No Lovelier Death (35 page)

‘Hang on till I arrive.’

As it turned out, his was the first car to make it to Sandown Road. He parked opposite the Aults’ house and got out. After a week of sunshine the weather was on the turn. The forecast first thing had warned of rain by lunchtime. Already he could feel the first shivers of wind stirring the trees along the road.

The Aults arrived within minutes, dropped by their friend at the kerbside. Faraday half-listened to the two women making arrangements for a lift back to Denmead later. Belle clearly wasn’t planning on moving back in, not yet.

The car drove off, leaving Faraday and the Aults on opposite sides of the road. At that moment there came a whirr from the electronic gates next door and another figure stepped onto the pavement. At first Faraday didn’t recognise Mackenzie. He was wearing a neck brace and walking with a pronounced limp. His head was crooked, cocked to one side as he limped down towards the Aults. Then came the trademark grin and the pumping handshake.

It was Belle who asked him what had happened.

‘Car crash,’ Mackenzie explained. ‘Got whacked up the backside.

You think I’m bad, you should take a look at the Peugeot. Marie’s livid. I’m blaming the guy behind.’

Belle began to sympathise but Mackenzie’s eyes were on her husband and Faraday remembered the scene in the interview room moments after Dawn Ellis had broken the news about Rachel Ault. Mackenzie must have been rehearsing this moment all week, he thought. What do you say to a man who’s just lost everything?

‘Peter? You OK?’

‘OK?’ Ault was looking pained. ‘Hardly.’

‘I’m sorry. Really sorry. If there’s anything … you know …’

‘Thank you.’

‘I mean it. We both do. Marie’s got the guest suite ready, in case you fancied kipping round our place … you know … while you get things sorted. Be handy, just next door.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m serious.’ He glanced towards their house. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be dossing down here for a while, will you?’

Ault looked down at him, saying nothing. Icy was a word that didn’t do justice to the expression on his face. Mackenzie dug his hands in his pockets, doing his best to warm the exchange with a grin, but Ault shook his head and turned away.

Moments later Jessie Williams’s Fiesta coasted to a halt beside them. She was sorry she was late. Traffic again.

Faraday joined them on the front door step while Peter Ault wrestled with the new key. Mackenzie had beaten a retreat.

Once the door was open, it was the smell that hit Faraday first, a foul gust of Scenes of Crime chemicals, stale cigarette smoke, spilled alcohol, sodden carpets and a ranker - more human - odour. Ault paused on the threshold and for a moment Faraday thought he might turn on his heel, find himself a bus, take the train to the airport, go back to Australia. Under the circumstances he wouldn’t have blamed him. Not for a moment.

‘Darling?’ He turned to his wife. ‘Do you really want to do this?’

She nodded, holding her nose. She looked like she wanted to throw up.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Please, Peter,’ she muttered, ‘Let’s just get it over with.’

Faraday and Jessie Williams followed them into the hall. Scenes of Crime had been as good as their word. They’d touched everything, moved nothing. This was the way Faraday remembered it from early Sunday morning. All it needed, he thought grimly, were the war cries from the Force Support Unit as they cornered the last of the stroppier kids.

Ault was gazing down at the remains of a bottle of wine. He picked up the bottle, sniffed it, examined the label.

‘They went through the lot?’

‘I’m afraid so, Mr Ault.’ It was Jessie.

He nodded, said nothing. A padlocked door beside the staircase led down to the basement room he’d used as a cellar. The door had been kicked in then wrenched from its hinges. Ault bent to retrieve a scrap of yellow paper. It was a Post-it. He showed it to his wife. The warning was handwritten.
Locked
, it went.
Keep Out
.

‘That’s Gareth’s handwriting,’ she said. ‘At least he tried.’

Ault raised an eyebrow, said nothing. He looked briefly at the wreckage that had once been his lounge and then turned to mount the stairs. Faraday stood back then followed. The study was on the left at the top of the stairs, the door already open. Ault lingered a moment on the landing, staring in. His leather-topped desk was covered in the smashed frames of the photos trashed by the kids. The sour taint of urine hung in the air and there was glass underfoot. You could hear it crunching as Ault crossed to the window. An old engraving of the Victorian Dockyard that hung beside the window had been tagged in black. The message couldn’t have been simpler.
Lying cunt.

