Angels Passing

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘I knew him, yeah.’

  ‘Business? Pleasure?’ Winter paused, waiting for an answer. When nothing happened, he took a step closer. ‘Who feeds these dogs, then?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That’s bollocks. Look at them. You could play a tune on those ribs.’

  ‘They’re fucking greyhounds. They’re meant to be thin.’

  ‘Yeah? And what about that one? All that mange?’ He nodded at the smaller of the two dogs. ‘We’re pals with the RSPCA, Tony. Not a lot of people know that.’

  He let the thought sink in, then returned to Bradley Finch. He wanted to know when he’d last seen him. He wanted times and dates.

  Barrett couldn’t take his eyes off the dogs.

  ‘Last week,’ he said at last.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Up Fratton.’ He named a pub.

  ‘Why’s that then? Why did you meet him?’

  ‘You don’t wanna know.’

  I do, my friend, I do.’

  ‘We did a bit of business. He wanted to unload some stuff on me.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  ‘Es mainly. Some speed too. I didn’t need it.’

  ‘That piss him off, did it?’

  ‘Yeah. He copped, big time. But that was a laugh, wasn’t it? Skinny little cunt. My kid sister could sort Bradley out and she’s fucking thinner than those dogs. Know what I mean?’

  ‘But it’s the little guys you have to watch, isn’t it? The little guys with that funny look in their eyes?’

  ‘You’re joking. Brad couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. He was all mouth. That’s why he got slapped around so much.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Famous for it. Sometimes you’d think he must have enjoyed it, got off on it, know what I mean? There are some people in this city you shouldn’t fuck with. Everyone knows that. It’s respect, ain’t it? Respect and having something up here.’ He tapped his head. ‘But that was Brad’s problem. He never fucking stopped to think. The first thing that came out of his mouth, someone would cop. Some of these guys, like I say, you’d cross the fucking street to avoid. That’s if you had any sense.’

  ‘And Brad?’

  ‘Not a fucking ounce of sense in him. Not two brain cells to rub together. He just walked straight into it, every time. Never failed.’ He smacked his fist into an open palm. ‘Bam.’

  Winter nodded, thoughtful, then produced his pocketbook. Under the table, the bigger dog was taking another crap, its hind legs spread wide, its whole body shivering with the effort. Winter watched it for a moment, then motioned for Barrett to sit down.

  ‘Names?’ he enquired softly.

  Faraday was still en route home, eyes glued to a distant skein of Brent geese, when he got the call on his mobile.

  ‘Joe?’

  It took him a step or two to place the voice. Then he had it. ‘Devlin?’

  ‘Yep. Listen, I’m really sorry to phone you on a Sunday but something’s come up. You’ve got a moment?’

  Faraday told her to carry on. He’d known Merry Devlin for years. She’d been a reporter on the local rag, the News, but had tired of the poacher’s life and turned gamekeeper instead, joining the press relations team on the city council. She’d been there ever since, a wise old head amongst the eager young media graduates, and Faraday had always enjoyed her company. They had a relationship that overlapped their respective jobs and one of the reasons Faraday liked her was the fact that she respected his privacy. She seldom bothered him after hours. Phoning on a Sunday was unheard of.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s complicated, Joe. It needs a conversation.’

  Faraday was watching the geese. He was ashamed to admit it, but this call might just be the answer to his prayers.

  ‘You want to have a spot of lunch and talk about it?’

  ‘I’m booked for lunch but coffee would be nice.’ She hesitated. ‘Only first you ought to know who this is about.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  There was another silence. Then she was back again. ‘Jane Bassam,’ she said. ‘I gather you’ve had some dealings.’

  Winter didn’t bother returning to Fratton before paying another call. In a halting formal statement, reluctantly signed and dated, Tony Barrett had sought safety in numbers, naming practically every serious villain in the city as Finch’s tormentors. Evidentially, Winter judged this to be practically worthless. What was far more interesting was another lead he offered, the woman who might well turn out to be Bradley Finch’s current girlfriend.

