No Lovelier Death (48 page)

Suttle sat back, looking for loose ends, anything he could tuck away for later.

‘How did he pay you, Westie?’

‘Cash, like always. And a fucking great tip.’

‘How much?’

‘A score. And he was a mean bastard normally.’

‘You give him a receipt?’

‘You’re joking. Westie didn’t do receipts.’

‘Did you get the impression he was carrying a lot of money?’

‘Haven’t a clue, mush. And that’s another question you wouldn’t ask.’ He yawned. ‘You gonna make anything out of this? Write anything down? Only I’m off to bed soon.’

Suttle shook his head. Someone might be back to take a formal statement, he said, but it wouldn’t happen for a couple of days. Mason got to his feet. He looked, if anything, disappointed.

‘How about that place we stopped? You want me to try and find it?’

‘Might do. Depends.’

‘Yeah? Just say the word, mush.’

Suttle was looking round the tiny living room. He asked whether Mason used a satnav.

‘Yeah. We all do. Cabby’s best mate.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In that drawer. Why?’

‘I need to take it away. I’m sure the firm will sort a replacement until you get it back. That OK with you?’

For a moment Suttle thought he detected a tiny flicker of alarm. Then Mason shrugged.

‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘Be my guest.’

Suttle got the satnav from the drawer. It was a TomTom, state of the art. Careful analysis of the built-in memory could retrieve every detail of Mason’s recent trips. Suttle slipped it into his pocket and let Mason lead the way down the narrow hallway to the front door. The cabby pulled it open, stood aside.

Suttle stepped into the rain again then shot Mason a look.

‘Seen Bazza recently?’

‘No, mate.’ He returned Suttle’s smile. ‘A rare pleasure, believe me.’

Bazza’s party was back at Southampton airport by half past ten. An early start from Malaga had been low on conversation. Tosh and Rob were battling industrial-size hangovers while Bazza himself seemed oddly preoccupied. When Winter asked him whether it had been a good night, he rolled his eyes.

‘You were better of out of it, mush. I’m getting too old for guys like these. Boys on the piss. Russian fanny. Horrible.’

Winter slept most of the way back, waking up as the little jet bucketed down through low cloud to make a bumpy landing. After a hopeless attempt to get to sleep in his hotel room he’d spent most of the night prowling the streets of Malaga. He’d stopped at every gallery and knick-knack shop, peering in through the window, looking for the name Renate, without the first idea of what he’d do if he found a painting of hers or some other fancy piece of art. Did he owe her memory the asking price? Would parting with money do anything to ease the ache in his heart?

At the airport Bazza settled the balance of the fee for the jet and then walked Winter to the car park. Tosh and Rob, revived by champagne on the way home, were off to The Rose Bowl for the cricket.

‘Don’t even think about it, Paul.’

They were on the motorway in Bazza’s new Mercedes, heading back towards Pompey. Bazza rarely called Winter by his Christian name.

‘Think about what?’

‘Yesterday. That poxy bar place. Tommy’s little party piece. It’s business, mate. You win some, you lose some.’

‘And she lost.’

‘Yeah. She did. It doesn’t cover us with glory but I tell you what, it’s a whole lot better than the alternative.’

‘Which is?’

‘The woman still alive, still with a tongue in her head.’

‘She said she’d keep her mouth shut. In fact that was the last thing she said. Ever.’

‘Yeah, mush, but they all say that. She might have been fond of Westie. She’d only known him a couple of days so she might not have sussed what a clown the man is.’

‘Was, Baz. Past tense.’

‘Sure. But that’s my point. Tommy lets her get away with it. She finds her way home. She lies awake all night, thinking about Westie, what a great shag he was, what a great find, what a great future they might have had, all that bollocks, then - bam - she’s down the nick next morning singing her heart out. Fat guy with no hair. Bought me a beer. Supposed to have a whack of money in a bag. English, definitely.

Came in on a flight yesterday. Probably gone already. Seemed to know Westie. You can write every line of it, mush. And it ends with a knock on
your
fucking door. You were protecting yourself, mate. Think of it that way. And you need never see Tommy again in your whole life.’ He glanced across. ‘Cushty or what?’

