Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘That’s what you should do to kids who cross the line,’ she hissed. ‘Just ask Paul.’

  As Faraday had anticipated, the Road Death Investigation Team wanted no further involvement with Operation Melody. In Steph Callan’s judgement their Family Liaison Officer had done her best with Avril Munday and now she was deployed elsewhere. Since the weekend, the team had been involved in two more fatalities and their list of must-do actions was lengthening by the hour.

  Faraday toyed briefly about some kind of appeal to Callan’s boss but knew she’d probably briefed him already. The turf war was over as far as Munday was concerned and it gave Faraday no pleasure to acknowledge that he’d been woefully off the pace. He could imagine the conversation the next time Steph and her mates found themselves in a bar. Headquarters made me tag along with an old dosser from Major Crime. Grumpy old bugger who couldn’t tell his arse from his elbow.

  He lifted the phone again and passed the news on to Gail Parsons. They needed another FLO. She gave him a name he didn’t recognise.

  ‘Hannah who?’

  ‘Miles. She’s on attachment from Lyndhurst. Country girl. Be gentle, Joe.’ Faraday was left with the sound of laughter before the line went dead. He stared at the phone. Parsons seldom laughed.

  Hannah Miles appeared at Faraday’s door within minutes. She was an elf-like blonde with a smile that warmed him the moment she stepped into the office. She was wearing a nicely cut linen jacket over a sky-blue T-shirt. In a world of deepening shadows, she seemed almost luminous.

  ‘D/I Faraday?’

  ‘Hannah Miles?’

  They shook hands. Faraday nudged the door shut with his foot and found her a chair. She said no to coffee. DCI Parsons had given her the impression she was to babysit a junkie on one of the estates. True or false?

  ‘True, I’m afraid.’

  Faraday explained the status of Operation Melody. Kyle Munday, the prime suspect for the killing of Tim Morrissey, was dead. Staying close to his mother might, in every sense, be a bit of a culture shock. Parsons’ cunning plan called for a degree of manipulation. This woman’s waking life was governed by heroin. Like every smackhead, she struggled to get by on a couple of fixes a day. Until last weekend she’d probably relied on her son to source the gear. She’d now have to find it from somewhere else. By playing the compassionate FLO, by getting in her face, Hannah could make life extremely difficult for Mrs Munday.

  ‘So what are we after?’

  ‘Intel on who did Tim Morrissey. Our best guess is her son, but Mrs Munday is going to be in the business of denial. To stand that up she’s going to put other names in the frame, bound to. It may well be that these other names were complicit. It took half a dozen of them to break Tim’s fingers so there’s no reason why they weren’t around for the stabbing as well.’

  ‘Just names, then? Is that it?’

  ‘No. In the end we’re obviously thinking court so we need evidence. We’ve looked already and we’ve found nothing but we may have been looking in the wrong places. Realistically, we can put you alongside Mrs M until the funeral. After that it starts looking dodgy.’

  ‘So when’s the funeral?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Ask D/S Suttle. He’s down the corridor.’ He sat back, the day’s first smile on his face. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Always.’ She turned towards the door, then paused. ‘What’s with this culture shock?’

  ‘I understand you’re a country girl. Somewhere in the New Forest?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She grinned at him, reaching for the door handle. ‘But that makes me a natural with animals, doesn’t it?’

  Faraday was still reflecting on the conversation when his phone went. It took him a couple of seconds to recognise the voice at the other end. Paul Winter.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  He bent to the phone, listening to Winter, trying to sieve something half-sensible from all the bullshit. Tide Turn Trust. Busy days sorting out the city’s wayward youth. Blow-your-mind conversations with infant drug dealers. Finally, Winter popped the question. He wanted a meet.

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  Faraday sat back, glanced at his watch. No cop in his right mind would risk being seen in public with the likes of Winter, but since Gabrielle’s departure Friday nights had been especially bleak. The last thing he wanted was an evening tucked up with the Operation Sangster file.

  ‘My place,’ he said. ‘Make it around eight.’

