Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  Faraday, to his slight surprise, had no quarrel with any of this. Parsons, for once, had tabled her criticisms in a regretful tone of voice that could only anticipate a more permanent farewell, and there was a part of him that welcomed the prospect of a quieter life and an easier conscience. Putting Jeanette Morrissey away had been the hollowest of victories, and getting dicked around by the likes of Mackenzie had soured him still further. If you had the money and the nerve, you’d probably make it. If you’d lost your son to a psychopath and took your chance to get even, you were likely to end up inside.

  All the same, he was curious as to where Causeway might be heading next. Would Parsons, as SIO, be pursuing enquiries into who, exactly, the kidnapper might have been? Would the young lad be subjected to a rigorous interview? Would the banks be on alert for the moment the marked fifty-pound notes floated to the surface? Might those sightings flag a path back to Mackenzie’s door?

  ‘That’s speculation, Joe, as you well know. Of course we don’t give up. We never give up. Which is why I want you to focus now on Sangster.’

  Sangster was the cold case file Faraday had been reading before the phone rang with the news of the kidnap. A stranger rape dating back to 1984 plainly offered him a safe berth. Putting a name to Tessa Fogle’s mystery assailant might offer him something more clear-cut in the way of crime and punishment.

  Parsons, it seems, was reading his mind.

  ‘Don’t be too hasty, Joe. The file tells me this man could have killed her. Even you will admit that’s not polite.’

  At 13 Sandown Road, in the aftermath of Guy’s return, it was Marie who took control of events. When Esme finally turned up, stepping out of a taxi from the station, mother and daughter had a heart-to-heart. Stu and the kids were banished upstairs while Marie and Esme sat at the kitchen table and reviewed the shape of the coming months.

  To Marie’s relief, Esme appeared to have turned an important corner. The midlife storm that had erupted in the shape of Perry Madison had blown itself out. In her phrase, she’d enjoyed the best of him and moved on. She had no regrets about what she’d done and no plans to ever get in touch again. Marie, who found this dismissal of the last six months rather chilling, wisely declined to comment. The only thing that interested her was the resumption of family life.

  Esme agreed. She’d talked to Stu and they’d decided on a new start. They’d be moving back to the Meon Valley that same afternoon. Stu had already told the kids, who to Marie’s quiet delight had been less than enthusiastic. They rather liked life in Craneswater with Grandma and Grandad, and Guy in particular was in no hurry to return to memories of the man in the black balaclava.

  With this in mind Esme was already hatching plans for the future. In conversation with Stu they’d agreed that Madison had been the symptom rather than the cause of the recent upsets. Their life as a family was out of balance. They needed to see more of each other. Stu spending five nights a week in London might fill the Norcliffe coffers but what use was that if they ended up spending the money as virtual strangers?

  Marie, with a sinking heart, anticipated exactly where this conversation was leading. Esme, like her father, never gave up. Her passion for Perry Madison might have cooled but she was still in love with the Baiona hotel.

  ‘It’s still for sale, Mum. We could still buy it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘All kinds of ways. Stu thinks the financial markets are heading for trouble. If we’re going to do something radical then now might be the time to sell the business while there’s a still a business to sell. He says he can get a bundle for it, serious money.’

  ‘Enough for the hotel?’

  ‘Easily.’

  ‘What about the house?’

  ‘We’d rent it out. Two grand a month, no problem.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘I made some enquiries a couple of days ago. We could all live on that money in Spain. Easily.’

  Marie said nothing. Esme had clearly worked this whole thing out, done the research, juggled the figures. The conversation with Stu had probably been an afterthought. Now, as ever, she wanted her mother’s approval. Clever girl. Well done. Go for it.

  ‘What if it doesn’t work?’

  ‘It will, Mum. And think of the kids. They’ll learn the language, find new friends. It’ll be brilliant.’

  ‘But you’ve never run a hotel in your life.’

  ‘Neither had Dad. And look what he’s made of the Trafalgar.’

