Beyond Reach

by Hurley, Graham

  He got up and went to the window. The index of births, marriages and deaths was an open source. A phone call or a visit to the library would yield Morrissey’s maiden name. He was still deciding what to do when the phone trilled. It was Suttle. He’d retrieved Tim Morrissey’s address book from the Exhibits cupboard and was in the process of going through it. There hadn’t been as many names as he’d remembered. Already he’d got to S.

  ‘Either I’m going mad, boss, or this thing’s getting out of hand.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Faraday could sense the quickening excitement in Suttle’s voice.

  ‘Mackenzie’s place, a couple of weeks back. You remember a tall guy who had something to do with that Trust of theirs, the one Winter was in charge of?’

  Faraday was thinking back. The tensions inside 13 Sandown Road seemed to belong to a different age. Tall guy. The Trust. Winter. The name came to him. The tumble of greying hair. The twist of scarlet ribbon.

  ‘Sturrock,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Stay where you are, boss. Don’t move.’

  Faraday returned to his chair wondering if the DNA list was already surplus to requirements. Then his door burst open. Suttle seldom ran anywhere.

  ‘Here, boss.’

  The address book was open at a page near the back. Faraday read the entry, read it again, then closed his eyes. It simply wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Not that man. Not that family.

  Suttle was still beside him, staring down at the open page.

  ‘Dimpsy?’ he said. ‘What kind of address is that?’

  Marie had invited Mo Sturrock for lunch. She took him to Sur-la-Mer, where a month earlier she’d had a somewhat fraught meal with Paul Winter. She’d booked the same table beside the window. Second time lucky, she thought.

  Mo settled in. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had time for a sit-down lunch.

  ‘You deserve it. Baz says the same. This is his idea, not mine. He’s terrible at saying thank you.’

  ‘It hasn’t happened yet. This is really tempting fate, you know that?’

  ‘It’ll be fine. Baz knows a winner when he sees one.’

  ‘The Big One?’

  ‘You, Mo. You’re the big one.’

  He shot her a smile. There was a part of him that had been trying to figure out this marriage of theirs and he still hadn’t quite got it. Was she there to put a coat or two of social gloss on Mackenzie? To raise the tone at 13 Sandown Road? Or was she the kind of woman who needed a bit of rough? Either way it didn’t matter, especially now.

  A pretty waitress arrived with a couple of menus. Marie had already recommended the prawns in garlic. Mo pulled a face. He loved garlic but his kids loathed the smell.

  ‘And your partner?’

  ‘She’s like me. We used to live on the stuff before the kids came along. The closest we get now is growing it.’

  Marie wanted to know more. How had they met in the first place?

  ‘I was in a pub in Petersfield. Tess was there with a girlfriend. The girlfriend was on the course I was doing at the Poly, second time round. She did the introductions and bingo!’ He smiled.

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Yeah. Just like that. For me, at any rate.’

  ‘And Tess?’

  ‘It took a while. I courted her. It was very old-fashioned.’

  ‘But you won?’

  ‘Big time. It turned out she’d been at the Poly the same time as me but that was first time round.’

  ‘Before you took it seriously?’

  ‘Before I became a human being.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ She frowned at the phrase.

  ‘Absolutely. Some people take a while to grow up. Maybe that’s why I get on OK with kids. You can’t necessarily have what you think you need. You have to work for it, you have to earn it. It’s a kind of apprenticeship. Life can be tricky that way. Sometimes it takes a while to suss it out.’

  ‘Apprenticeship? Isn’t that where the Big One comes from?’

  ‘Yeah. The Big One is a crash course in growing up. At the end of it you’re fit for only two things. Rowing round the Isle of Wight is one of them. Real life is the other. Should I write that down? Give it to Bazza for his speech?’

  The news that Mackenzie planned to address the guests at the Victory Gallery had come as a bit of a surprise, especially to Marie. To her knowledge, he’d never made a formal speech in his life.

  Mo was intrigued. ‘You think that’s part of the political thing? Staking out his ground? Grabbing a bit of profile?’

