Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  Many of their problems were rooted in their early years, the product of a chaotic home life, and sorting out that kind of damage once the child had got to early adolescence was a real challenge. Social workers, in theory, could do it. And mentoring schemes, properly funded, had met with a degree of success. But the real need was for what one ex-policewoman called ‘credible messengers’. Kids these days listened to no one. Except that rare individual who stepped into their lives, shot them a smile, tossed them a challenge and - in the process - left them seriously impressed.

  This, to Mo Sturrock, was the essence of his Offshore initiative. It had to be ongoing, building session on session. It had to be physically daunting, confronting the kind of kids who already deemed themselves tough. And it had to be led by hard bastards who’d clearly seen a bit of real life. Kids would listen to people like this. The Navy PTI, with his shorn scalp and eagle tats, was perfect. You could see it in his eyes, in his body language, in the way he knew how to use silence. That guy had been somewhere horrible. And that, to many of Pompey’s problem kids, made him very credible indeed.

  Bazza agreed. Sturrock was sitting in his office at the Trafalgar, going through the PowerPoint presentation for next week’s launch. The PTI would be present to field questions in the Victory Gallery, and Sturrock had been canny enough to acquire some video footage from the days when he’d been part of the Pompey field gun crew. He’d built the archive pictures into a longer sequence and now he cued the video and sat back, half-watching Bazza’s face.

  ‘Fabulous, son.’ The PTI was riding the gun barrel along a cable strung between two trestles. ‘Just look at that fucker.’

  The next sequence showed the crew reassembling the gun. Everything was a blur, the drills perfectly rehearsed, each man aware that the smallest mistake could lose a finger or break a leg. Seconds later, the PTI slammed a shell into the breech and gave the order to fire. Smoke from the charge curled round the gun crew before the picture dissolved into a slow pan across Portsmouth Harbour, accompanied by the PTI’s growl. That same discipline, he said, would lie at the heart of the Offshore Challenge. And here on the harbour is where the adventure would begin.

  Bazza was spellbound. For a moment Sturrock thought he was going to demand a rerun. Then he turned to Sturrock and gave him a playful punch on the upper arm.

  ‘Brilliant, mush. Fucking mustard. Works a treat. What else have you got?’

  Sturrock had taken his own video camera on his travels over the past ten days and every time he sensed agreement or enthusiasm he’d been bold enough to ask for an on-screen endorsement. These he’d later edited into a sequence intercut with shots of kids hanging out on Pompey street corners: Lacoste trainers, Henri Lloyd tops, baseball caps and lashings of attitude. The Lord Mayor came first. An ex-matelot himself, he wished the Offshore Challenge every success. Other faces followed: men and women Sturrock had plucked from every corner of the city’s establishment. Bazza knew them all, surprised that a County Court judge had spared Tide Turn five minutes of his precious time, delighted that both the Pompey MPs had given him the thumbs up, and intrigued by the surprise appearance of a leading newscaster from BBC South. Clearly smitten by Sturrock’s pitch, she wished Tide Turn bon voyage and a safe landfall. The Offshore would offer kids a fighting chance, she said. And the rest was down to them.

  ‘How did you get to her, son?’

  ‘I phoned in. Told her what we’re about. Told her the way it would work. Turned out her little brother’s in trouble with the Bill. Nice lady.’

  ‘You met her?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nice lady.’

  Bazza turned back to the screen. He couldn’t get enough of this stuff. During the months that Winter had been in charge he’d had the faintest glimpse of what might be possible but this was beyond his wildest dreams. Paulie had been right. Sturrock was a genius.

  Sturrock wanted to know how the invites were going.

  ‘That’s Marie’s baby. I’m surprised you haven’t been in touch.’

  ‘No time, Baz. I’ve been flat out.’

  ‘Then you’d better bell her, son.’ Bazza gave him a wink. ‘I think she’s missing you.’

