Over breakfast he tried to get some sense out of J-J. In the literal meaning of the word, the boy had always been quiet. He used his hands rather than his voice to communicate. But he had tremendous energy as well as a burning curiosity, and in most moods he could fill any room with wild flurries of sign. It had always fascinated Faraday to watch how quickly non-signers could grasp the essence of what J-J had to say but this morning that vivid, bright-eyed determination to get his message across seemed to have deserted him. Faraday enquired about life in Caen, about Valerie, even about his plans for the coming day, but all J-J could muster in reply was a shrug. Normally ravenous, he picked at his scrambled eggs and curls of bacon before pushing the plate away and leaving the kitchen without a backward glance. Already, it was like sharing the house with a stranger.
Faraday was in the garden, pegging out J-J’s washing, when Marta arrived. He recognised the growl of her Alfa and turned to find her at the back gate. Lace-up boots, a long woollen skirt and a cashmere scarf draped over an exquisite brown leather jacket normally signalled an out-of-town expedition, Chichester perhaps or even Brighton. They’d have lunch together and spend the afternoon drifting from shop to shop. Quite how she managed to make the time without upsetting her domestic routine baffled Faraday but he’d long given up asking. Marta, he’d decided, was the rarest of creatures – quite beyond classification – and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her off.
He led her inside, reminding her about call-out. Much as he fancied a day away from Pompey, he was bound hand and foot by his mobile. Plus, of course, there was J-J.
The boy was sprawled on the long sofa that faced the big floor-to-ceiling double glass doors in the lounge. Marta pounced on him at once, giving him big wet kisses on both cheeks. Back last June, they’d made friends in seconds and, days later, drunk at the ferry port, J-J had told his dad just what a brilliant mate he’d found. She was funny and kind. She laughed a lot and made Faraday laugh with her. How many other people had ever done that?
Now, though, even Marta seemed unable to drag J-J out of his misery. She did her best to chivvy him along, using Faraday as the go-between when she suggested that J-J accompany her to Arundel in his father’s place, but the boy could barely manage a smile in reply. Faraday blamed it on last night – he’d found a fourth empty bottle in the waste bin under the sink – and assured Marta he’d be back to normal by the afternoon, but already he’d begun to wonder whether his optimism was misplaced. There was a darkness about J-J that he’d never seen before, a brooding, introspective gloom as uncharacteristic as his reluctance to get to his feet when Marta announced her departure.
Out in the sunshine again, she toyed with her car keys beside the gleaming Alfa.
‘Something’s happened,’ she said. ‘Poor boy.’
Faraday agreed. He was on call-out all weekend but she was welcome to come over tomorrow and take a chance on Sunday lunch. She looked at him a moment, weighing the invitation, then shook her head. He should spend some time with his son, try and get to the bottom of whatever was wrong. She’d give him a ring next week to see how things were going.
‘No chance of a meet?’
She put a gloved hand on his arm.
‘I’m really busy, darling. Take care of your boy.’
The hand found his face and she kissed him on the cheek. Seconds later, she was smiling up at him through the car window before starting the engine and selecting reverse. Faraday stood by his garage, watching her accelerate away towards the main road. For once, she didn’t look back or even wave.
The sofa was empty when Faraday returned to the lounge and it took him a moment or two to realise that the blue envelope on the mantelpiece had also gone. The kitchen was empty. He stood in the open doorway, wondering whether or not to go upstairs, decided against it, then changed his mind.
J-J’s bedroom door was closed. The door beside it led to Faraday’s study. Faraday opened it and slipped inside. Bookshelves lined three walls, rows and rows of birding magazines, maps, travel books and a complete nine-volume set of Birds of the Western Palearctic. A leather-bound swivel chair sat in the big picture window and there were a pair of 20 × 60 coastguard binoculars mounted on a pedestal screwed to the wooden floor.