  ‘I hate to say it, but yes.’

  ‘You don’t want him in politics?’

  ‘It’s not that. To Baz, politics is like anything else. If he fancies it, he’ll have it. I just don’t see him in the role. Be honest, have you ever met an interesting politician in your life?’

  ‘No, but then I haven’t looked very hard.’

  ‘Me neither, but the guys I see on TV are on a different planet to my husband. He’s got a mouth on him. You might have noticed. And he’s got absolutely no time for democracy. To be honest I’d give him a week, and that’s tops.’

  ‘Have you told him? Broken the news?’

  ‘Of course I have, but that’s the other thing. He never bloody listens.’

  The waitress returned for the order. Marie went for the prawns in garlic; Mo settled for lamb shank and another pint of Kronenburg.

  ‘Thirsty?’

  ‘Knackered. Tess says I need to slow down. I’m not used to this kind of pace.’

  ‘Is she happy about us? About Tide Turn?’

  ‘Relieved. She’d never admit it, but I think she was starting to worry about what was going to happen next. Not just the money but how I was going to fill my time. Digging veg and mucking out chickens is OK for a month or two, and it’s great being around the kids, but she thinks I need more than that.’

  ‘And is she right?’

  ‘She is. She knows me inside out.’ He gazed at the remains of his first pint. ‘At least that’s what she tells me.’

  Gail Parsons was back in her office at Kingston Crescent by mid-afternoon. Faraday had given her a brief update on Sangster over the phone and she’d heard enough to realise that they needed a full discussion. Mo Sturrock may well have raped the young Tessa Fogle. Suttle had been onto the university authorities and confirmed that he’d been at the Poly at the same time as she had. Soon afterwards they’d started a proper relationship. Two decades later they’d had kids, put down roots, become - in Faraday’s phrase - a proper family. Only a DNA sample from Sturrock himself would prove his guilt, but if he turned out to be the rapist then surely Sangster was looking at a number of delicate issues.

  Parsons didn’t see it at all. Neither did Suttle. Faraday sat with them both at the conference table.

  ‘It’s simple,’ Suttle said. ‘We knock on his door. We make up some fairy tale about an incident in the area. We say we’re taking lots of gob swabs and would he mind? We fast-track the sample and - bosh - he either did it or he didn’t.’ He was staring at Faraday. ‘You’re telling me I’m wrong, boss?’

  ‘I’m telling you I gave the woman my word that we’d be in touch if there were developments.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’d need to tell her partner.’

  ‘But it is her partner, boss. Or it might well be. What on earth is she supposed to do with information like that?’

  Parsons agreed. There was an edge of impatience in her voice, even exasperation.

  ‘You’re a detective, Joe, not a marriage counsellor. Why on earth do you think there’s a problem?’

  Faraday took his time trying to frame an answer. In the end it was simple.

  ‘Because they’ve made it work for themselves,’ he said. ‘Because they’re a family. We’re going to wreck all that. We’re going to tear it apart.’

  ‘So we do nothing? Is that what you’re suggesting? This is a guy that may well have raped a
woman he probably didn’t know at the time. Not just that but he may have tried to kill her as well. The fact that they later formed a relationship is irrelevant. Rape is a crime. So is attempted murder. Why am I having to spell this out?’

  ‘Because it’s wrong.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Smashing up a family. We have to think of the consequences of what we do. We’re going to rob those kids of their dad. And we’re probably going to put them into poverty.’

  ‘Really?’ She was staring at him now, the way you might stare at somebody who’d suddenly become a total stranger. ‘And that’s worse than rape?’

  ‘Of course it is. Twenty-three years together tells me they’re good with each other. Kids need a dad. The thing works. Why wreck it all?’

  Parsons pushed her chair back and gazed up at the ceiling. Suttle tried to play the peacemaker.

  ‘DCI Parsons is right, boss. The kids thing works both ways. Those kids are vulnerable. And so are the ones he’ll be trying to sort out professionally.’

  ‘Vulnerable to whom?’

  ‘To him.’