  To Faraday’s surprise, it had taken more than a week to prepare for Sangster’s next step. An hour with the deputy head of Scientific Services at the Netley Training HQ had established the ground rules. A familial DNA search would cost over five K. To justify that kind of money, Sangster had to pass certain tests. Number one, the original paperwork on the Fogle rape had to get the nod from the CPS. If it turned out not to be lawyer-proof then there’d never be any prospect of taking Sangster to court. Number two, Faraday had to guarantee enough detectives to action the findings of the familial search. Sangster was liable to be looking at hundreds of names. There were ways of prioritising this list but every action had to be individually authorised at ACC level and there’d still be dozens of doors to knock on.

  Faraday was in conference with DCI Gail Parsons. She’d summoned him to a small, bare office at force HQ in Winchester where she appeared to be working. Faraday wondered whether she and Willard were still trying to extract some shred of self-respect from the shambles of Operation Causeway. If so, Mackenzie still seemed to be in the driving seat.

  ‘I haven’t got much time, Joe. Just give me the bones of the thing.’

  Faraday summarised the steps he’d taken to revive Sangster. The CPS had okayed the paperwork. He’d reviewed every investigative step taken by the squad at the time and saw no prospect of reopening any of their lines of enquiry. The only way forward lay in a familial DNA search, for which, of course, there’d be a cost.

  ‘But that’s down to Scientific Services, Joe. It’s their budget, not mine.’ Her attention had been caught by an email that had just appeared on her PC. Whatever she was reading brought her no joy. ‘You’ve got a squad?’

  ‘Two D/Cs.’

  ‘Will that be enough?’

  ‘That’s all there is. Netley seem happy enough.’

  ‘Intel?’

  ‘D/S Suttle.’

  ‘Good.’ She began to tap a reply to the email. ‘You’ve seen the survivor? Got her consent?’

  ‘I went over last week. She lives on the Isle of Wight.’

  ‘And she’s happy?’

  ‘More or less.’

  Faraday summarised Tessa’s thoughts on the matter. Like most raped women, she nursed an understandable resentment against the perpetrator. If there was a decent chance of finding the man, then so be it. Her only worry was her partner.

  ‘He knows?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is this someone new? Someone recent?’

  ‘They’ve been together more than twenty years.’

  ‘Really?’ She stopped typing. ‘And she’s never told him?’

  ‘No. In fact she never told anyone apart from her parents.’

  ‘And that’s worked for her?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Faraday nodded. ‘I think it has. They’ve got three kids. She says they’re very happy. How common is that?’

  ‘Good question, Joe. What happens when we take the guy to court?’

  ‘Then she’ll have to tell him, obviously. She’s asked for a heads-up if we make an arrest. Seemed reasonable enough to me.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her head turned to the screen and her fingers settled on the keyboard again. ‘Let’s go for it then, eh?’

  Mo Sturrock found Marie at home in Craneswater. He hadn’t been to Sandown Road since Guy’s return and he sensed at once that something was missing.

  ‘They’ve gone home, Mo. The place feels like a tomb.’

  ‘You miss them?’

  ‘The kids? Definitely. The rest of it was horrible.’

  ‘No repercussions, though?’

  ‘Only the police. That nice Helen Christian fixed up for Guy to be interviewed. It happened at the end of last week. They’ve got a special place up in Havant where they take kids his age.’
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  ‘How did he get on?’

  ‘I only talked to him on the phone. He said it was OK but that means nothing. I think they fall over backwards to be nice to the kids but Guy doesn’t give much away when it comes to things like this. Between you and me I think he was pretty traumatised by the whole thing.’

  ‘Anyone would be.’

  ‘That’s right. He asked after you, by the way. You made a bit of a hit there.’

  ‘I barely saw him.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Mo. You were the Man as far as his sisters were concerned and some of that’s rubbed off. You should take him out one day, go swimming or something. Shame you didn’t come to Thorpe Park. That was another nightmare.’ She forced a smile. ‘How’s the Big One?’

  The Big One had become private code for the Offshore Challenge. Mo told her what he’d organised. Bazza had seen the PowerPoint.

