Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  Alverston’s D/I had been tasked to contact each of the raped women to check whether or not they were prepared to step through the doors that the new DNA techniques might open. Tessa Fogle by then was living in Chalton, a village south of Petersfield. She had three kids. She told the D/I that she’d never mentioned the rape to her partner, and probably never would, but she still nursed a grudge against her attacker and was happy for any investigation to proceed. In the event of an arrest she would, of course, have to prepare herself for the trauma of a court appearance but she decided to face that possibility if and when it happened. Her partner, in the meantime, would remain in a state of blissful ignorance.

  Faraday poured himself another cup of tea. Alverston’s Cold Case unit drew heavily on DNA familial search techniques introduced a couple of years earlier. These offered the possibility of matching a tiny fragment of anonymous DNA - a bare handful of cells - against profiles sharing the same family characteristics. An operation like this might flag the path to literally hundreds of other samples on the national database, amongst which could be the fathers, mothers, brothers or sisters of the unknown target. Amongst this harvest of criminal names, investigators might find a lead that would take them to the perpetrator. Detectives on cold case units couldn’t believe their luck. This was the golden key. They started knocking on doors nationwide.

  Within months, though, there were huge problems. Many of those contacted through the national database had never shared the secret of their criminal conviction with their partners. Their only crime with respect to the Cold Case was a familial DNA match and the last thing they wanted was this unwelcome echo of a long-forgotten past. Representations were made through lawyers. There was an agreement that familial DNA searches raised profound human rights issues. And very quickly the Home Office was obliged to rein in the Cold Case investigators. Henceforth, the authority of an Assistant Chief Constable was required for the pursuit of enquiries.

  Faraday put the file to one side to take a phone call. It was Jimmy Suttle. He’d just had Paul Winter on the phone.

  ‘He says you and he have been having a little chat. This has to be bollocks, doesn’t it, boss?’

  Faraday refused to answer the question. A cosy evening with Winter had never been a good idea but the least he’d expected was a degree of discretion.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He wants you to bell him.’

  ‘So why didn’t he just phone me?’

  ‘No idea, boss. Maybe you should ask him yourself.’

  Of all the detectives in Pompey, Suttle probably knew Winter best. At times it seemed to Faraday that they’d enjoyed almost a father-and-son relationship. Winter had taught the young Suttle everything he’d known and as a consequence, like now, Suttle had become an extremely shrewd operator. The subtext of this little chat was all too obvious. Be careful.

  ‘I’m grateful, Jimmy. Leave it to me.’

  Faraday pocketed his mobile and returned to the file. Sangster had been a low priority for the Cold Case squad. They’d concentrated on higher-profile cases, successfully putting names against decades of individual trauma. Just now, the list of undetected stranger rapes numbered seven. Tessa Fogle was the next in line.

  Where was she now? How many kids did she have? How big a scar had her mystery attacker really left? There were no clues in the file. Her last known address dated back four years. There was a decent chance she still lived in Chalton but equally she could have moved on. Fragments of DNA left on her duvet had not, so far, been submitted for familial search but Faraday knew that this, logically, would be Sangster’s next step.

  The front door bell rang. Faraday got to his feet, putting the Sangster file to one side. To his surprise, it was Willard. The Head of CID wasn’t in the habit of making house calls. Faraday stood aside, inviting him in. Then he realised that Parsons must have known about this little visitation. That’s why he’d been sent home in the first place.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  Willard didn’t want either. He took a brief glance at the view then suggested they sat down.

  ‘Nice place.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Had it long?’

  ‘Thirty years.’

  Willard nodded. He had perfectly manicured hands and he’d developed a habit of leaving them on display, the way that photographers suggest when taking an official portrait. Just now, one trailed along the back of the sofa while the other plucked at a stray thread in the piping.

  Faraday was waiting for the bad news. Willard was about to sack him from Major Crime, he knew he was.