  ‘But he’s their father, Jimmy. He’s their dad for fuck’s sake. Don’t you see that? OK, let’s assume he did it. Let’s say that twenty-four years ago he had a moment of madness. He was pissed. He lost it. He did what he did. Since then he hasn’t put a foot wrong. Are you really saying we punish him for that one moment? Punish all of them?’

  Neither Parsons nor Suttle answered. The implication behind Faraday’s outburst was all too clear. You don’t have kids. You don’t know what it’s like to be a dad. Finally Parsons produced her mobile and put it carefully beside her notepad.

  ‘How do you know that’s true, Joe?’ she said.

  ‘What’s true?’

  ‘That he hasn’t put a foot wrong?’

  ‘I don’t. Of course I don’t. But he certainly hasn’t raped anyone else otherwise the same DNA would have come up again.’

  ‘Maybe other rapes went unreported. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘I don’t. You’re right. I can’t prove it.’

  ‘Good word.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Proof. We’re one swab away from proving this man raped Tessa Fogle. If that’s the case, and we have the evidence, then our job is done. Everything else is irrelevant. Consequences, as you put it, are not our concern. Can you imagine what would happen if we did nothing? If we didn’t take a swab? If we ignored the match with this woman Morrissey? You tell me this guy will be working around kids. He has kids of his own. Jimmy’s right. Something kicks off, he has another moment of madness, and there’s an inquiry. What does that inquiry discover? It discovers that we, the police for Christ’s sake, knew all along that this guy was probably a rapist. But we did nothing. We put hurt feelings before the law. We pussyfooted around the problem and decided to look the other way. This is crazy, Joe. We’re here to gather evidence not deliver judgement. Since when has forgiveness been part of our brief?’

  Faraday had held her gaze throughout this speech. It was, he knew, a statement of the blindingly obvious. For the second time in a month events had conspired to corner and punish individuals for whom Faraday felt some sympathy. First Jeanette Morrissey. Now her brother. The law drew a very narrow bead on the consequences of particular actions. Morrissey had killed someone. Mo Sturrock may once have raped the woman who was later to bear his children. The wider ripples of these small tragedies should be of no concern. And yet Faraday was still left with a deep foreboding. Families in good working order were becoming a rarity. And this one was probably doomed.

  Parsons clearly regarded the meeting as over. She’d reached for her mobile. Looking up, she caught Faraday’s eye.

  ‘I’m referring this decision to Mr Willard,’ she said. ‘In deference to the strength of your feelings, Joe.’

  Mo Sturrock’s whirlwind blitz around Pompey had won him an interview with a journalist from the News. At Winter’s suggestion, he’d phoned Lizzie Hodson. Winter had known Hodson for years and knew she specialised in major features. The fact that she was now living with Jimmy Suttle sweetened the bid still further.

  On the phone, Hodson had been impressed by Sturrock’s pitch for the Offshore Challenge. She’d arranged to meet him at La Tasca, a café-bar in Gunwharf. Sturrock, arriving from his lunch with Marie, had held her attention for more than an hour. By the time Winter strolled over from Blake House to join them, Lizzie had filled seven pages of her notepad and knew she had enough for a decent feature. Wayward kids were always good copy for the Pompey readership. The fact that someone might have dreamed up a scheme to turn them into human beings was definitely worth a feature slot.

  ‘We’ll need a photo,’ she said. ‘We like to take our own.’

  ‘When would this be in the paper?’

  ‘Thursday. That way we can cover the launch as well. I fancy a photo with you and your own kids. When could we do that?’

  Sturrock was watching Winter ordering refills at the bar. He’d lost count of how much he’d drunk since meeting Marie.

  ‘Tomorrow would be good,’ he said. ‘Though you’d have to come over to the island.’

  ‘No problem. What kind of time?’

  ‘Late afternoon would be best. After the kids get back from school. I should be back by five.’

  ‘Half five, then. You’ll give me directions for the snapper?’

  Sturrock nodded. He’d never learned shorthand and looking at Hodson’s pad he wondered which bits of the Offshore story had caught her eye.