  ‘I know. He couldn’t stop talking about it. No offence, Mo, but he’s easily pleased by that kind of stuff.’

  Sturrock wanted to know about take-up on the invites. The launch was scheduled for Wednesday. By now, she might have a rough idea about numbers.

  ‘Very good. In fact excellent.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘I’m not, Mo, I’m pleased. Pleased for Tide Turn and pleased for you. You’ve worked your socks off. I haven’t seen my husband so impressed for years.’

  ‘Good. Have you got a list?’

  Marie nodded and left the kitchen. Her files were next door. She returned with a Waitrose bag and emptied it on the table. Adding email acceptances to phone messages and replies sent in by post, Tide Turn was already expecting over a hundred guests.

  ‘That’s amazing.’ Mo was studying the list. ‘Some of these are quality names.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be adding your ex-bosses? Just to make a point? There’s still time.’

  ‘I’d love to, I really would.’

  ‘So why not?’

  ‘Because they wouldn’t come, and even if they did I wouldn’t want to talk to them. There are bits of your life it’s better just to forget. Stuff never happened. You were never there. Don’t you ever find that?’ He looked up, catching her eye, then realised he’d touched a nerve. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ She ducked her head a moment, one hand feeling blindly for his.

  Mo did his best to comfort her. ‘What’s the matter? What did I say?’

  ‘Nothing. Of course it’s better to forget, Mo, but that isn’t always possible. Do you know what’s happened now?’

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘Esme and Stu are selling up. They’re leaving, taking the kids, going to bloody Spain.’ She looked up at him, her eyes streaming. ‘Can you believe that?’

  Faraday was at Kingston Crescent shortly after lunch. Before he returned to his office, he checked in with Jimmy Suttle. His carefully laid plans for Sangster were at the mercy of events. If something had kicked off this morning, taking Jimmy with it, then he’d have to cancel the trawl for familial DNA.

  ‘Nothing, boss. Quiet as the grave.’

  ‘Nice one. We’ll do it then, yeah?’

  Suttle nodded. It was so quiet he’d had time to leaf through a holiday brochure he’d nicked from the office next door. Lizzie fancied somewhere with a bit of culture. He was all for lying on the beach. Odds on they’d end up in Florence with overpriced cappuccinos and a week touring the art galleries.

  ‘How about you, boss? Montreal again?’

  ‘No point. I told you - she’s coming home.’

  Faraday returned to his office. A precautionary call to Netley put him through to the Senior Staff Manager.

  ‘Terry? It’s Joe. Just to confirm we’re ready for the off. You’re still happy we meet the threshold?’

  ‘No question. Come Monday, you’ll be looking at a trillion names.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll bell Birmingham then.’

  Faraday hung up. The Serious Crime Unit occupied premises in Birmingham. Familial DNA searches were their responsibility. Faraday’s contact was a woman called Lee. She answered on the second ring.

  ‘Lee? It’s Joe Faraday.’ He paused. ‘Operation Sangster?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Do it.’

  Chapter thirty-one

  MONDAY, 16 JUNE 2008. 08.12

  Faraday was at his desk early. A relaxed weekend had taken him to Dorset. At Radipole Lake in Weymouth he’d spent a happy hour with bearded reedlings before driving down to Portland Bill for pied flycatchers and ring ouzels resting after their long cross-Channel passage. There’d also been a gaggle of puffins paddling around in the shallows, their beaks full of sand eels, and higher up the cliffs he’d spotted nesting kittiwakes and fulmars. As the sun began to drop towards Lyme Bay he’d returned via a favourite birding site in the New Forest. The sight of a nightjar at dusk, noisily patrolling his territory, had reminded him of Willard at full throttle. The same manic defence of turf, the same eagerness to take on all comers. Faraday had made his way back to the car park by torchlight, sublimely content.

  He settled behind his desk and fired up his PC. Anticipating the DNA results from Birmingham reminded him of long-ago days of waiting for O-level results at school. Then, as now, he wondered whether the minimal work he’d put in might somehow conjure a grade or two above his expectations.