  ‘Perry Madison, Joe. We owe you.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It can’t have been easy, passing on that kind of information. I know he can be a difficult bugger and you’ve probably had your fair share of grief from the man but even so …’

  ‘You think I grassed him up?’

  ‘Yes. And like I say, Joe, thank God you did.’

  He’d had a private word with the DCI, he said, and the man had been big enough to come clean. He’d been giving Mackenzie’s daughter a seeing-to for months now but had done his best to box it off from everything else. He’d known it was crazy from the start but the thing had got a bit out of hand. He wasn’t just shagging her; he’d fallen in love.

  ‘Unfortunate.’

  ‘Very. Though that isn’t the word his wife’s using.’

  ‘She knows?’

  ‘Madison told her. As of now he’s living in some poxy flat in Romsey. The man’s always been a bit of a liability, Joe, but now it’s a whole lot worse than that. Frankly, he’s a disgrace.’

  Willard was right. Falling in love with a Level Three’s only child was career suicide. By losing his heart to Mackenzie’s daughter, Madison had opened himself up to all kinds of pressure.

  ‘Shame,’ Faraday said.

  ‘Shame how?’

  ‘Shame he’s lost it like that.’

  Willard nodded, said nothing. Then his fingers began to drum on the back of the sofa. Faraday braced himself for a change of subject. Madison had been the hors d’oeuvre. Now for the main course.

  ‘You mentioned Tumbril the other day. No one’s suggesting that was our finest hour, least of all me, but the fact remains that strategically we were right to mount the operation. The day we stop making it hard for people like Mackenzie is the day we should pack our bags and find something else to do.’

  ‘I agree, sir. And next time we might have better luck.’

  ‘I’m not sure luck comes into it, Joe. We fucked up because we didn’t spot the enemy in the camp. That was an oversight. That should never have happened.’

  Faraday couldn’t work out if the blame was his. He decided to say nothing. Willard had gone back to Madison. The man was still in post. As far as Willard could judge, no one else knew about the wreckage of his private life.

  ‘Madison has no friends,’ he said. ‘Which turns out to be a blessing. ’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’d know about Mackenzie’s daughter and I’d have to sack the man. As it is -’ he shrugged ‘- Madison may still have his uses.’

  ‘With respect to Mackenzie?’

  ‘Exactly. The daughter’s in as deep as he is. From our point of view that could be promising.’

  ‘Could be?’

  ‘Is.’

  ‘You’re telling me Madison’s become part of the family?’

  ‘Far from it. Mackenzie’s gone ape shit as you probably know. But women in these situations do strange things, Joe. She’s the keeper of the crown jewels. Love knows no secrets. Fuck knows what she sees in Madison but that’s not the question that concerns me just now. She trusts him. She talks to him. She tells him things.’ He smiled. ‘Are we getting the drift?’

  ‘Of course.’ Faraday held his gaze. ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing, Joe. I just came to say thank you.’

  ‘I really liked him, Paul. I thought he was fab
ulous.’

  Marie had summoned Winter to tea in the Tenth Hole, a wooden shack, handsomely refurbished, that looked onto the Craneswater pitch-and-putt course. Mo Sturrock, it turned out, had been here to meet his new employer.

  ‘We had the most brilliant lunch. You know the way some men can put you at your ease? Make you laugh? Make you feel you’ve known them half your life? Mo’s got that … and you have too. Except he’s better-looking.’

  ‘And younger.’

  ‘Quite.’ She put a warm hand over his. ‘Don’t take offence, Paul. If anything, I’m thanking you. That man’s an inspired choice. Truly. I mean it.’

  Sturrock, it seemed, had shared a great deal of his past six months with Marie. Suspension from the Social Services directorate had forced him into taking a long hard look at his life. All communication with the office was forbidden: no phone calls, no emails, not even the chance to natter with a colleague you might bump into at the weekend. Twice he’d met friends, friends for God’s sake, at the big Tesco in Ryde, and both times they’d fled. If you were thin-skinned or vulnerable enough, he said, this kind of back-turning and isolation would drive you nuts. It was exile. It was like being sent to the Gulag except worse because you had no one to talk to.