  Chapter eleven

  FRIDAY, 23 MAY 2008. 20.12

  Winter took a cab to the Bargemaster’s House. Knowing Faraday’s affection for decent wine, he’d lingered long enough in Thresher’s to take advice on a choice of bottle. A 2003 Rioja, fingers crossed, should do the trick.

  The moment Faraday opened the front door, Winter knew he was in with a shout. Something on the stove was laced with garlic. Classical music played in the background. Either Faraday was expecting other company or the pair of them would be settling in for a cosy evening.

  Winter stepped into the house, shaking the rain from his jacket. The jacket, in soft Italian leather, had been a Christmas present to him from Marie, the first time Bazza had begun to take any interest in the possibilities of a relationship. Since this afternoon’s confrontation in the hotel gym, Winter had heard nothing more. The fact that he’d never touched Marie in his life should have been a comfort, but he knew Bazza had never been much interested in hard facts. If it looks like a dog, he’d often say, it is a fucking dog.

  Faraday glanced at the wine. He had a bottle already open.

  ‘Côtes-du-Rhône OK?’

  ‘Love it.’

  Winter was standing at the big picture window in the lounge. The view across the harbour was pebbled with rain but with the aid of Faraday’s binos he could just make out Misty Gallagher’s place on Hayling Island. He and Misty had been meeting regularly for some time now, an arrangement largely ignored by Bazza, who’d bought her the waterside house in the first place. His latest passion for the winsome Chandelle had left Misty at a loose end, a situation Winter had gleefully exploited. You could always rely on Bazza jumping to the wrong conclusion, he thought. Not the wife at all, but the ex-mistress.

  ‘Cheers.’ Faraday handed him a glass of red.

  ‘Cheers, boss.’ Winter raised the glass in salute. ‘Where’s your lady?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘Yep.’

  In the grey evening light from the window, Faraday looked exhausted, thinner, almost ill. Now Winter knew why. Years ago, when he discovered his wife was dying from cancer, he’d come to this very house on some mad pretext. That night, over the best part of a bottle of Scotch, Faraday had done his best to ease the pain. Maybe now was the time to return the favour.

  ‘You want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Might help.’

  ‘Yeah? You think so?’ Faraday sank onto the sofa, reaching for the remote to lower the volume on the audio stack. Music like this, thought Winter, would turn anyone into a depressive.

  ‘Mahler.’ Faraday seemed to read his mind. ‘Not to everyone’s taste.’

  ‘Each to his own, boss. Neil Diamond does it for me.’

  ‘I bet.’

  Winter caught an edge in Faraday’s voice but the expression on his face seemed benign enough. His glass was already empty. Winter wondered whether this was the first bottle.

  ‘So how’s it going then, boss?’

  Faraday eyed him for a moment or two, said nothing. Winter put the question again. These days his only connection with the Job was Jimmy Suttle, though even at the level of gossip the young D/S was reluctant to risk a conversation.

  ‘It’s crap,’ Faraday said at last. ‘If you really want to know.’

  ‘Crap how?’

  ‘Crap everywhere
. We live in a swamp of our own making. We’re going backwards. We’re sinking. Maybe this happens with every civilisation. Maybe the Romans got there first. God knows.’

  It dawned on Winter that this wasn’t about the Job at all. For reasons he didn’t understand, Faraday appeared to have thrown in the towel.

  ‘I’m not with you, boss.’ Winter was still on his feet. ‘You’re telling me we’re doomed?’

  ‘I’m telling you it’s crap.’ Faraday gestured vaguely towards the window. ‘All of it.’

  From the kitchen came the smell of burning. Winter got there in time to rescue a pan of onions. The air was blue with smoke. He opened a window and flapped around with a tea towel to get rid of the smell. Then he spotted the open bottle of wine and returned to the lounge. Faraday hadn’t moved. He watched Winter splashing wine into both their glasses.

  ‘You miss it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Job?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. It was in your bones. I watched you. You could be bloody good when you made the effort. Difficult but bloody effective.’

  ‘Difficult as in bent?’

  ‘Difficult as in -’ Faraday frowned ‘- stroppy. Difficult as in devious. You any good with onions? Only we need to start again.’