Winter said nothing. Bazza was right. Of course he was right.

‘What do we do about Westie’s album?’ he said at last.

‘Leave that to me, mush.’

‘That’s not an answer, Baz. I need to know. We’re in the shit as it is.’

‘Like how?’

‘Like they’re not going to give up on Danny Cooper. Like they’ve still got to put someone alongside Rachel and her fucking boyfriend.’

‘Cooper?’ Bazza seemed to be having trouble remembering the name. ‘What’s all that got to do with us? The Alfa’s history. I checked last night. Crushed down nicely and already off to a smelting yard. There’s nothing in that khazi of a flat that links to us. I only ever paid Westie in cash. There’s no cheques, no bank transfers, nothing.’

‘So what about the album?’

‘Fuck the album. I know every one of those faces. Every single one.

They also know me. Westies are two a penny. I can pick another up by lunchtime. They know that, those people. There’s no way they’d let themselves down.’

‘Simple as that?’

‘Simpler, mush. Look for problems, and you’ll have a sad old life.’ He gave a dawdler a blast on the horn and then swept by on the inside lane. ‘You’ve got a point about Rachel, though. I’d like that tidied up, mush, pronto.’

 

Parsons called a meeting of the
Mandolin
principals for Sunday lunchtime. Unlike Friday night, there was nothing to eat.

There were five faces around the conference table in Martin Barrie’s office. According to Parsons, the Detective Superintendent was due back from leave tomorrow morning, and she was already gathering up the tiny items she’d scattered to make the place feel like home. The flowers, Faraday sensed, would be the last to go. She might even be brave and leave them.

She asked Proctor for an update on the forensic. As far as the killings at the party were concerned, he was able to confirm that the blood beside the pool belonged to Gareth Hughes and Rachel Ault. As far as Matt Berriman was concerned, the forensic checks had revealed no bloodstains.

‘None at all?’

‘Nothing, boss. Zilch.’

‘And you think that wouldn’t have been the case if he’d done Hughes and Rachel Ault?’

‘Sure. Rachel had stab wounds. We’re not talking lots of blood but we’d expect to find
something
.’

‘What about Mackenzie? When he sorted out the fight back in the house?’ Parsons was looking at Faraday.

‘Mackenzie had blood on his head from the scalp wound, and maybe down his face.’ Faraday shrugged. ‘It needn’t have got onto Berriman’s gear.’

‘So you think his story checks out?’

‘I do.’ Faraday nodded. There was no evidence, he said, to put Berriman on Mackenzie’s property. He’d intervened in the judge’s study and hauled the kids off the desk. He’d afterwards had sex with Rachel in the bathroom, left by the front door for a breath of fresh air and returned in minutes to save Mackenzie from a serious beating. He’d surrendered his clothing, as required, and been moderately helpful in both interviews.

‘Does anyone have any issues with any of that?’ Parsons scanned the faces around the table.

‘We don’t have a mobile for him.’ It was Suttle.

‘That’s true.’

‘Yet he used a mobile in the bathroom. He had to. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been any pictures.’

‘Good point.’ She was frowning at the mountain of statements at Suttle’s elbow. ‘We must have challenged him on that.’

‘We did, boss.’

‘Remind me what he said.’

‘He said he borrowed a mobile off a kid at the party. Specifically to use the camera in the bathroom.’

‘And gave it back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do we have a name for this kid?’

‘No. Berriman told us the kid was a total stranger. Said he wouldn’t recognise him again.’

‘So do we believe him?’

‘Obviously not.’

‘So where is it?’

‘I’ve no idea, boss. If he’d left it in the garden at the Aults, we’d have found it.’

‘But you think he definitely hid it for later?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he could see trouble coming. The party had kicked off and there was no way we wouldn’t turn up in the end. He’d suss we’d seize all the mobiles because of the damage in the house and he didn’t want to risk losing it. Those pictures were important to him. So he left the phone somewhere safe to collect later.’

‘It was pay-as-you-go. Right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But in that case, if the pictures and the phone were so important, why did he stay at the party?’