  ‘What about his missus?’

  ‘That was the point really. She works part time as a counsellor but just now they’re obviously spending a lot of time together. Mo says that’s been brilliant. You get the feeling the relationship’s always been pretty sound but now he says he never realised what he was missing.’

  ‘Wonderful. So why is he interested in us?’

  ‘That was my question. I get the impression they might need the money.’

  ‘But he’s on full pay.’

  ‘Sure, but that won’t last forever and if he ends up losing his registration then he’ll have to leave social work entirely. So things might get tough for a while.’

  Winter nodded. Social workers couldn’t practise without being registered with the General Social Care Council, just one of the reasons why Winter had tried to convince Bazza that he was a trespasser in the field.

  ‘What else did Sturrock say?’

  ‘He told me about his kids. He’s got three: Temple, Poppy and Fleur. They’ve been on the island a while now. Mo says they love it.’

  Temple, she said, had just got himself a motor scooter. Fleur, the youngest child, was Down’s syndrome but like her sister she was mad about horses. It sounded idyllic.

  ‘Is she bad? Fleur?’

  ‘Mo was cagey about her. I get the impression she can be a bit of a handful sometimes but Mo says she just loves having her dad back full time. I can imagine. The guy’s really good news.’

  Winter helped himself to another scone. As far as he could gather, Mo Sturrock had been invited across so Marie could check him out. In which case he’d somehow managed to turn an interview into a blind date.

  ‘Bit of a star, then, our Mo?’

  ‘Absolutely, and I’ll tell you why. These days people just lose it with each other. They haven’t got the patience to keep the relationship, the marriage, whatever it is, together. Maybe they expect too much, I don’t know, but it’s really refreshing to meet someone who still fancies their other half.’

  Winter, contemplating another spoonful of clotted cream, wondered whether she was talking about her own marriage. If he were to enquire further he had a feeling he’d probably be here for the rest of the afternoon so instead he told her about Esme.

  ‘She took Bazza’s word about Garfield. Which is why we nearly screwed up.’

  ‘I know. We all take Baz’s word. Old habits die hard.’

  ‘Too right. Bazza needs someone to watch him, someone to put the harder questions. That someone should be a lawyer.’

  ‘Esme is a lawyer. She just happens to be family too.’

  ‘Of course. And that’s exactly the way Baz likes to play it. Apart from anything else, it’s cheaper. Plus it gives him an easy ride. He just follows his nose and hopes everything will turn out dandy. In this case he could have ended up inside, Ezzie too. When it comes to money like Garfield’s, lawyers have a responsibility. It’s all spelled out in the act. Ezzie wasn’t even on the same page.’

  Marie looked chastened. When she asked what happened over the contract Winter described the scene in the airport car park. It had done the job, he warned her, but they hadn’t parted friends. Marie watched Winter demolish the last of his scone, licking the cream from his fingertips.

  ‘You’re right about Baz needing someone on his case. I’ve been thinking that for years.’ She smiled at him. ‘And you know who that someone should be?’

  ‘I do my best.’ Winter looked up at her. ‘But he never listens.’ He sat back, gazing out at the sunshine. A plump couple in cargo pants were poking around in the border, looking for a golf ball. ‘What’s with Madison?’ he said at last. ‘He wasn’t out in Spain. At least not yesterday.’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Paul. My daughter’s love life is a closed book. Since we had words about this whole shambles she’s refused to talk to me. How come she’s so headstrong? Does she get it from Baz, do you think? Or me?’

  ‘Baz, definitely. What about Stu?’

  ‘He’s back in London but he phones me most evenings. We have long chats, which is strange because we were never especially close before. He’s really hurt, Paul, he really is. And I worry about those kids. Evzenie seems able to cope OK and Stuart hasn’t said a word about what’s going on but kids are canny, they can smell trouble. It’s all such a bloody mess, Paul. It’s just so bloody sad.’

  ‘And Bazza? What’s his take?’