The binos were a recent acquisition, a present from Marta to mark a particularly lovely weekend they’d managed to steal in Lyme Regis. She’d bought them on impulse from a specialist outdoor pursuits shop in Bridport, fired by the expression on Faraday’s face when he spotted them through the window, and Faraday could never use them without thinking of how incredibly spontaneous she could be, parting with the best part of a thousand quid on the evidence of a big, big grin. He reached for them now, sinking into the leather chair. Way out in the harbour, a small raft of black-necked grebes. Closer in, his wings outspread in the wind, a lone cormorant perched on a buoy. Faraday sharpened the focus, marvelling again at the purity of the optics, waiting for the moment the cormorant folded those prehistoric wings, gave himself a little shake, and took flight. But the moment never came because the door opened behind him, the door that led directly into J-J’s bedroom, and he looked up to find himself face to face with his son.
The outstretched hand was holding a letter. Same colour paper. Blue. Faraday took it, aware of J-J returning to his bedroom. He pulled the door closed behind him and Faraday heard the sigh of bed springs followed by silence.
The letter was in French and covered both sides of the paper. Valerie wanted to say that she was sorry. She’d never meant J-J to find out the way he did. She was going to tell him but she couldn’t find the words. They’d had a great time together. In lots of ways she still loved him. She wanted him to know this, to understand it. But there was no way forward now, not when something like this had happened. Maybe they could still be friends. Maybe, next time she came to England, they could meet for a drink and a chat. He might feel better about things then, less angry. For now, though, she could only say sorry and hope and pray that he believed her. She’d never wanted it to end like this. Not in a million years.
Faraday read the letter again and then stared out at the harbour. The bright expanse of water was shadowed with cloud and when he checked on the buoy, the cormorant had gone. At length, he got to his feet and went to J-J’s door. He paused for a second before knocking and then pushed it open. His son was lying face down on the bed. After a while he rolled over, staring up at his father.
Faraday still had the letter.
‘What happened?’ he signed.
J-J looked away for a moment, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
‘She was doing it with someone else. In our bed.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I walked in. And saw them.’
Winter was at home, contemplating his line of first defence, when the phone rang. He’d have to sort out some proper checks on the names he’d got from Ray Brennan. He’d have to give his tree a bit of a shake and see what fell out. That would take a couple of days at least, enough time to stall Hartigan before he banished Winter to lost property and traffic cones.
He finally got to the phone. It was a DI he knew called Sammy Rollins, one of the blokes on Willard’s Major Crimes outfit.
‘There’s a job on. We’re putting together a squad.’
Briefly he explained about the body at Hilsea Lines. Boss had declared a Major Crimes inquiry and Winter’s name was on the first list of abstractions. He understood Winter had pulled out of planned leave.
‘Correct.’
‘So that’s a yes? You’re available?’
Winter was examining his nails. There were ways to play these scenes. Never make it simple. Never reveal anything, least of all enthusiasm.
‘There’s going to be a problem on Monday,’ he began, ‘with my guvnor.’
‘Hartigan?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Sorted. Boss wants you down here PDQ. Squad briefing at 14.20. OK?’
Winter shifted his g
aze to the TV. National Hunt racing from Uttoxeter. He couldn’t believe his luck.
‘14.20 sounds sweet to me.’ He chuckled. ‘Lots of overtime, I hope.’
Despite Faraday’s best efforts, J-J didn’t want sympathy. Instead, he pulled on an old sweater, wrapped a scarf round his neck and headed for the door. What hurt him most, he’d told Faraday, was the deceit and the betrayal. They’d been together for more than a year. He’d trusted her completely. They’d even discussed having a baby together. And yet there she was, screwing a mutual friend called Henri, right in front of his nose. Not just then. Not just when he happened to come back early and wander into the bedroom. But for weeks, maybe even months, before. How could people do that? How could people behave that way? Two-timing their partners?