  ‘You’ve got enough?’ He nodded at the pad.

  ‘Loads, thanks. You’re sure you don’t want to talk about that conference speech?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement. They’d sue the arse off me.’

  Hodson grinned, making room for Winter at the table. She’d googled Sturrock before the interview and had shared his unscripted remarks with half the newsroom. How often did public servants break ranks like this?

  ‘Gentle, was she?’ Winter nodded at Lizzie and put the drinks on the table. Another pint for Sturrock. San Miguel this time.

  ‘She was fine,’ Sturrock said. ‘We’ll all be famous by Thursday night.’

  ‘Yeah. Here’s hoping.’

  Winter swallowed a mouthful of Stella, spotting Jimmy Suttle as he stepped in from the waterfront boardwalk. The moment he saw Sturrock he paused, but Winter was already on his feet, organising another chair.

  ‘Party time,’ he said. ‘How are you, son?’

  ‘Fine.’ Suttle was still looking at Sturrock. ‘I just came to pick up Lizzie. We’re off to Southampton.’

  ‘Are we?’ Hodson looked up in surprise.

  ‘Yeah. That movie you wanted to see. It’s on at the Harbour Lights. You remember?’

  The question had the force of an order. Winter was still on his feet. He nodded at the glasses on the table.

  ‘My shout, son. What are you having?’

  Suttle checked his watch then shook his head. The movie started at half six. The traffic on the M27 was a nightmare. They’d have to leave now.

  Hodson shrugged. Then she gathered up her notes and pushed her glass of Chardonnay towards Sturrock.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a ring about tomorrow afternoon.’

  Moments later, they’d gone. Sturrock gazed after them, bewildered. Then he turned back to Winter.

  ‘What was that about? Something I said?’

  Faraday was home by six o’clock. He prowled around the house gathering up bits of laundry, checking his food stocks, running the hot water in the kitchen to do last night’s washing-up, trying to throw a blanket over the day’s developments. Sangster had become a nightmare. He felt trapped by events. As a serving detective, as Parsons had pointed out, he had a duty to gather evidence. That evidence was about to take a wrecking ball to a bunch of people who seemed
to have weathered most of life’s storms. Was that why he’d joined up in the first place? To be complicit in the destruction of yet another family? Was this a new definition of Major Crime?

  He sensed that madness lay in questions like these and he wondered how to silence the voices in his head. He’d known other cops who’d shared similar qualms, similar misgivings. Most of them had had the good sense to keep their mouths shut and the rest had quickly become the butt of endless canteen jibes. To survive in a job like this you had to kill a part of you. You had to become hard, or unforgiving, or simply indifferent to the consequences of a particular action. The law was nothing more than a set of rules. That’s the way society functioned. Break the rules and people like Faraday would be on your case. If you were lucky, you got away with it. If you weren’t, and the Faradays of this world did their jobs properly, you suffered. That was the deal. That’s what he’d signed up for.

  But it wasn’t enough. He stepped out into the garden, scanning the harbour. Torn shreds of cloud were scudding in from the west and he could taste rain in the air. He lingered a moment, watching a pair of cormorants revving up for take-off, and he tried to imagine the conversation that Parsons must have had with Willard. If there’d been a suspicion that Faraday had lost his appetite for the Job then here, surely, was the proof. The guy was one swab away from nailing a rapist. A DNA match would turn Sangster into a stone-bonker, the sweetest of victories. Yet here was the Senior Investigating Officer, the captain on Sangster’s bridge, turning the ship around and heading for the open sea.

  Faraday slipped through his garden gate and onto the towpath. He found the image of the trackless ocean oddly comforting. Better to have no clues at all, he thought, than this morning’s grim tidings from Birmingham.

  It was nearly dark by the time Winter and Sturrock struggled back through the rain to Blake House. Drinks at La Tasca had developed into a bit of a session. Afterwards Winter had insisted on a curry. Now he had no choice but to offer Sturrock a bed for the night. No way was he in any condition to make it home.