  Winter went back to the kitchen. Faraday had told him where to find the veggie basket. Half a dozen onions nestled amongst a collection of other produce. The new potatoes were still caked with soil. Maybe he grew this stuff himself, Winter thought. Maybe he had an allotment or a veggie patch out in the garden. Another solace. Another refuge.

  Winter peeled a couple of onions and then looked for a chopping board, unaware that Faraday had joined him. He was standing in the open doorway, leaning against the jamb, staring glassily in. Winter knew he’d been right. Pissed as a rat.

  ‘Any garlic, boss?’ Winter was looking round the kitchen.

  ‘Cupboard above the stove.’

  Winter reached up. On the back of the cupboard door was a photo of Faraday sharing a hammock with a slender woman in a red bikini. She had a cap of black hair and a generous mouth. She must have taken the photo herself because Winter could see her thin arm stretching towards the camera lens.

  ‘That’s her?’ Winter stood aside.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Gabrielle.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘You’re right. Too lovely.’

  ‘Impossible, boss. You know something about life? You can never get too much of it. Never. And you’re looking at someone who knows. If it feels good, enjoy it. The rest is bollocks.’

  Faraday was still gazing at the photo. He appeared to agree. Winter shut the cupboard door and scraped the wreckage in the saucepan into the waste bin. He hadn’t come here to cook a meal but under the circumstances he was happy to oblige. He’d never seen any man this lost, this vulnerable.

  In the absence of further instructions, he sliced the garlic, raided the fridge for a tube of tomato paste, primed the saucepan with a generous splash of olive oil, and started again. There were herbs in a rack beside the cooker. Salt too. A glance into the lounge told him that Faraday had returned to the sofa. The music, thank Christ, had come to an end.

  On the windowsill behind the sink was an ancient radio. Winter helped himself, retuning to BBC Radio Two. Friday Night Is Music Night. Perfect.

  He found a packet of pasta, a tin of tuna, half a dozen eggs. He filled another saucepan with water and turned the gas up high. Then he had second thoughts, adjusting the flame to a low simmer. Food might return Faraday to sobriety. He didn’t want that. Not yet.

  ‘I can’t vouch for this, boss, but the woman in the offie swore by it.’

  Winter had appeared at Faraday’s elbow with the Rioja. The other bottle in the kitchen was empty. Faraday was stretched full length on the sofa, his eyes closed.

  ‘You awake, boss?’ Winter gave him a nudge.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Fancy a drop more?’

  ‘Silly question.’

  His hand strayed to the carpet, fumbled for the glass. Winter did the honours.

  ‘There’s a DCI called Perry Madison,’ he said. ‘Used to be on Major Crime.’

  ‘Complete arsehole.’

  ‘You’re right. Horrible man.’

  ‘Gets up everyone’s nose. Ego the size of a planet.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And?’ Faraday’s eyes were open now.

  Winter perched himself on the arm of the sofa. He wanted to keep this casual, matey, matter-of-fact. He also needed Faraday’s total attention.

  ‘He’s shagging Bazza’s daughter,’ he said. ‘Big time.’

  Faraday blinked, struggled up on one elbow.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She told me. Her name’s Esme. She’s tucked up with a City banker, nice bloke, Stu. She’s got kids, horses, money, the lot, but for whatever reason she’s binned all that for Madison.’

  ‘She’s walked out?’

  ‘Good as. Stu’s up in town most of the time but comes back at weekends. The shit hit the fan on Monday. A tenner says she’ll bail out tonight, find somewhere else to go, maybe Bazza’s place, maybe Madison’s.’

  ‘He’s married.’

  ‘I know.’

  Winter went back to the kitchen and took both saucepans off the heat. By the time he was back in the lounge Faraday was standing by the window, staring out. His wine glass was still beside the sofa. He hadn’t touched it.

  ‘What about Mackenzie?’

  ‘The man’s spitting nails. He’d like to fill Madison in but something tells him that wouldn’t be clever.’

  ‘He knows Madison’s a copper?’

  ‘Of course. I told him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s convinced there’s more to it.’

