Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  Norcliffe said nothing. There wasn’t enough money in the world to buy him out of this kind of humiliation.

  ‘Another thing, son.’ Mackenzie hadn’t finished. ‘According to Paul, this guy’s Major Crime, or used to be. He’s in a hole now, big time. And you know the stunt he’s trying to pull? He’s telling Paul that Loose Lips, your fucking wife, my own fucking daughter, has been speaking out of turn. About what we’ve been up to. About the business. About stuff that could hurt us badly. We need to know whether that’s true, son, and I need to know whether you’re the one who’s gonna pop the question. Comprende?’

  ‘You mean talk to Ezzie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’d kill her.’ Norcliffe’s voice was soft. ‘The way I’m feeling at the moment.’

  ‘I don’t blame you, son. I’d probably do the same. So that leaves Paul here.’ He glanced across at Winter. ‘I’ll drop you off at Ezzie’s place on the way back. Golden Bollocks will have been onto her by now so I expect she’ll be expecting a little visit . You happy to do the honours?’

  Faraday was back in his office at Major Crime when Steph Callan phoned from the Road Death Investigation Team. He could sense at once it was going to be a tricky conversation.

  ‘I’ve just belled the duty Inspector at Cosham. He says you were talking to him an hour or so ago.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘About Jeanette Morrissey’s camper van.’

  ‘Right again.’

  ‘Reported stolen first thing Sunday morning.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Aren’t we supposed to be part of this little game? Or is it true about you guys?’

  ‘True, how?’

  ‘That you’re all cowboys. Always nicking the best jobs. Always on the bloody take.’

  Faraday sat back, the phone loosely to his ear, letting her get it off her chest. How the stolen-vehicle examiner had come up with a list of local VW camper registrations. How one of them had belonged to Jeanette Morrissey. And how G467XBK had been ghosted away under cover of darkness last Saturday night.

  ‘Jeanette Morrissey was the mother of a lad killed in the city here, back in November. I think I mentioned him the first time we met. Operation Melody,’ said Faraday.

  ‘The one where Munday was the prime suspect?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Jeanette Morrissey was the victim’s mum?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well …’ she was close to losing control, ‘thanks a bunch for telling me.’

  Faraday began to defend himself, explaining about the intel dredged up by Suttle, then realised there was no point. Trying to argue his case with anyone in this kind of mood was hopeless.

  ‘The Melody file’s still open,’ he said. ‘My DCI is SIO. As far as she’s concerned, the hit-and-run belongs to Melody. Her name’s Gail Parsons. If you’ve got a problem with any of this, maybe you should be talking to her.’

  He put the phone down and got to his feet. DCI Parsons was in her office down the corridor. She took one look at Faraday and waved him into the chair beside the desk.

  Briefly, Faraday explained the situation. Jeanette Morrissey owned a red VW camper van. Early forensics seemed to be tying the same kind of vehicle to the hit-and-run. Morrissey had ample motivation for running Munday over and now she was claiming the camper had been nicked. So just who was going to run with this?

  ‘You are, Joe.’ Parsons nodded at her PC. ‘I had a confirming email from Mr Willard this morning.’

  ‘So no more grief from the Road Death lot?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Mr Willard is arranging an attachment.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘They’ll be sending someone down to join us on Melody. Strictly in the interests of peace and quiet. I had their Inspector on the phone just now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s Steph Callan again.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Though I gather she hasn’t been told yet.’

  Bazza Mackenzie phoned ahead to tell his daughter to make sure she was at home for the next couple of hours. The au pair took the call and promised to pass the message on. When Mackenzie told her to get Ezzie to the phone she said she couldn’t. Mrs Norcliffe was out riding. Back any time soon.

  Heading south again in the Bentley, Winter seized his chance to pin Mackenzie down on the Tide Turn Trust. Nothing would be sweeter than turning his back on the whole caboodle but small start-up charities had a habit of generating endless day-to-day problems and already the stuff was piling up on his desk. If Bazza really wanted him to sort out this looming threat to the Mackenzie empire, then something had to be done about TTT.