‘Because of Rachel, boss. He’d put his smell on her. He’d got her back. No way he was going to lose her again.’

Parsons nodded, thinking it over, then looked across at Faraday. ‘Joe? You buy that?’

‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I do.’

‘So where does that take us? To the girl? To Jax Bonner?’

Faraday had been anticipating this question for the last twenty-four hours. To date, despite nationwide publicity, there’d been no sightings of Bonner. Yet here he was, living with a woman who knew exactly where to find the girl. Not only that; Gabrielle had been to see her, talked to her, formed an opinion, along with his son. Was now the time to table these new facts? Faraday thought not.

‘Bonner remains a prime suspect,’ he said carefully. ‘We’re obviously moving heaven and earth to find her. She’ll surface in the end. These people always do.’

Something in his voice, an unusual caution, touched a nerve in Parsons. Faraday could see it in her face, the tiny raise of her eyebrow, the way she stiffened herself in the chair.
Shit
, he thought.

‘What are you saying, Joe?’

‘I’m saying we have to wait, boss.’

‘And we’ve no idea where she might be? Which part of the country even?’

‘The ATM withdrawals on her brother’s business account are all local. You could draw a reasonable inference from that.’

‘But who takes out the money?’

‘It could be anyone. All you need is the card and the PIN number.

If she’s aware, then she’ll know that most ATMs are cameraed. We’ll be talking to the banks again tomorrow.’

‘So she
could
be in hiding locally?’

‘Yes, that’s what I just said.’

‘But we still don’t know where?’

‘Obviously not, boss.’

She looked at him a moment longer then scribbled a note to herself. It was Suttle’s turn.

‘Given we’ve yet to lay hands on the girl, Jimmy, what’s the strength?’

‘I’m with D/I Faraday,’ he said at once. ‘She’s definitely a prime suspect. She hated the Aults. She goes off like a firework. She’s got previous for violence. She was carrying a knife. That tells me she needs to answer a question or two.’

‘Quite.’ Parsons was animated now, looking for a way out of this impasse. The last thing she needed was a Monday morning session with Martin Barrie, incredulous at her lack of progress. The girl’s local. She stands out a mile in any crowd. Why on earth haven’t you banged her up already?

‘Glen? Outside Enquiries? No trace at all of her?’

‘None, boss. She’s gone to ground.’

‘And the kids, Jimmy?’ This to Suttle. ‘You’ve been talking to them too?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

‘No one’s saying a word. They’re terrified of her.’

‘But you think some of them might know?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Can’t we action that?’

‘How, boss? Talk nicely to their parents? Take them round the back and beat the shit out of them? If these were Rachel’s friends, we might be in with a chance. Bonner’s side of the tracks, we’re on enemy territory. They hate us, boss. It’s a sad thing to say but it’s true.’

The vehemence of Suttle’s little speech seemed to shock her. She opened the file at her elbow.

‘This is some of the media coverage from last night,’ she said. ‘Mr Willard emailed me the more important bits.’

She passed photocopies down the table. Despite the lateness of the wake, coverage had appeared in most of the Sunday papers. There were photos too, candlelit young faces looming out of the darkness. If you were looking for a symbol of the times we live in, as the leader writer in the
Observer
pointed out, then here it was. Darkness and light, a candle’s width apart.

Faraday’s attention was caught by a paragraph in the
Sunday Telegraph.
The reporter had roughly tallied
Mandolin
’s costs to date. These costs included the forensic bills, overtime, invoices submitted by neighbouring forces under the mutual aid arrangements and various sundries. The reporter must have had an inside source because the sums looked right. So far, in his estimate, the Craneswater party had run up a bill of nearly half a million pounds with no arrests in sight.

There were now rumours that a third murder was linked to the party deaths but once again there’d been no arrest.

Parsons hadn’t bothered with her own set of cuttings. She’d probably memorised them by now.

‘This is not our golden hour, gentlemen.’ She closed her file. ‘To be frank, I’m disappointed.’

Faraday glanced at Suttle. Like everyone else in the room, he’d got used to Parsons in this mood.