  From the car, he finally managed to get through to Dave Michaels. ‘She works at a caff in Queen Street,’ Winter said. ‘But he hasn’t got her name.’

  ‘What about the caff? Tried there?’

  ‘We’re outside now. It’s closed all day.’

  Winter heard Dave talking to someone else in the office. The Happy Skate Café was wedged between a naval tailor and a second-hand book shop. Finally Dave came back.

  ‘We’ll find the keyholder.’ He said. ‘Give us five.’

  Winter grunted an OK and returned the mobile to his pocket. Sullivan sat behind the wheel. He’d scarcely said a word all morning.

  ‘Bit quiet, old son? Not grumpy, I hope?’

  Sullivan shot him a look but still said nothing. He’d cut himself shaving and botched it with a twist of cotton wool. Tiny white wisps still adorned the scab beneath his nose and Winter began to muse aloud about his domestic arrangements. They were partners, after all. This might go on for weeks. They owed each other the odd confidence.

  ‘Married, are you?’

  ‘Married?’ Winter might have accused him of child molesting.

  ‘Shacked up then? Someone nice? Huge tits? Brilliant cook?’

  ‘I’ve got a girlfriend, yeah.’

  ‘Does she have a name at all?’

  ‘Mel.’

  Winter reached across and patted him on the arm. Listen, he wanted to say, I do this for a living, chiselling information out of people. Why make it so hard for yourself?

  Winter’s mobile rang. It was Dave again, back with a telephone number.

  ‘Guy called Eddie Galea,’ he said. ‘If he employs this bint he’s bound to know where to find her.’

  Winter rang the number. After a while, a man answered. Winter introduced himself. He was one of a team engaged on a major inquiry. He needed some information about a woman alleged to be working at the Happy Skate. He’d gladly call round to confirm his ID but time was moving on.

  ‘What’s this about then?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

  ‘It’s serious?’

  ‘Very.’ Winter smothered a yawn. ‘Trust me.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then the voice was back. The girl’s name was Lou Abeka. She was Nigerian, been working for him for a couple of months now. Single-handedly, she’d put fifty quid on his weekly takings. At least.

  ‘You’re telling me she’s a looker?’

  ‘Yeah, but a nice girl with it, know what I mean?’

  Winter could read the hidden message here. Go easy on her. No more grief than strictly necessary.

  ‘She have a boyfriend at all? Anyone special?’

  The man laughed. ‘How much time have you got?’

  ‘That special?’

  ‘Too right. But listen, it’s not the way you might be thinking. It’s not her fault the way she looks. So gentle, my friend, eh?’

  ‘Sure.’ Winter was enjoying this. ‘So where does she live?’ He wedged the phone to his ear, scribbling down the address, then brought the conversation to a close.

  ‘Somerstown.’ He looked across at Sullivan and nodded at the ignition key. ‘107 Margate Road.’

  Ten

  SUNDAY, 11 FEBRUARY, mid-morning

  Merry Devlin insisted on buying the coffees. She was a small, neat, open-faced divorcee who kept herself in shape with regular visits to the squash court. She often played at lunch times wit
h one of the civilian indexers in the CIMU and Faraday wasn’t the least surprised to learn that she had amazing stamina and hated to lose.

  They were sitting in a café-bar in the middle of Southsea. Apart from a hung-over couple picking at plates of scrambled egg, they had the place to themselves.

  Faraday refused the offer of sugar and began to sip his cappuccino. Already, he was glad she’d spared the time to phone.

  ‘You’re sure about the News?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. John doesn’t pass on idle gossip. You know what he’s like.’

  Faraday nodded. Merry’s current partner was a senior journalist on the city’s daily paper – an older, slightly bookish man with a surprising talent for turning the small print of Pompey lives into thoughtful, page-long features that often nested awkwardly amongst the usual fusillade of bad-news stories.

  ‘So what are they after exactly?’