  ‘Have you mentioned any of this to him?’

  ‘Not yet. But he’ll think it’s a great idea, I know he will.’

  Esme knew her mother was unconvinced. She’d miss the contact with the kids, the picnics on the beach, the mad rounds of pitch and putt on the course at the bottom of the road. She’d recently found a tennis coach too, for young Guy. Champions always started young.

  ‘There is another option, Mum, something I haven’t mentioned.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like we sell up completely, burn our bridges, take the money and run.’ Esme tried to soften the threat with a smile. ‘And you wouldn’t like that, would you?’

  Winter, uncertain about the viability of the Offshore Challenge, knew he was due a conversation with Mo Sturrock. A couple of years working for Bazza Mackenzie had wised him up. The man overdosed on enthusiasm. A gleam in the eye, within seconds, could become a press conference, a media launch, gilt-edged invitations to the city’s movers and shakers. Bazza had been a conjuror for most of his life. What rarely bothered him was the small print.

  Sturrock had found himself a home in a disused storeroom in the Trafalgar’s basement. Until earlier in the week it had been littered with broken chairs, scraps of carpet, miscellaneous shelving, unwanted pictures, cleaning materials and umpteen cartons of glasses that Bazza had lifted from a liquidation sale in Chichester. Marie had helped Sturrock tidy up the mess, bin the rubbish and create a space large enough for a desk and a couple of chairs. The hotel electrician had run in a landline from the exchange in reception and Marie had found a neat little lamp in Habitat that shed a soft light on Sturrock’s growing pile of correspondence.

  Winter made himself comfortable. Sturrock was deep in a copy of the Guardian. The basement still stank of the bleach Marie had used on the 60s lino. She’d already warned Winter that extricating Mo from his previous employer might not be as simple as everyone imagined.

  ‘You’ve told them about us? About Tide Turn?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your bosses.’

  Sturrock nodded. Banned from any direct contact with the office, he’d been obliged to conduct a conversation through a woman in Human Resources. After six months of gardening leave there was still no date for the formal disciplinary hearing. This meant that his bosses were having big problems framing charges against him. His impromptu speech at the conference had undoubtedly been gross misconduct but in an ideal world they’d want to pin lots more on him.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like abuse of my email account. Like making private phone calls. Like poking round for porn on the Internet. Like sexual harassment … bullying … racism … whatever they could find. I ended up managing loads of people. They assume you’re bound to make the odd enemy.’

  ‘And you didn’t?’

  ‘Apparently not. It must be very frustrating for them. Fingers crossed, I think I may have become a bit of an embarrassment.’

  ‘So how does that work?’

  Sturrock had abandoned the paper. These last couple of days, he explained, he’d been trying to negotiate a compromise agreement. He’d write his own reference and agree it with his bosses. He’d sign up to a non-disclosure clause. And in the final settlement he’d acknowledge bringing the organisation into disrepute. In return, he’d get three months’ severance money and retain his registration with the General Social Care Council.

  ‘Without that, I’m stuffed. And so is Tide Turn.’

  Winter nodded. Tw
enty years in the Job had taught him how complex these things could be. People didn’t just walk out of the door. Not any more.

  ‘You think they’ll wear it?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks to you lot. It’s a perfect out for them and pretty good for me too. Marie’s told you about my little project?’

  They discussed the Offshore Challenge for a while. Winter said he loved the idea of making the little bastards sweat but was curious to know how Sturrock had come to rowing in the first place.

  ‘It was way back … when I was still a student, still pretty clueless, still living over here in Pompey. Stuff had happened, personal stuff, and I wasn’t in a good place in my head. I used to run on the seafront a bit, which definitely helped, but then I saw one of these boats, these fours, cruising past. It was the middle of summer, quite late. The guys were rowing out of the harbour, out of the sunset. I remember stopping and just staring at them. They had it nailed, perfect rhythm, perfectly in time. They just made it look so easy and I remember thinking yeah, I’ll have some of that.’