  Mackenzie, for once, saw the point.

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘I need someone with a good track record with kids, someone who understands all the legal bollocks, someone who’s been doing it a while, someone who’s going to make us look good.’

  The last phrase brought Mackenzie’s head round.

  ‘Someone like who?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue, Baz, but these things don’t just happen. We have to advertise. We have to put the word around. We probably have to go through all sorts of fucking dramas. But it has to be done.’

  Mackenzie nodded. A truck in the slow lane rapidly got bigger. Then it was gone. He glanced across at Winter again.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Lippy kids aren’t your game. Get someone in.’

  Ezzie and Stuart lived in a seven-acre spread on a flank of the Meon Valley. The previous owner had knocked down a pair of cottages and built a rambling hacienda-style property in white stucco and black wrought iron, and several years later, despite the carefully tended Virginia creeper, it still reminded Winter of something that had been shipped up from Spain and dumped in the middle of rural Hampshire. The swimming pool that Stuart had commissioned, with its underwater lighting and quaintly thatched bar, didn’t help. Neither did the recently built stable block where Esme kept her horses.

  Mackenzie had no intention of staying. He dropped Winter outside the front door, pulled the Bentley into a tightish circle and disappeared down the drive. The au pair was trying to console the youngest of Esme’s kids. Kate had just fallen off her plastic trike. Winter wondered whether four wasn’t young for lipstick and lime-green nail varnish.

  ‘Ezzie around?’ Winter nodded past the open front door.

  The au pair shook her head. She was a Czech girl with a name that no one seemed able to pronounce: Evzenie. Mrs Norcliffe was in the bottom field on her horse. Not in a good mood.

  ‘The horse?’

  ‘Mrs Norcliffe.’ The girl laughed, scooping up the child and disappearing inside.

  Winter took the path that skirted the house, stepping over a trail of discarded toys. In the distance he could see Esme driving the biggest of her horses at a series of jumps. As far as Winter could gather, she’d been in the saddle since she was a kid, part of her mum’s plan to shield her from a Pompey adolescence. Getting close to animals, according to Marie, was altogether more healthy than hanging out in Southsea bars and clubs, though the way it turned out Esme had done plenty of both.

  Winter paused, hugging the fence, waiting for Esme to finish her round. He’d never liked horses, never trusted them, and his certainty that Esme knew this was going to make the next half-hour even trickier.

  She clipped the last hurdle, reined the horse in, and turned it towards Winter. The horse was huge: huge eyes, huge girth, huge everything. Esme brought it to a halt barely feet away from the fence. The horse stamped its feet, tossed its head, tried to rid itself of the bit between its yellow teeth.

  ‘You getting off or what?’

  ‘Say what you have to say, Paul. It’s just a shame my dad didn’t have the bottle to do this himself.’

  ‘He’s pissed off, love.’

  ‘I bet. And what a little saint he’s always been. Have you met the lovely Chandelle, by any chance?’

  Winter let the dig pass. She was right,
though. Bazza had never seen the point of monogamy, least of all when it came to his new hotel manager.

  Winter peered up at Esme. The sun was in his eyes and all he could see was her silhouette on top of the horse. Clever.

  ‘We need to talk, love. Here’s not the place.’

  ‘What is there to talk about?’ Esme was still resentful. ‘You seem to know everything already.’

  ‘That’s bollocks, love. Get off that fucking thing and act like a human being. I’m even less thrilled about this than you are. You’re right. This is family. So how come I get the arse end of everything?’

  The question, voiced with some feeling, drew the beginnings of a smile from Esme. She hesitated a moment, then bent to the horse’s neck, gave it a pat and dismounted. Winter caught a perfume she’d never worn before, not to his knowledge. New man in her life, he thought, new scent on the pillow.