  ‘It’s a project they’ve been nursing about youth and education and drugs … you know, the whole nine yards. They’re planning a series of major articles over a week and they want to kick off with something really topical.’

  ‘You mean controversial.’

  ‘I mean eye-catching. John says they’ve been waiting for the right story to come up. Now they think they’ve found it.’

  ‘Helen Bassam?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Faraday took another mouthful of coffee. There were things that didn’t add up here. How, for starters, did Merry Devlin know for sure that Faraday was involved with the Bassam girl’s death? And who, more importantly, had made the link between the body outside Chuzzlewit House and some form of drug abuse?

  ‘The post-mortem’s not until tomorrow,’ he pointed out. ‘No one knows what the girl had been doing to herself.’

  ‘That’s what John says. That’s why he was worried.’

  ‘So who’s talking drugs?’

  ‘The editor, Harry Thompson.’

  ‘On what evidence?’

  ‘Apparently he’s got a friend. One of your lot.’

  ‘You’ve got a name?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Hartigan. Harry admits it openly. In fact he even boasts about it. Top cop. Comes through on his private line.’

  Faraday permitted himself a smile. It was Hartigan’s style to cultivate key contacts across the city – councillors, media people – and the editor of the News would be way up his Christmas card list. People like Hartigan believed that networking was the shortest cut to promotion and there wasn’t a conversation he ever had that wasn’t conducted with one eye to his own advancement. Faraday himself had absolutely no interest in political games like these and if he felt anything at all about Hartigan’s passion for public profile, then it was quiet amusement. Until now.

  ‘So what’s he actually told Harry? Does John know?’

  ‘I think it’s a heads-up. Harry knows the girl’s only fourteen. He knows she’s middle class. And you don’t have to be ace-bright to see the front-page potential in that. I also gather that your Mr Hartigan had been approached by the girl’s father. Prior to his conversation with Harry.’

  Faraday tried not to register his surprise, though he realised at once that he should have anticipated something like this. Professional people always started at the top when it came to other people’s organisations. Hence Bassam going to the Superintendent first.

  ‘So if the girl’s death does turn out to be drug-connected …?’

  ‘Then Harry will have someone round to Jane Bassam’s sharpish.’ She paused, leaning forward. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t end there, either. Have you met this woman yourself?’

  ‘No, a couple of my DCs have been dealing with her.’

  ‘Did they tell you she used to be a teacher?’

  ‘No. Should they have done?’

  Merry glanced round, then beckoned Faraday closer. Jane Bassam had been teaching history at an all-girl comprehensive near the top of the city. According to the head, she was excellent at her job but was having big problems with discipline.

  ‘Par for the course?’

  ‘Absolutely, but she just wasn’t handling it. There were a couple of kids in particular; there always are. These happened to be girls and I think they must have known they’d got her on the run.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It came to a head over something or other and she threw one of the girls out. Happens all the time. They normally go to the loo for a spot of mirror therapy and then come back for the next lesson. This time she never made it to the loo.’

  ‘Why not?’ Faraday was engrossed.

  ‘God knows. Any rate, the girl walked straight back in and thumped her.’

  ‘Thumped Jane Bassam?’

  ‘That’s right. Punched her a couple of times and then tried to kick her. There was a huge fuss – you can imagine – but the head managed to contain most of it. Jane was offered an ambulance but settled for a taxi home.’

  ‘So what happened to the girl?’

  ‘That was the point. You’d normally exclude for something like that but these days you try and avoid exclusions. The girl blamed it on period pains, not feeling herself, and the head settled for a written apology. Jane never came back.’

  Faraday nodded, listening while Merry finished the story off. These days, threats from parents and siblings were routine for most teachers. So were obscene text messages and vandalism if they were silly enough to leave their cars at school. But what Jane Bassam had been through had upped the tariff and the fact that the girl had walked away, scot-free, had been the last straw.

  ‘She’s still on full pay,’ she added. ‘But I know she’s going to jack it in.’

  ‘And the News?’