Something else had caught Ault’s eye. He was staring at the PC on his desk. Someone had put a boot through the screen.

‘Where’s my computer?’ He was looking at Faraday.

‘I’m afraid we seized it.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘We need to download the hard disk. We think there’s a chance that Rachel might have used it to send the Facebook invite. We’ll need to evidence that.’

Ault nodded.

‘So when do I get it back?’

‘Just now that’s hard to say. I’d give you a firm date if I could but we’re snowed under.’ Faraday gestured round at the ruined study. ‘I expect you’ll understand why.’

‘Of course, Inspector.’ It was his wife. She was playing the diplomat.

Ault was looking at the drawers from the desk, both upside down on the carpet.

‘These were locked,’ he said stonily. ‘I assume they were forced.’

‘I’m afraid so. It’s the same everywhere. Downstairs in the lounge. In the bedrooms. Everywhere.’

Belle was looking alarmed now. Faraday told her that Jessie Williams would be taking down a list of everything valuable that seemed to be missing. That was partly why they’d both come along.

‘Partly?’ Ault had sunk into the revolving chair behind the desk. ‘So why else would you be here?’

‘Moral support, Mr Ault. A time like this we find it often helps.’

‘Do you?’ He began to inch the chair left and right, getting the feel of it. At length he stood up again. He’d had a collection of antique coins in one of the drawers. In the other, as far as he could remember, was his address book.

‘And the coins have value?’

‘They do, Mr Faraday. But not as much as the address book. Lose that and you lose part of your life.’ He gazed round for a moment then shook his head. ‘This, to be frank, is terrifying. We left this place in good faith. It was our home. Maybe Rachel was foolish to do what she did, throw a party like that, but never …
never
… would you expect to come back to something like this. I feel …’ he frowned ‘… defiled. Dirtied. These people must hate us.’

Faraday nodded. There was nothing to say. He was right.

The tour of the house went on. The Aults’ bedroom was the next room they checked. The sight of days-old faeces caked on the pillows of the big double bed drew a gasp from Belle. She went to her dressing table. The contents of the drawers were scattered across the carpet. She was about to get down on her hands and knees to search for particular items when Ault pulled her back.

‘Don’t bother. The good stuff will have gone.’

She looked up at him, mute, compliant, shocked.

‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘Silly of me.’

Last on the tour was Rachel’s bedroom. Jessie went ahead, armed with the Scenes of Crime map of the house. If the Aults were going to need serious support, then it was surely here. She opened the door and then stepped respectfully back. It was Ault, once again, who went in first.

Faraday could see most of the room through the open door. The duvet cover on the bed had gone. Ault wanted to know why.

‘It went off for analysis, Mr Ault. We found traces of blood.’

‘Whose blood?’

‘That’s a question we can’t yet answer.’

‘Rachel’s?’

‘Possibly. Possibly not.’

‘You’re suggesting she might have assaulted someone else?’

‘I’m suggesting she might not have been here at all. It was open house. As you can see.’

Ault turned back to the room. A poster for a swimming meet in Düsseldorf was hanging on the wall over her bed. The poster was covered in signatures. Ault stepped across and examined them. Finally he found what he was after.

‘There.’ His long bony finger hovered over a scrawl of crimson Pentel. ‘That’s Matt’s signature. If she’d still been with him, this would never have happened.’

Faraday, aware of the anger in his voice, shook his head.

‘But he
was
here, Mr Ault. And it did.’

 

Winter awoke to the
beep-beep
of the video entry phone. He rolled over, fumbling for his watch. Nearly half nine. He found a dressing gown and padded through to the hall. Whoever had their finger on the buzzer downstairs wasn’t giving up. He squinted at the tiny screen then hesitated. It was Jimmy Suttle, trying to shelter from yet another downpour.

‘Are you there, boss?’

For once in his life Winter hadn’t a clue what to do. Last night he’d got a cab home from Portchester. He hadn’t been in touch with Bazza. Had one of the uniforms ID’d him before the chase began? Or was this visit of Suttle’s purely social?