J-J had left him with the challenge, savagely delivered, hands spread wide, before disappearing down the harbourside path towards the distant smudge of the Farlington bird reserve. Good question, Faraday had thought, watching him go.
Now, early afternoon, the phone was ringing. Faraday answered the call, expecting another summons. Given the last half-hour, a third session with the Scenes of Crime lads would be a positive relief.
‘Mr Faraday?’ It was a male voice he didn’t recognise, middle class, well spoken, sure of itself. ‘My name’s Bassam, Derek Bassam. I had a daughter called Helen. Do you have a moment?’
Faraday stared at the phone. He was ex-directory. He wanted to know how Bassam had got his number.
‘I’m a lawyer, Mr Faraday. I have contacts.’
‘Police contacts?’
‘Of course. But I apologise for the intrusion. Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t have dreamed of calling you like this.’ He paused, then wondered whether Faraday had time for a meeting. There were one or two issues that might need clarifying. He’d be truly grateful for the chance to do so. ‘And as I understand it you are on call-out, after all.’
Faraday felt the first stirrings of anger. There were rules here, tacitly accepted, things you should and shouldn’t do, but this man had simply ignored them. Just who had Bassam been talking to?
‘I’m busy just now,’ Faraday said briskly. ‘You can go to any police station if it’s urgent or call me at Southsea on Monday.’
‘Monday’s awkward, I’m afraid. I’m back in London. If you could spare me the time now, I’d be more than grateful. It needn’t take long. I’m parked outside.’
‘Outside?’
Faraday resisted the urge to check through the window. Having his phone number passed on to a stranger was one thing; confiding an officer’s address was a hanging offence.
‘Who told you where I live?’
Bassam wouldn’t say. Fifteen minutes tops. Then he’d be away again. Faraday checked his watch. Just gone two.
‘Meet me at Southsea police station at three,’ he said. ‘We’ll discuss this further.’
Winter arrived with seconds to spare for the briefing at Fratton. The Major Crimes suite occupied an entire floor at the back of the police station, two rows of offices with a central corridor between. The largest office lay at one end and served as the Major Incident Room. The MIR was equipped with enough desks and computers to handle the ever-changing demands of a complex inquiry. Other offices further up the corridor were being readied for the intelligence and forensic teams.
Like most detectives, Winter loved the feeling of specialness that came with a posting like this. For once in your life you were free to concentrate on decent crime. No more bimbling around after scrotes nicking bicycles. No more fruitless hours nailing down some twelve-year-old vandal with a taste for keying new motors. No, this was the real thing. Get the chemistry right – the right faces, the right crack – stir in a helping of murder or rape, and you’d be pushed to find a happier way of filling your time. Add the fact that it could be incredibly lucrative – dozens of hours of overtime – and you were in piggy heaven.
Willard launched the briefing with an account of events on Hilsea Lines. The bloke who’d discovered the body had now been eliminated from enquiries – his story checked out – but the house-to-house enquiries were still ongoing. No one, to date, had seen anything suspicious or unusual in the way of vehicles below the ramparts, but then it was a piss-awful night and anyone with any sense was tucked up indoors. The SOC team was still combing the area around the body but Jerry Proctor anticipated releasing the scene by nightfall. The POLSA search was complete and all waste bins in the area had been emptied and sieved. Once again, nothing. Not even a name.
There was a stir around the room. To detectives with serious experience, this was looking very promising indeed. To find a body without a shred of ID on it was itself an indication of foul play.
Willard was introducing his core staff. One of the regular DSs on Major Crimes would be in charge of outside enquiries, tasking the two-man teams of DCs. These individual ‘actions’ would be sourced from the other DS, who would serve as Statement Reader as well as Receiver, combing incoming testimony for the beginnings of a pattern that might flag pathways forward. This constant, self-renewing circle of seek-and-find would generate huge amounts of data, inputted into the HOLMES computer program by a couple of keyboard operators. In theory, the system had fine-tuned years of investigative experience nationwide but Winter, for one, knew how quickly it could run out of control. HOLMES was a monster. The more you fed it, the hungrier it became.
