t let himself down.

  In the bathroom Suttle used the loo, then soaped his hands in the tiny basin and inspected his face in the mirror. Last night had been a revelation. He didn’t know what Lizzie Hodson had been up to since the last time they’d tried each other out but he certainly wasn’t complaining.

  Drying his hands, he spotted a screwed-up scrap of paper in the waste bin. It was bright orange. Curious, he smoothed it out. It was a Post-it with the same hotel logo as Winter’s silk dressing gown. Scribbled on the non-sticky side was a one-line message. Guess who made up for a shit Wednesday night? Underneath was a name he recognised. Mist. XXX

  He glanced in the mirror again, scarcely able to believe his luck. He knew Misty Gallagher. For a couple of months, years back, he’d been silly or brave enough to have an affair with Trudy, her daughter. At the time Bazza Mackenzie had treated Trudy as his own kith and kin and the relationship had, in the end, put Suttle in hospital with severe bruising and a couple of broken ribs. Trudy had almost been worth it, though. As, all too clearly, was her mother.

  He slipped the Post-it into his pocket and returned to the lounge. Winter was still on the sofa. The big plasma TV was on and he was glued to a programme about property abroad.

  ‘Why the interest in Berriman?’ Suttle asked.

  ‘My boss owes him. Wants to say a proper thank you.’

  ‘Like how many times?’

  ‘As many as it takes, son. Kids these days …’ he finally glanced round ‘… they never fucking listen.’

  Suttle nodded. No way was Winter in the mood to drop even a hint or two about Berriman. Suttle picked up his plate and left it in the kitchen. On his way out of the apartment he paused again beside the sofa.

  ‘One thing I forgot to mention, mate. Wednesday night. When Danny Cooper got the chop.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’re down as an action. Expect a knock at the door.’ He grinned, thinking of the Post-it again. ‘An alibi for Wednesday night might be useful.’

  Chapter twenty-one

  FRIDAY, 17 AUGUST 2007. 10.31

  Nearly an hour later Faraday was summoned to Martin Barrie’s office. He knew already that Willard had driven down from Winchester and was aware that DCI P
arsons had called a management review meeting for midday. As the Danny Cooper murder appeared to be folding neatly into Mandolin, he wondered who’d be shuffling the cards in the pack when it came to Martin Barrie’s return. The Detective Superintendent in charge of the Major Crime Team was back from a fortnight in Minehead on Monday and it was inconceivable that he wouldn’t play a major role in what was now a triple homicide.

  Parsons clearly shared this thought. Faraday could feel the tension in the office as he stepped in from the corridor. The big conference table could seat eight with ease. With just three of them there was nowhere to hide.

  As a courtesy on these occasions Willard ceded control of the meeting to Parsons. Her turf, her call. She had a modest pile of paperwork at her elbow and on top Faraday recognised a plan of the Salcombe Avenue area that must have been drawn up by Scenes of Crime. Normally these documents would be littered with symbols indicating finds of interest: footmarks, physical damage, foreign objects possibly left by an intruder. The SOC map, alas, looked bare. Not a good sign.

  Parsons was brisk. Nearly a week into Mandolin the time had come for a review. Going forward, she said, the squad needed to be clear about its bearings. At the full management meeting she’d be flagging the optimum lines of enquiry. As Deputy SIO, before she finalised her thoughts, D/I Faraday should naturally have an input.

  ‘So …’ she spared him a wintry smile ‘… let’s start with the party. Where do you think we are, Joe?’

  Faraday took his time. There was a subplot here, as everyone on the squad knew. In all likelihood, unless the next three days produced a breakthrough, Parsons would be replaced by Martin Barrie as SIO. Before that happened, for the sake of her precious CV, she needed to tidy up.

  ‘The way I see it, boss, we need to be absolutely sure of our ground. Was Rachel Ault murdered? Yes. Was Hughes killed as well? Probably.’

  ‘Probably, Joe?’ It was Willard.

  ‘He’d clearly been in some kind of fight, sir. The forensic suggests he fell backwards and cracked his head. Someone stamped on his face. There are a lot of holes in there, as any defence lawyer will tell you. We could be looking at death by misadventure. We could be looking at manslaughter. It depends on exactly at which point he died.’

  Willard nodded, reached for a biscuit from the plate at his elbow. Parsons hadn’t taken her eyes off Faraday.

  ‘But Rachel didn’t stab herself, did she?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So what’s your gut feeling?’

  Gut feeling was an unhappy phrase. Faraday hesitated, remembering the Scenes of Crime shots by the pool: the paleness of Rachel’s face against the cold paving slab, her eyes wide open. If only she and her new boyfriend had gone to the pub for the evening. If only.

  ‘Three possibilities,’ he began. ‘In no particular order. Number one, the girl Jax Bonner tracked them both next door. Motivation? Payback for the judge. Opportunity? Ample. She may have seen Rachel in a bit of a state. That makes her vulnerable, there for the taking. She may have seen her leave the party house. She may have followed her. There may have been some kind of confrontation. Bonner had a knife - we can evidence that from the mobe footage on the stairs. Plus she left the party before we arrived and sealed the place off. On the other hand, there were two of them, Rachel and Hughes. So are we really saying this girl Bonner sorted them both out?’

  ‘Maybe she wasn’t alone, Joe.’ Willard again.

  ‘Sure. And there’s evidence to support that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. In the first place we know she came with a bunch of other people. One of them filmed Bonner on the stairs. We have witness statements that put her alongside a younger kid. He’s the one with the spray can who did the tagging. There’s a problem, though.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The stamp mark on Hughes’s face. We’ve sized it at nine to eleven, a Reebok Classic. That’s a big shoe. We know it can’t be Jax Bonner because shoes recovered from her bedroom are size 6. The kid she was sharing with is size 8.’