  ‘Here …’ She gave him the reins and leant back against the fence to remove her boots. Winter gave the horse the eye. It began to back away.

  ‘Be nice to him.’ Esme was laughing again. ‘Animals can smell fear. Here …’

  She gave Winter her boots and took the reins. Winter hadn’t a clue why she wanted to walk barefoot back to the stables but was glad to be shot of the horse.

  ‘Your dad’s spitting nails,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘And Stu too.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Couple of hours ago. He’s gone back to London.’

  He explained about the meet in the manor house. It turned out she’d spent a couple of weekends there.

  ‘Stu fancies the guy’s wife. Did he tell you that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s German. I can’t remember her name. We all got pissed the first evening and ended up in the jacuzzi. Stu speaks decent German. Had the woman in stitches.’

  ‘A looker?’

  ‘Yeah, big time. Body to die for and big-time fit. The husband bought her a gym for Christmas - treadmill, weights, rowing machine, the lot. Stu said she couldn’t get enough of it. Funny that.’

  ‘We’re talking exercise?’

  ‘I think so. You never know with Stu. He thinks I’m thick sometimes, I know he does. And that might turn out to be a big mistake.’

  ‘You’re blaming him?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m blaming no one. We do what we do. Stuff happens. Que sera …’

  They’d arrived at the stable block. Esme told Winter to sort out some feed while she got rid of the saddle and the rest of the tack. Kate had turned up by now, a plaster on her knee, and she led Winter to the empty stall where the oats were kept. Winter had seen a lot of the kids over the last couple of years. Esme brought them to his apartment in Gunwharf sometimes and he let them raid the fridge for Coke and banana smoothies. He liked their spirit and the way they all looked out for each other.

  The horse stabled and fed, Esme called Evzenie on her mobile and asked her to take Kate back to the house. There was a pile of hay bales against one corner of the stable block and Esme made herself comfortable in the warm sunshine. The earlier hostility had gone. She’d decided to treat Winter as an ally.

  ‘I think I’m in love,’ she said. ‘Does that make up for anything?’

  ‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. Baz could probably wear the odd shag or two. It’s who you’re doing it with that matters. ’

  She nodded, reflective, and plucked a straw from the nearby bale. ‘Do you know Perry at all?’

  ‘Not well.’

  ‘He’s sweet. Really sweet. I know he’s unpopular because he’s told me, but you know something? Guys like him are often misunderstood. You blokes are always so macho. Perry’s got a real feminine side, believe it or not.’

  ‘Sure. If you know where to look.’

  ‘That’s cheap, Paul. I’m serious. Do you think I’d go through all this for any guy that happened along? He’s got to be special. He’s got to want to understand me. He’s got to need me, trust me, become part of me. Perry does all that, has done from the start. That makes me lucky, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Lucky?’ Winter gazed at her. ‘You fuck off over to that hotel twice a week, you shag his brains out, you have a great time, all that I can understand. But why complicate it with all this lucky shit? Sex is one thing, love. Never complicate it by falling in love.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’ll hurt people. And one of them, in the end, will be you.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘I do.’

  She sucked at the straw a moment, then wound it round her little finger.

  ‘You sound like my mum,’ she said at last.

  ‘You’ve talked to her about all this?’

  ‘This morning, on the phone. I think she sussed what you must have told Dad. She thinks I’m bonkers.’

  ‘That’s because you are.’

  ‘No, Paul.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not. I just told you. Perry does it for me. Big time. Every time. More and more. How can I turn my back on that? He knows who I am, Paul. He knows who I am inside.’

  ‘Because you tell him?’

  ‘Because he’s clever, intuitive, just the way you are. Maybe it’s a police thing, a CID thing, maybe it comes with the job. He’s just brilliant at getting inside my head, inside my heart, getting me to open up, getting me to be myself.’

  ‘So you tell him stuff?’

  ‘Of course, all the time. No secrets, Paul. No hidey-hidey. That’s not our style.’