  Faraday at last turned round. His balance wasn’t perfect but the vagueness in his eyes had gone.

  ‘You’re telling me we’re trying to fit him up again?’

  ‘I dunno, boss.’ He shot Faraday an easy smile. ‘What do you think?’

  Chapter twelve

  SATURDAY, 24 MAY 2008. 09.53

  Nights when Faraday drank too much, he sometimes left his mobile downstairs. It woke him next morning just before ten. By the time he found it the thing had stopped ringing. Faraday checked caller ID. Jimmy Suttle.

  ‘We’ve got a problem, boss. Hannah Miles.’

  Faraday rubbed his eyes. To his amazement, he felt OK. Suttle had just taken a call from the new FLO. She was in deep shit.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘She’s at Munday’s place up in Paulsgrove. She went round there last night and again this morning, just the way you asked her. Apparently some of the scrote kids arrived. One of them’s got Munday’s dog.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She can’t get out of the loo.’

  Faraday fought the temptation to laugh. ‘This is a wind-up, right?’

  ‘No, boss. She’s scared shitless. I can hear it in her voice. She went up to use the loo and the moment she tried to get out the dog had a go at her. Her only option was to stay put and lock the door. This is a hostage situation. Or that’s what Parsons is calling it.’

  ‘She knows?’

  ‘Yeah. I belled you a couple of minutes ago but there wasn’t an answer. I had no choice.’

  ‘So what did she say?’

  ‘She said she’s going to sort it. I told her a uniform car would probably do the trick but you know the way she kicks off.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She’s thinking FSU.’

  Faraday’s heart sank. The Force Support Unit meant full house entry: shields, stun guns, ninja gear, the works. All because of Munday’s dog.

  ‘Get back to her. Tell her we’re onto it.’

  ‘It may be too late, boss.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m at home. Pick me up as soon as you can. OK?’

  He ended
the conversation and headed for the bathroom. Suttle lived less than five minutes away. He filled the handbasin with cold water, doused his face, rinsed his mouth. By the time Suttle appeared in his Impreza Faraday was waiting at the kerbside, enjoying the warm spring sunshine.

  ‘What did she say?’

  They were heading north on the main road that skirted Langstone Harbour. Traffic was heavy coming into the city, many of the cars still sporting Pompey scarves from last weekend’s Cup final triumph.

  ‘She said she’d spoken to the duty skipper on the FSU. They’re getting themselves together. She’s going to meet them up there.’

  ‘Terrific.’ Faraday foresaw nothing but trouble. He checked his watch. ‘Faster, son.’

  Avril Munday lived at the back end of Paulsgrove, the scruffy half of a council house that had never been sold. There were curls of dogshit on the pavement outside the property and an abandoned mattress folded against the front wall. Hannah Miles had left her unmarked Fiesta at the kerb. Suttle paused beside it to take a look.

  ‘Someone’s trashed it, boss.’ He called Faraday back.

  Both front tyres had been slashed and the bodywork was dented around the passenger door. Faraday nodded, told him to note the damage, then returned to Avril Munday’s house. A broken line of paving stones led around the side of the property, still puddled with water from the overnight rain. Body-checking past a couple of supermarket trolleys, he finally made it to the back garden. A car tyre was suspended on a rope from the rusting frame of a child’s swing. The earth was beaten flat beneath the tyre and an empty steel mesh cage lay against the fence. Faraday turned back to the house. The loo window was on the first floor. It was open.

  ‘Hannah?’ He heard a noise, someone moving, then the shape of a face appeared behind the ribbed glass. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was faint.

  ‘Where’s the dog?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You think it’s still outside the door? Have you heard it at all?’

  ‘No.’

  Faraday hesitated a moment. The kitchen lay at the back of the property. Beside the window was a door. He rapped twice, called Mrs Munday’s name, waited for a dog to bark. Nothing happened. He called again then tried the door. It opened. Inside, the smell was overpowering. He thought briefly about Jeanette Morrissey’s mother, banged up in her bungalow with an incontinent tabby. Animals, he thought. Who’d ever bother?