  They’ve been sitting on the story for a while. They’ve talked to the head and a couple of parents, but what they really want is Jane Bassam’s side of it. So far, she’s refused to talk to them. The drugs thing, if there is a drugs thing, might change all that.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because she’s vulnerable. The poor bloody woman loses her job? Loses her marriage? Loses her daughter? And then finds out the girl was some kind of junkie? Can you imagine where that would take you? You’d be angry, wouldn’t you, as well as shattered? Journalists thrive on stuff like that. Anger makes brilliant copy. Manna from heaven.’

  Faraday was running the implications through his head. Derek Bassam, the lawyer, had talked about his ex-wife having some kind of breakdown. Maybe Merry was right. Maybe this kind of pressure would push anyone to the brink.

  ‘So what’s your interest?’ He gestured at the cups. ‘Why phone me?’

  ‘You want the truth?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Number one, I feel sorry for the poor bloody woman. And number two, we hold a media relations brief for the Education Authority. The schools in this city get a bad enough press as it is. If the News went to town on Jane Bassam, it wouldn’t make things any easier.’

  Faraday began to understand. A couple of years ago responsibility for managing education had returned from the county to the city. Which put Merry Devlin and her colleagues in Media Relations in the firing line.

  ‘So what do you want from me?’ he said at last.

  ‘An opinion. A best guess.’

  ‘About the drugs?’

  ‘Yes. In our game, forewarned is forearmed.’

  ‘I can’t give you that, Merry. Nobody can. Not even Hartigan. Not until we get the tox results back from the post-mortem.’

  ‘You don’t have a gut feeling?’

  ‘No, and if I did, I wouldn’t be sharing it with anybody else.’

  ‘You wouldn’t? Even after me buying the coffees?’ Merry was grinning at him. Nice try.

  Faraday glanced at his watch. Something was still nagging at him.

  ‘Did you phone on the off chance?’ he asked. ‘Thinking I might just know about this girl?’

  Merry looked at him a moment, then shook her head. ‘Of course not.’

 
‘So who told you?’ Faraday frowned. ‘Changing-room talk, was it? That squash partner of yours?’

  There was a long silence, then Merry stood up and retrieved her coat from the back of the chair.

  ‘That’s a blind guess, Joe.’ She wound her scarf around her neck. ‘But I’d keep an eye on Mr Hartigan if I were you.’

  Winter and Sullivan had been waiting outside the house in Margate Road for the best part of an hour before the girl returned. The student who opened the door had said she’d gone to church up the road and would be back any time but it was nearly one o’clock before she rounded the corner.

  She was tall and erect and walked the way they teach you at model school. She wore a battered-looking pair of leather boots and a bulky black puffa jacket zipped up over a woollen dress, the kind of gear which would have turned most women into a parcel, but Winter saw at once what the café owner had been suggesting on the phone. Certain people were born to compel attention and this was very definitely one of them.

  Winter was first out of the car and onto the pavement. The girl examined the warrant card with some surprise. She had a wide, flat face and eyes the colour of amber.

  ‘Louise Abeka?’

  They paused at the front door while she fumbled for a key. Winter had already noticed slight damage to the woodwork around the lock.

  ‘What’s that then?’

  The girl looked at him, startled. Then she shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. It happened last week. But the lock still works. Look.’

  She turned the key and they all went into the house. The place had been recently subdivided and she had a room upstairs with access to shared cooking facilities and a communal bathroom. Her room was bare but spotless: single bed, knackered square of carpet, flat-pack chest of drawers, and a second-hand dressing table with photos Blu-tacked around the mirror. There was a big grey suitcase under the bed and a poster of Lagos on the wall.

  Winter was looking at the photos round the mirror: kids on a beach with a blue, blue sea behind.

  ‘These your family?’

  ‘My little brothers, yes.’ She hadn’t unzipped the anorak. She wanted to know why they were here.

  ‘It’s in connection with a sudden death.’ He asked her whether she’d like to sit down.