‘Paul? Are you there? Speak to me.’
‘It’s two in the morning.’ Winter rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s the matter? ’
‘It’s Baz, Paul. He’s been arrested. In fact we both have.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The Bridewell. I haven’t seen him yet, not to talk to, but he’s definitely here.’
‘The
Bridewell
?’
Winter had a sudden vision of the custody suite at the city’s central police station. On a Saturday night, about now, the evening’s mayhem would be coming to the boil: drunks from the clubs, infant drug dealers nicked on supply charges, predatory psychos who’d handed out a beating to some passer-by. Most weekends the queue for the Custody Sergeant stretched round the block. Where did his new employer fit into all this?
‘It’s complicated, Paul. Baz has phoned Nelly. She’s coming down from Petersfield. We need you here too.’ Nelly Tien was Bazza’s solicitor, a ferocious Hong Kong Chinese.
The tremor in her voice told Winter she meant it. The best part of a year working for her husband had, to Winter’s surprise, cemented a real friendship. Marie was a strong woman. Coping with Bazza Mackenzie, you’d be nothing less. Whatever had taken the pair of them to the Bridewell deserved Winter’s full attention.
‘I’ll be there in ten.’ He tried to raise a smile. ‘Put the kettle on.’
Old times, Winter thought. He parked his new Lexus in front of the Magistrates Court and sauntered the fifty metres to the adjacent police station. A white minibus had just arrived and a couple of uniforms were shepherding a line of preppy-looking adolescents across the tarmac and into the station itself. One glance told Winter that most of them were pissed. He watched until the last of them, a gangly youth in surf shorts and flip-flops, disappeared inside, wondering what might have brought middle-class kids like these to the attention of Pompey’s finest. They didn’t look violent. They’d didn’t look sullen. Since when did an evening on cheap lager get you nicked?
Winter gave the kids a minute or two to clear the front desk before making his way inside. He hadn’t been inside a police station for over a year, not since the night they arrested him on the drink-drive charge, but the moment the door closed he felt his former life close around him. The same smell of unwashed bodies and over-brewed coffee, the same queue for the fingerprint machine, the same lippy drunks shouting their innocence from the cells along the corridor, the same waste-paper bins, overflowing with copies of the
News
and grease-stained all-day breakfast boxes. An informant of his, an old lag with loads of previous, had once told him that the custody suite on a Saturday night was your first real taste of life inside, and one look at the sweating turnkey beyond the desk told Winter he’d been spot on.
The Custody Sergeant was a forty-something veteran called Frank Summers. The last time Winter had seen him was up in the bar when one of the Major Crime D/Is had scored a big result and was shouting everyone a drink.
‘Well, well.’ It might have been a smile but Winter wasn’t sure. ‘Can’t keep you away, can we?’
Summers stepped across to the PC on the desk and it was a second or two before Winter realised he was about to be booked in.
‘Not me, Frank.’
‘No? Shame. What can we do for you, then?’
Winter explained about Marie Mackenzie. He understood she’d been nicked. He was here to lend a hand.
‘In what respect?’
‘Legal representation.’
‘But you’re not a brief. Not last time I checked.’
‘Friend, then. Appropriate adult. Any fucking thing, Frank. Just give me a break, let me see her. Couple of minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.’
‘Can’t do it, Mr W. As you well know.’
Winter held his eyes for a moment, knowing it was true. The last thing these guys would do for him was any kind of favour.
‘That’s a no, then?’ He said at last.
‘Afraid so.’
‘Has their brief turned up? Nelly Tien? Chinese lady?’
‘On her way down, as I understand it.’
‘So what’s the story? Why the drama?’
Frank Summers shook his head, dismissing Winter with a wave of his hand. Behind him, emerging from an office used by the duty solicitors, Winter recognised another face.
‘Jimmy …’ he called.
D/C Jimmy Suttle paused. In his late twenties, he was tall with a mop of ginger hair and a dusting of freckles. He was carrying a couple of files and looked preoccupied. Spotting Winter, he stepped across to the front desk. Like the Custody Sergeant, he assumed the worst.
‘Not another DUI?’ Driving Under the Influence.
‘Very funny.’ Winter nodded towards the street. ‘You got a moment?’
Suttle frowned and glanced at his watch. Then, aware of the Custody Sergeant’s eyes on his back, he accompanied Winter towards the door.