Willard, of course, had known this from the off. So far, headquarters had coughed up ten DCs but he left his little squad in no doubt that he’d be banging on Operational Support’s door for extra resources if circumstances demanded more bodies. These were early days, he kept saying, and priority number one was a solid ID. The Misper list was a non-starter but detectives all over the city were working their informers for rumours about some major ruck. Had anyone gone missing? Might the death at Hilsea be drugs related? In the meantime, a separate line of enquiry was examining the log recording Friday night’s stop-checks. Had the traffic cars pulled anyone suspicious? Filed a report that might link with our friend up there on the ramparts, dangling in the rain?
Within days if not hours, Willard said he was confident of establishing a positive ID. The post-mortem was due to start any time now and with luck they’d get a result from fingerprints if the guy had a criminal record. Failing that, if they were really pushed, there’d be dental records or a tip from some punter following a media appeal through TV, radio and the local paper. One way or another, they’d come up with a name and then the serious work would begin.
He looked round at the watching faces. Most of these guys he’d met before, detectives who’d passed through the MIR on previous jobs, and he wanted them to know they had his confidence. He expected them to work bloody hard, to think on their feet and to understand that nothing mattered more than a solid result. There was nothing certain yet. It might even turn out to be some bizarre twist on suicide. But there were already indications that they were dealing with murder, and if that was the case then everything, but everything, had to be nailed down in black and white. Think evidence, he said. Think court.
There was a pause while he glanced towards his deputy, Sammy Rollins, the DI who’d phoned Winter earlier.
‘What are we calling this, sir?’
Every operation had a codename, the label that would attach itself to a thousand computer files. They were drawn from a list held at headquarters.
‘Bisley,’ Willard grunted. ‘Operation Bisley.’
Minutes later, Winter bumped into the DC he’d been paired with for initial enquiries. He was a tall lad in his early twenties. His name was Gary Sullivan and he’d just driven down from Petersfield. He had bitten nails, an uncertain smile, a mop of curly red hair and a tie with a fuzzy pattern that Winter put down to bad taste.
They were standing in the cubbyhole at the end of the corridor that served as a kitchen. Winter spooned Nescafé into two mugs and asked how long he’d been out of uniform.
‘Three
months,’ he said, ‘next Monday.’
Winter’s spoon wavered a moment, before plunging into the sugar bowl.
‘Excellent,’ he murmured.
Faraday was forty minutes late for his meeting with Derek Bassam at Southsea police station. He parked his Mondeo in the yard at the back and checked with the desk clerk that Bassam was still there.
‘He’s out the front, sir. Been through Frontline twice.’
Frontline was the force newspaper, free to the public at every police station, a digest of cheerful faces, award ceremonies and upbeat articles on high-tech policing. Read Frontline, as Bassam had obviously done, and you’d start believing that the police had it cracked.
Faraday pushed through the double doors to the waiting area by the front entrance. Derek Bassam was a large, solid-looking man in his late forties. He was wearing an open-necked shirt under a battered leather jacket. His greying hair was cropped fashionably short and he had the kind of tan that can only come from an expensive mid-winter break. Dressed like this, Faraday would have put him down as a successful car dealer or full-time yachtie, not a lawyer at all.
He got to his feet. Faraday ignored the proffered handshake, holding the door open and directing Bassam down the corridor to the right. The interview room was a bleak, oblong space that had once served as a stationery store. There was a single desk, four chairs and a ‘Be Aware’ poster on the wall. The poster urged householders to secure their doors and windows against casual intruders and Faraday wondered whether to point it out to Bassam. Instead, he asked him to take a seat.
‘So who gave you my details?’
Bassam began to bluster about mutual friends.
‘We have no mutual friends, Mr Bassam. And I’d be grateful if you could answer the question.’
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