  ‘Right …’ Winter looked away. This was much, much worse than he’d imagined. Madison, true to form, had opened her up and helped himself. This was no longer a fishing expedition. This was damage limitation.

  ‘I’m going to be blunt, love. Your dad is appalled at what you’ve done.’

  ‘Because Perry’s a copper.’

  ‘Yeah. And that means you’re sleeping with the enemy. Like I said, he probably wouldn’t begrudge you the odd screw but this is way out of line.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because people like Madison, people like I used to be, have an agenda. They can’t help themselves. It’s in their blood. It’s what they do.’

  ‘I’m not with you, Paul.’

  ‘Think about it. Think about your dad. Think about how he made his money. Think about what paid for all this.’ He nodded at the stables, at the pool, at the house, at the meadow. ‘Perry Madison, like it or not, wants - needs - to have all that off you. Not least because it will do his career a power of good.’

  ‘You’re telling me he’d put his career before what we have?’

  ‘I’m telling you he can’t help himself. He’s just programmed that way, Ez. Once a copper, always a copper.’

  ‘So what does that make you?’

  ‘A copper. Employed by your dad. Finding out stuff. Just like now.’

  She was losing it again. Winter could see the flare of light in her eyes, the way her mouth had compressed. A princess, he thought. Exactly the way Bazza had said.

  ‘You think he’s set me up? You think he’s using me? You think I couldn’t see through something like that?’

  ‘I think he may be as infatuated as you are. For the time being.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He’ll screw you. Properly. And everyone else as well.’

  ‘How do you mean?

  ‘Your dad. Your mum. Me. And probably several hundred other people. All he needs is evidence.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of stuff that your dad’s been up to. Of stuff that you’d know about. Fuck knows, he might have got enough already.’

  ‘From me, you mean? You really think I’d tell him stuff like that?’

  ‘You might. If you were pissed or silly enough.’

  ‘Perry doesn’t drink.’

  ‘It’s not Perry I’m worried about.’

  ‘Thanks, thanks a lot. You think I’m some drunken old slut who can’t keep her mouth shut?’

/>   ‘No, it’s much worse than that. I believe you. I think you’re in love.’

  She looked at Winter for a long moment, trying to find a way out of this conversation, trying - somehow - to turn it all around.

  ‘And if I told you Perry’s planning to chuck it all in? Resign? Call it a day?’

  ‘I’d say he was lying.’

  She shook her head very slowly, back in control. She even smiled.

  ‘You’re wrong, Paul. Perry doesn’t lie. Not to me. Not now. Not ever. It’s something we pledged to each other. No lies. Only the truth. Does that make sense to you?’ The smile widened. ‘Probably not.’

  Chapter seven

  WEDNESDAY, 21 MAY 2008. 16.36

  Jeanette Morrissey was at home by the time Faraday returned to Paulsgrove. He’d met Steph Callan in the car park at the Marriott Hotel and they’d driven up together for the interview. The atmosphere in the Mondeo was icy.

  It was a while before Mrs Morrissey came to the door. There was a new-looking Fiesta parked outside.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Jeanette Morrissey was tall and slightly gaunt-looking. Her face seemed to have missed out on the recent spell of decent weather and there was a deadness in her eyes as she took in the strangers on her doorstep. She’d met Faraday over the death of her son but showed no signs of recognising him.

  Faraday offered his warrant card and introduced Steph Callan. He knew at once that this woman had been expecting a knock on the door.

  ‘Have you come about the camper? Have you found it?’

  Faraday suggested they step inside for a chat. The front lounge was chilly. A cat was curled on one end of the sofa and Faraday saw Callan’s attention caught by a line of photos on the mantelpiece above the flame-effect gas fire. The lad looked younger than his fifteen years. There was something slightly feminine about the softly curled hair and his face was lightly dusted with freckles. He wore a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses and in all four shots the smile had the same guileless innocence.