‘Good lad.’ They were out on the pavement, walking towards Winter’s car.
‘That yours? The Lexus?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Legal, are you?’
‘No problem. We took the disqual to appeal, got it reduced to a year.’
‘Luck?’
‘Money. Shit-hot lawyer. Chinese woman. Work for Baz and you get the best.’
‘So I see.’ Suttle was looking at the Lexus. ‘What’s this about then?’
Winter took his time. As a working detective he’d taught Suttle everything he knew, and when the scan came through on the brain tumour, three long years ago, the boy had repaid him in spades. Working with Jimmy Suttle had been the closest Winter could imagine to having a child of his own and one of his few regrets about joining Mackenzie was the loss of a relationship he regarded as precious.
‘You doing OK, son?’ He put his hand on Suttle’s shoulder. ‘Life been good to you?’
‘I’m doing fine.’ He looked, if anything, impatient. ‘How can I help?’
‘Baz and Marie are in there.’ He nodded towards the Bridewell. ‘They got nicked tonight and I need to know why. Is that a problem for you?’
Suttle studied him a moment, reluctant to answer, and Winter realised what was different about him. He’d aged, and with age had come a wariness he’d never associated with the impulsive, gifted, tireless D/C he’d happily introduced to the darker arts of crime detection.
‘I got my sergeant’s exams a couple of months ago,’ he said at last. ‘I’m acting D/S on Major Crime.’
‘Nice one.’
‘Thanks. That’s pretty much what I think.’
‘Waiting for a job to come up?’
‘Yeah. They’re gold dust at the moment. That’s why I could use a result. It’s been quiet lately.’
The silence between them was broken by the howl of a police car braking for the roundabout. Seconds later, an ambulance. They were both heading east, a route that could conceivably take them to Craneswater. Suttle turned back to Winter. Winter returned his look.
‘Well, son?’ he queried.
‘I know fuck all, except we’ve got a riot next to Bazza’s place and a couple of bodies by that new pool of his.’
‘Bodies? You’re serious?’
‘Yeah.’
‘ And Bazza’s down for them?’
‘Dunno, boss, but if I were you I’d toddle off home.’ For the first time the old grin. ‘Who knows? The next address on our little list might be yours.’
Faraday finally cornered DCI Gale Parsons as she ducked into her Audi. A lengthy kerbside conference with the duty Inspector and a middle-aged officer in a black jumpsuit had just come to an end and she had some calls to make. She gestured at the passenger seat.
‘Keep the windows up,’ she said. ‘You can’t hear yourself think out there.’
The calls were over in minutes. The first of them went to Detective Chief Superintendent Willard, the Head of CID. Parsons rarely wasted time on small talk and tonight was no exception. Faraday gathered that the guy in the black jumpsuit was the Tactical Adviser for Public Order, which went some way to explaining the Transit vans. His advice, it seemed, boiled down to containment.
By now, kids upstairs were yelling from the open windows, winding up the melee of figures below, wanker gestures supplemented with a volley of empty wine bottles. The pavement outside number 11 was littered with broken glass.
‘So how does containment work?’ Faraday couldn’t resist the question.
‘We’re buying time, Joe. The kids downstairs aren’t a problem. We started controlled release half an hour ago, got the first batch off to the Bridewell. Favourite is to clear the ground floor first, one minibus at a time. Then the FSU boys will sort it. You know the way it goes.’
‘On this scale?’ He shook his head. ‘Never.’
‘Me neither. Sign of the times.’
The Force Support Unit, she said, were on standby, awaiting the call to intervene. She was looking across at the party house. The property was surrounded by uniforms. Controlled release meant exactly what it said on the tin.
Curtains on one of the upstairs windows had been ripped down. Faraday watched a couple of kids mooning the street below.
‘Jerry Proctor says the house belongs to a judge.’
‘He’s right. It’s Ault’s place. Just now he and his wife are off sailing in the South Pacific. They’re in for a nasty shock, poor things.’ She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. ‘You know Ault?’
Faraday nodded. Peter Ault was a Crown Court judge. His hard-line summings-up in a number of recent cases, widely publicised, had won him a devoted following amongst right-wing correspondents to the letters page of the city’s daily paper, the
News.
He was popular in CID offices too, largely because he had little time for social workers.
Faraday glanced at his watch. 02.37.