‘For fuck’s sake, mate …’

Winter shrugged, then buzzed him in. If it happens, it happens, he told himself. Better to be nicked by the likes of Jimmy than by a posse of gloating woollies.

Suttle was at his door moments later, soaking wet. He wanted tea, toast and a natter. To Winter’s relief, he didn’t mention the word ‘arrest’.

They talked in the kitchen while Winter hunted for bread. ‘What’s this about then?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute. We pulled your boss last night. Has he been in touch yet?’

‘Baz?’ Winter feigned amazement. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Dangerous driving. We had a traffic car after a nicked Alfa.

Mackenzie was in the way. Said he got panicked by all the fuss and put the anchors on. He totalled the traffic car and put a fucking great dent in his wife’s Peugeot. Bit of a result, really.’

‘Yeah? So what’s the story on the Alfa?’

‘Hard to say. Neither of the traffic guys managed to get a good look at the Alfa’s reg plate because Mackenzie’s Peugeot was always in the way.’

‘No ownership checks then?’

‘Obviously not.’

‘OK was he? Baz?’

‘Whiplash, apparently.’ Suttle touched his own neck. ‘Plus a bit of a leg injury. The woollies had to take him to the QA in the end. Mackenzie was threatening them with all kinds of grief if they didn’t.’

‘Health and safety?’ Winter was laughing now. ‘Don’t tell me.’ Suttle wanted Marmite on his toast. When Winter couldn’t find any, he settled for marmalade. Winter carried the tray in from the kitchen. Suttle eyed the dressing gown from the sofa.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Hotel in Dubai.’

‘It looks like silk.’

‘It
is
silk, son. Pay two grand a night, and no one minds if you nick it.’

‘Your money?’

‘You’re joking. I get my gear from British Home Stores.’

‘I meant the room.’

‘I know you did, son. Eat this fucking toast, will you?’

Suttle demolished the toast. He said he owed Winter for last night. ‘How come?’

‘Lizzie Hodson.’

‘She came across?’

‘She certainly did. I think we’re in love.’

‘About bloody time.’ He reached for Suttle’s plate and tidied up the crumbs with a wetted finger. ‘You didn’t come all this way to tell me that, though, did you?’

Suttle shook his head. ‘I’ve been talking to Faraday …’ he began.

‘And?’

‘Our bosses are seriously upset at some of the strokes you seem to be pulling.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like turning up at Berriman’s mum’s place before we got a look at it. Like obviously having an interest in Berriman himself. Like visiting Salcombe Avenue an hour or so before the lad probably gets the chop. Like hijacking a deckchair on the nudist beach and waiting until Berriman turns up.’

‘You told them about that?’

‘Not in so many words. Not yet anyway. But there’s definitely something happening here. People like Willard call it a pattern.’

‘Willard’s bothered? About me?’

‘He is, mate. Which kind of makes this official.’

‘They know you’re here?’

‘They fucking sent me.’

‘Why?’

‘Good question.’ Suttle was warming up now, Winter could see it.

‘To put it bluntly, mate, they don’t know what to do with you.’

‘With me or about me?’

‘Makes no difference. Put it this way. There’s one school of thought says it might be better to give you lots of rope and see where you go …’

‘And the other?’

‘We lock you up.’

‘You’ll need a fucking good reason. Last time I checked arrest without grounds was still illegal.’

‘Precisely. So the thinking is—’

‘You give me lots of rope.’

‘Pretty much.’ Suttle nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘But what the fuck does that mean?’

‘It means you become an informant. We register you. We put you on PIMS. We give you money. We might even discuss limited immunity, if it comes to it.’

‘If it comes to what?’

‘If we find that you’re …’ Suttle frowned ‘… implicated in some way.’

‘But in what, son? What the fuck are you talking about?’

Suttle looked at him for a long moment. Then he grinned.

‘I take it that’s a no.’

‘No to what?’

‘Putting you on PIMS. Taking advantage of your matchless contacts. ’ The grin widened. ‘Giving you lots of rope.’

Winter stared at him, the penny beginning to drop. Was this some kind of joke? Probably not.