  ‘Size 9 might fit him. Especially if they were nicked or borrowed.

  That’s conceivable, Joe. And Reebok Classics are everywhere.’

  Faraday conceded the point with a nod.

  ‘This is a review, boss. There’s a strong case against the girl, I don’t deny it. She’s got a lot of questions to answer.’

  ‘Like why she’s gone to ground.’

  ‘Exactly. Those bank statements we seized at her brother’s house? Someone’s been accessing the account through ATMs over the past week, three withdrawals in all. I was talking to the bank this morning. ’

  ‘Local ATMs?’

  ‘One in Cosham, one in Drayton, one in the city.’ Drayton, like Cosham, was on the mainland.

  ‘So where’s she living?’

  ‘Very good question. We’ve checked all her brother’s lock-ups, just in case, and we’ve been tracing kids who probably know her. None of them have a clue where she is.’

  ‘Big surprise.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘But she’s hardly low profile, Joe.’ Willard was losing patience.

  ‘The publicity? The TV appeal I did? You’re telling me no one’s seen her?’

  ‘I’m telling you what I know, sir. “Gone to ground” is a good phrase. I assume she’s got a roof over her head. All we need is an address.’

  ‘As simple as that.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Parsons was looking at her watch. Faraday took the hint. Time to move on.

  ‘The other guy we’re obviously looking at is Matt Berriman,’ he said. ‘He certainly has the motive as far as Hughes is concerned. He’s also got the right size feet.’

  ‘We seized his footwear at the party?’

  ‘Yes.’ Faraday nodded. ‘Nike Air Max 95. Right size but a completely different sole pattern.’

  ‘And the rest of his gear?’

  ‘We’re still waiting on forensic. The custody file from Newbury said there was nothing obvious on his jeans or T-shirt but the results should be through today or tomorrow.’

  ‘But he could have done it? He could have gone next door?’

  ‘In theory, yes. We have one witness that thinks she saw him step out of the front door but can’t remember exactly when.’

  ‘And what does Berriman say?’

  ‘He told us he’d gone out to get some air. That was before Mackenzie turned up. He said it was madness in the house. We gather he didn’t like the music either.’

  ‘He was gone for long?’

  ‘He says a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Anyone see him come back?’

  ‘No. But he was definitely in the house when the kids trashed the study, and afterwards when he took Rachel to the bathroom. And he was back by the time Mackenzie started scrapping.’

  ‘So he could have gone next door, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘It’s possible, yes. But then you have to ask yourself another question. He’s been with Rachel for years. By all accounts he wants her back. They’ve just got together in the bathroom. Why on earth would he then stick a knife in her? Gareth Hughes, I can understand. That sounds plausible. They have a confrontation. Hughes falls over.’

  ‘Then Berriman stamps on him? With the wrong trainer?’

  ‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘You’re right, boss. It doesn’t work, does it? It doesn’t work with Hughes and for my money there’s no way he’s going to kill Rachel.’

  ‘Great.’ It was Parsons. ‘So what’s the third possibility?’ She put the question to Faraday but it was Willard who answered.

  ‘Mackenzie.’ He grunted. ‘He leaves the house; he’s taken a slapping; he’s extremely pissed off; he goes home, finds a couple of strangers on his property, gets one or two things off his chest … No?’

  ‘But they weren’t strangers, sir.’ Faraday was trying to be gentle.

  ‘In fact they were anything but strangers. Rachel Ault is the girl he’d pr
omised to keep an eye on and Gareth Hughes is the new man in her life. He knows them both. So why on earth …’ Faraday shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  Willard pushed the plate of biscuits towards Parsons. Faraday was watching her face. This was going from bad to worse.

  ‘Let’s talk about Danny Cooper, Joe. You definitely think there’s linkage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Number one because he was at the party. Number two because he was important at the party. And number three—’

  ‘Why important?’

  ‘Because he was the one supplying all the cut-price cocaine. Think bees. Think honeypot.’

  ‘And that gets him killed? Four days later?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, boss. But—’

  ‘Number three?’ It was Willard.

  ‘Number three, we have the Facebook posting addressed to Jax Bonner. “Danny Cooper fitted up your brother.” There’s no indication who sent it, not yet, but that puts Cooper right in the middle of this whole mess. The real damage at the party came from the kids around Bonner. She had a grudge against Ault. Cooper was there with his little bags of toot. And word on the street puts Cooper down for the stash that sent Bonner’s brother away.’

  ‘So Bonner killed Cooper?’

  ‘Circumstantially, the answer has to be yes.’

  ‘But Scenes of Crime have found nothing. Am I right?’

  ‘They’ve found blood, which would appear to be Cooper’s. They’ve found damage to the rear door.’

  ‘But no weapon?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No prints? No sole marks? Nothing in the allotments or the football ground at the back?’

  ‘Nothing. Yet.’

  ‘No witness statements? No sightings?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And you’re telling me a girl did that? You’re suggesting she was that good?’

  Willard had a point. Faraday admitted it.

  ‘I’m talking motivation, sir. Not MO.’

  ‘I can see that. But it’s a bit neat, isn’t it? This whole Facebook thing? A bit crude too? Think “cui bono?” Joe. Who else stands to gain from Cooper’s death? Who maybe didn’t want him around any more?’

  It was a good question. Willard hadn’t got to Head of CID for nothing. There was an exchange of glances. Then Parsons intervened.