  ‘Nothing changes. He’d gladly throttle Madison and there are nights when he’s had a few to drink and then he blames Stuart too. Baz is no angel, I know that, but I’ve never felt neglected, not the way Esme says she has.’

  Winter smiled then changed the subject, asking again about Sturrock. Marie said she’d hire him tomorrow.

  ‘Baz wants him full time.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You think he’ll do it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘The other thing we talked about was what he’ll actually be doing. To be frank I don’t think he realised quite how much scope there is in TTT. He can take it wherever he wants. There are enough problem kids in this city to keep him busy 24/7. He’s got total carte blanche.’

  ‘And that fired him up?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes were gleaming. ‘It most certainly did.’

  Faraday knew it was nonsense. Willard hadn’t come to say thank you, nor anything of the sort. Willard had come to leave a message. He’d never compromise himself by spelling it out but he’d rely on Faraday to do the necessary. Get hold of Winter. Tell him Mackenzie’s in the shit. And let’s see what happens.

  The ping of an incoming email took Faraday upstairs. It wasn’t that he had anything against another attempt to bring down Bazza Mackenzie. On the contrary, the man’s success was a beacon for every work-shy adolescent in the city. Better a career in drug dealing, went the word on the street, than the chore of staying in every night mugging for a bunch of exams that would probably get you nowhere. No, Willard was right to keep Mackenzie in his sights. Faraday supported that. But what angered him was this latest bid, poorly disguised, to use Faraday as some kind of back channel. Just what was he supposed to say to Winter? How kosher was the threat to his boss? What did Madison really have on Bazza Mackenzie?

  The fact that Willard had volunteered nothing in the way of detail was hardly surprising. Covert operations relied on the thinnest possible spread of information. But keeping Faraday in the dark simply added to his sense of embattlement. First he’d been removed from the Blue Dragon inquiry. No apology. No explanation. Now he’d become the messenger boy in Willard’s latest bid to settle a long-standing debt. Was he really interested? He thought not. Would he bother to lift the phone and help cast Willard’s net? Unlikely.

  Upstairs, he bent to the PC. The me
ssage was from Gabrielle. Tu as probablement pensé que j’étais bourré samedi soir. Comme on peut se tromper? Faraday grinned. You probably think I was drunk on Saturday night, she’d written. How wrong can you get?

  He gazed down at the screen for a moment, framing a reply. Then he had second thoughts, knowing how much more fluent he’d be after a glass or two of wine. The Sangster file was waiting for him in the kitchen. He’d yet to read the various appendices but knew it could wait. Time, quite suddenly, was the least of his problems.

  Chapter eighteen

  TUESDAY, 27 MAY 2008. 03.54

  Marie took the call. It was four in the morning. She recognised the voice. It was Esme’s au pair, Evzenie. She was sobbing.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Marie rolled over in bed, shielding the conversation from her slumbering husband.

  ‘The police …’ Evzenie broke down again.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re here. Everywhere. Please come. Quickly.’

  The line went dead. Marie got out of bed. With the light on, Mackenzie sat up, rubbing his eyes. Automatically, his hand went down to the carpet. Under the bed he kept a baseball bat.

  ‘What the fuck … ?’

  ‘We’ve got to go, Baz. It’s Evzenie. Something’s happened.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Esme’s.’ She looked round for something to wear. Tracksuit bottoms. A sweater. Anything. Mackenzie was standing beside the bed, still naked. Befuddlement was giving way to anger. He watched Marie stabbing a number into her mobile.

  ‘What now? Who are you phoning?’

  ‘Paul. We’ll pick him up on the way out.’

  Winter was waiting for them outside Blake House. He got into the back of the Bentley and gave Marie’s shoulder a little squeeze.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘We’ll sort it.’

  ‘Sort what?’ Mackenzie had jumped the lights outside Gunwharf.

  ‘Whatever’s happened. Maybe the girl’s had a bad dream. Maybe she’s got stuff all out of proportion.’