  He spotted the email at once, number three in a pile of dross. It was flagged ‘High Priority’, addressed to Operation Sangster and accompanied by a 37KB attachment. The message was from Lee. It directed his attention to the attachment and wished him luck. Opening the attachment, he scrolled through the list of names. At a rough guess there must have been a couple of hundred. He’d made a point of asking for a non-Y-chromosome search. A few of these names would therefore be female, not because they could possibly have been the rapist but because the DNA familial finger might point at a brother or a dad.

  He powered up the printer and ran off two copies of the list. Between them, he and Suttle would now apply various matrices to boil down the numbers into manageable packets. One matrix would look for persons living in Hampshire. Another would target individuals within a certain age group. A third might explore names on the PNC database with a family history of sexual offences.

  Footsteps along the corridor paused outside his office. Faraday glanced over his shoulder to find Jimmy Suttle standing in the open doorway.

  ‘You’re early, boss. What’s this?’

  Faraday passed him a copy of the list.

  ‘Take a look through, Jimmy. See if there’s anything obvious.’

  Faraday’s phone rang. He picked it up. It was Willard. An email from Mackenzie’s bankers had gone astray. He wanted to know whether it had ended up with Faraday.

  Faraday checked his emails and drew a blank.

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. What’s the matter?’ He was thinking about the marked notes. ‘Have they got their million quid back?’

  Faraday waited for an answer but Willard had rung off. He turned to find Suttle still at the door. He was staring at the list.

  ‘Have you seen this, boss? Halfway down. Page two. Under M.’

  Faraday reached for his own copy. Suttle saved him the bother. He was standing beside him at the desk, the list still in his hand.

  ‘There. Look.’

  Faraday followed his pointing finger. Jeanette Morrissey, 33 Harleston Road, Paulsgrove, Portsmouth.

  ‘That’s our Jeanette Morrissey, right?’

  ‘Must be. It’s the same address.’

  ‘From Melody, yeah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what are we looking for here, boss?’ Suttle seemed thrown by the name. He’d never done a familial DNA trace before.

  ‘It means she’s on the PNC, which we know already, and it means she may have some family tie to the rape.’

  ‘Jeanette Morrissey? She’s Madame Respectable.’

  �
�Sure. Of course she is. But say she has a brother …’ Faraday was already doing the sums. ‘We’re talking 1984 for the Fogle rape. Morrissey’s in her late forties. If the brother is broadly the same age that would put him around twenty, twenty-one at the time of the rape. There’s a geographic link too. Pompey.’

  ‘You think she’d have known about it? Had suspicions?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. She’s on remand, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Suttle nodded. ‘Winchester nick. There’s no point in interviewing her though. She has phoning rights. She could be onto anyone the minute we left her.’

  Faraday pushed his chair back and told Suttle to shut the door. They were getting way ahead of themselves. First they needed to find out more about Jeanette Morrissey’s relatives. And Suttle was right: there was no way they should involve Morrissey herself.

  ‘Open sources, Jimmy. Voters’ register. Births and deaths. Facebook. You know the drill.’

  Suttle was backing towards the door. He had a better idea.

  ‘You remember Melody, boss? The lad Tim Morrissey, the victim, kept an address book. He was very organised that way. We seized it in case there were names that might be of interest. Some of them were starred to remind him about birthdays.’

  ‘You mean mates and so forth? Relatives? Cousins?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘And maybe uncles.’

  Suttle backed out of the office with his list. Faraday studied his own copy for a moment longer then put it to one side, knowing there was no point applying any kind of matrix until they’d eliminated Jeanette Morrissey. Hunches were often a detective’s worst enemy but in this case Faraday sensed that the path to Tessa Fogle’s attacker might well lie through some relative of Morrissey’s. The coincidences of age and probably location were simply too strong. He stared at the name a moment longer then realised the logical next step. Morrissey would probably be her married name, the name of Tim’s father. What Sangster really wanted was her maiden name.