‘So what’s the state of the place?’
‘I gather it’s pretty much wrecked. Not just that. One of the bodies we recovered turns out to be the Aults’ daughter.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly. Total nightmare.’
Faraday looked away, trying to imagine the welcome home awaiting this luckless pair. One moment, the bluest of oceans; the next, the worst news in the world.
‘These bodies were by the pool next door?’
‘Yeah. We think the other one’s a lad called Gareth Hughes. If we’re right, he’s the boyfriend.’
‘Injuries?’
‘According to one of the CSIs, we’re looking at bruising and abrasions on both of them, plus blood beside the pool, plus multiple stab injuries on the girl. Early days, though. Jenny’s still en route.’
Faraday nodded. Jenny Cutler was the on-call forensic pathologist. She lived in a farmhouse in the wilds of Somerset. Hence her late arrival.
Faraday was looking at the house again. Through the open front door he could see a couple of uniforms talking to a gaggle of kids.
‘What’s the plan here? Are we arresting them? Or do we treat them as witnesses? Either way, Jerry seems to think the resource implications are horrendous.’
‘Jerry’s right. We’re estimating one hundred-plus kids. Apparently the invite went out on Facebook and half the world turned up. The girl was planning for a cosy soirée. Instead she ended up with a riot.’
‘Girl?’
‘Rachel.’ Parsons glanced across at Faraday. ‘The one by the pool.’
Faraday nodded. As the story unfolded, it wasn’t difficult to track the implications. Two bodies triggered a major homicide inquiry. Next door, more than a hundred partying kids were either suspects or witnesses. Either way, they’d need to be taken to a custody suite, medically examined, and housed overnight before being interviewed in the morning.
‘So are we arresting them?’
‘Not in the first place, no. We’re asking for their cooperation and their mobiles. If there’s any difficulty, we’ll go for arrest.’
‘Grounds?’
‘Hasn’t been necessary yet. A few kicked up when we seized their mobiles but you’d expect that. If push comes to shove Mr Willard’s suggesting breach of the peace or criminal damage. We’re not fussy. Either will do.’
‘What about transport? Jerry said he was pushing for full forensic cleaning.’
‘Jerry would. That’s his job. But given the situation, I’m afraid he’s got no chance. I talked to the cleaning contractors a couple of hours ago. We’d be here all weekend if we went down that road so we’re settling for low-mileage minibuses. That way they might be at least half-clean. I’m afraid it’s the best we can do.’
Faraday nodded in agreement. With every passenger a potential suspect, the evidential textbooks called for each vehicle to be forensic-ally pre-cleaned to prevent cross-contamination. That would leave the Crown Prosecution Service flameproof against later defence challenges in court but Parsons was right: sorting out a fleet of minibuses to Jerry Proctor’s satisfaction would bring the entire operation to a halt.
The DCI’s mobile began to ring again. While she was busy with the call, Faraday tried to tally the rest of the night’s implications. The booking-in process at the custody centres, especially at weekends, could itself take nearly half an hour per person. Every witness or suspect would need access to a lawyer. If they were sixteen or under, they’d require the presence of an appropriate adult. If they were foreign, they’d be calling for interpreters. They’d need to be swabbed, fingerprinted, and medically examined by a police surgeon. Their clothing would be seized, bagged, tagged and put aside for possible dispatch to the Forensic Science Service.
Every step in this journey carried a price tag or resource implications. Would there be enough cell space county-wide? Would there be sufficient replacement clothing? And who would pick up the tab for the lab tests? Only last week Faraday had countersigned an invoice from the Forensic Science Service. For DNA analysis on just five items of clothing, the bill had come to £3460. Multiply that one hundred times and they’d be looking at over a third of a million quid. Parsons was right. Total nightmare.
She was off the mobile. Willard, she said, had been talking to the Assistant Chief Constable responsible for CID. On a busy Saturday night the force operations room had so far identified a mere thirty-seven available custody cells county-wide and a call had gone out to abandon further arrests unless absolutely necessary. Given the shortfall in custody space, the ACC had no choice but to invoke the standing mutual aid arrangements and control room staff were now in touch with neighbouring forces. Kids who’d started their Saturday night by necking a litre of Diamond White on Southsea Common might well end their evening in a cell in Reading. Or Dorchester. Or Worthing. Such was the thinness of the thin blue line.