  The following week he found the clubhouse and made some enquiries. Within a couple of days, after a brief introductory session on a rowing machine, he found himself afloat.

  ‘It was hard, bloody hard, much more difficult than I’d imagined, but the instructor was a good bloke and the rest of the crew were pretty patient, and after a while you start getting the hang of it. One of the crew, the guy I rowed behind, had just come out of the Marines. That’s when I had a rush of blood to the head.’

  ‘You enlisted? In the Marines?’

  ‘Yeah. The rowing was going really well. It was sorting me out. I’d fucked up my degree and I hadn’t a clue what to do. I thought the Marines would be like rowing with a bit of rifle stuff thrown in.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It wasn’t. I was wrong. It was horrible. I couldn’t hack it at all.’

  ‘So you went back to the rowing?’

  ‘Yeah. And I’ve stayed with it ever since.’

  ‘And did it do the trick?’ Winter touched his own head. ‘Up here?’

  ‘Definitely. And if it worked for me then there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work with the kids.’

  ‘Headbanger, were you?’

  ‘Worse.’ He looked Winter in the eye. ‘Much worse.’

  Faraday spent the afternoon with the Sangster file. As far as he could judge, the paperwork was complete. From the statement of the attending officer, first on the scene, through the medical reports, the raft of house-to-house calls, the interviews with ex-boyfriends and the checks on local sex offenders, the modest squad of D/Cs appeared to have explored every line of enquiry. In a terse final note the SIO had concluded that Tessa Fogle had been the victim of an intruder she probably didn’t know. Someone who may have seen her leaving the Student Union, weaving her way home, letting herself in. The back garden was accessible via an alley that lay to the rear of the terrace. The window had been wide open. Chance and alcohol had done the rest.

  Faraday looked up, gazing out of the window. The SIO had been a D/I on the old Portsmouth South division, a pleasant enough career copper who raced pigeons in his spare time. He’d died back in the 90s after a brief and painful tussle with pancreatic cancer.

  A phone call brought Jimmy Suttle to Faraday’s office. Parsons had insisted that the young D/S be available as an intel resource for Sangster. The way she’d put it, Faraday felt he was on the receiving end of a retirement present.

  Faraday summarised the stranger rape. Blood and semen samples had been preserved but to date they’d raised no names on the PNC database. The next obvious move was to commission a familial DNA search, thus multiplying the chances of a PNC hit. If Tessa’s assailant still had no criminal record then perhaps his father, or a brother, or a son might.

  ‘How do we stand for consent, boss?’

  ‘She was last seen in 1999. That’s a long time ago. She was living in Chalton then, up near Petersfield. A partner, kids, the whole deal. According to the file she seemed happy enough, but things might have changed.’

  ‘Is the address still current?’

  ‘I’ve no idea but it might be the place to start.’

  ‘Did she have a job?’

  ‘She was some kind of counsellor. The details aren’t clear.’

  Suttle scribbled a note and asked for the file. Faraday was looking at the calendar. To the best of his knowledge, submitting a sample for DNA familial testing carried serious cost implications. In return for a four-figure sum you got hundreds of names, all of them to be sorted and prioritised, but that kind of expense would only be sanctioned if a proper squad was ready to action the results. Yet another reason for checking first with Tessa Fogle.

  ‘You’ll let me know, Jimmy? When you get her contact details?’

  Chapter twenty-nine

  TUESDAY, 3 JUNE 2008. 08.34

  Two bits of excellent news on the same day. Marie found Mo Sturrock in the Trafalgar’s basement gym. Sturrock had quickly got into the habit of kick-starting each morning with a session on the rowing machine. The 07.45 hovercraft would get him to the Southsea terminal by eight. A ten-minute stroll across the Common would take him straight to the hotel. By half eight he’d be on the machine, sweating towards the end of his first thousand metres.

  Marie lingered in the shadows beside the door, understanding at once how years of practice could transform your technique. Mo had set the flywheel on nine, guaranteeing near-maximum resistance, and she watched as he slid forwards down the slide, took up the slack, and then thrust back with his legs, sucking in a lungful of air before finishing the stroke with a powerful tug from his arms and shoulders. The cycle then repeated itself, infinitely smooth, his body in constant motion, and she caught the little gasp of effort at the end of each stroke.

  She picked her way towards him, watching his face in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Mo had his eyes shut and with each gasp came a tiny facial contortion. With anyone else, she thought, this might have signalled irritation or even boredom but in Mo’s case it was undoubtedly genuine effort. Only yesterday, when they’d been discussing exercise, he’d told her that if it wasn’t hurting it wasn’t working. At the time she’d been in two minds about the phrase. It struck a false note, it sounded glib, but now - watching him - she knew exactly what he’d meant.

  ‘How far do you go?’

  Mo’s eyes opened. His rate slowed.

  ‘Five K.’

  ‘Five thousand metres?’

  ‘Yeah …’ He was still fighting for breath.

  ‘And you set yourself a time?’

  ‘Four minutes per K. Twenty overall.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘At my age? Bloody hard.’

  By now he’d come to a complete halt. His singlet was blotched with sweat and his head hung down between his open thighs.

  ‘I’ve ruined it, haven’t I? I’m really sorry.’

  ‘No problem.’ Mo reached for a towel and mopped his face. ‘You’re the perfect excuse. You know what the Marines say? Pain? It’s just an opinion.’

  She laughed then told him the good news. His employers on the Isle of Wight had been on the phone first thing, wanting to check that the Tide Turn offer was genuine.

  ‘I told them it was and I said we’d like you on board as soon as possible. They didn’t seem to think that would be a problem.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ She’d always loved Mo’s smile. ‘And it gets better. I got an email from the guy you’ve been talking to on Whale Island. He says the formal go-ahead’s beyond his pay grade but the boathouse you’re after is definitely available.’

  ‘Free?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  Mo eased himself off the machine. Whale Island housed HMS Excellent, a naval shore establishment. From here there was direct access to the harbour, perfect if you wanted to put beginners in an offshore boat.

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Yes. I gather you’d a
sked him about getting hold of a PTI. He says he’s got just the right bloke in mind. Real animal. Can’t wait to get stuck in.’

  Mo grinned again.

  ‘Perfect.’ He was watching her face in the mirror. ‘You know something? This just might work.’

  Faraday was still at home when Suttle rang. These days, Faraday told himself, there was no pressing need to crawl to Kingston Crescent in the rush-hour traffic. Better to hang on for a late breakfast and a stroll round the nearby saltwater ponds. The dabchicks were still in residence amongst the reed beds at the water’s edge and he had high hopes for an invisible but very male Cetti’s warbler, singing its heart out from the cover of the scrub.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Me, boss. I’ve got details on Tessa Fogle. She’s moved to the Isle of Wight.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘Not yet. I thought I’d leave that to you. If you want me to go over today there might be a problem. I’m in court until twelve and in Basingstoke after that.’

  Faraday wrote down the address details and hung up. Dimpsy. Newchurch. Io W. There was a number too. He studied it for a moment, wondered about the dabchicks, then reached for his mobile again. The number answered on the third ring. A woman’s voice. She sounded, for some reason, amused.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ms Fogle?’

  ‘That’s me.’ The voice changed. More formal, more cautious. She must have been waiting for another call, Faraday thought. He introduced himself, asked whether she had time to talk on the phone, then briefly sketched in the circumstances. There was nothing but silence on the other end.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘I am. Would it be possible to meet? This is all a bit sudden.’

  ‘Of course. When can you manage?’

  ‘Today?’

  She gave him directions. When he got to the village he was to look for a pub called the Pointer Inn. A hundred yards beyond it, on the left, he’d find an old converted chapel.