The Take (10 page)

‘We didn’t find one bottle,’ Dawn reminded him, ‘not one.’

‘You’re right. So how much proof do you need? I’m telling you. The guy’s seriously weird. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t smoke. Just screws himself silly. With all those students.’

‘What makes you think that?’

Stapleton stared at Dawn in disbelief.

‘You don’t think he helps himself?’ He nodded towards the screen. ‘Bird like Shelley turns up? Can’t wait to come across? You don’t think he takes a break from all that heavy porn and tries out a move or two for himself? This is social worker talk, love. We’re just here to put him away.’

‘Quite.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I’m not sure.’

Dawn stole a glance at Faraday, embarrassed by a conversation which had got out of control. In these moods, fuelled by a conviction dangerously close to hysteria, Rick could give enthusiasm a bad name.

Faraday was trying to compute the strength of the case against Addison. Stapleton was right. Circumstances would certainly argue for his face behind the mask, but the hard evidential truth was that circumstances weren’t quite enough. A confession would be favourite. Confirmed by a positive match on the mask from forensic.

Faraday glanced at Stapleton.

‘You’ve organised a swab?’

‘Yeah.’

A mouth swab would be enough to establish Addison’s DNA. The swab would accompany the mask to Lambeth for forensic checks. Only one of the three women had confirmed physical contact with Mr Duck, and she’d washed her clothes within the hour, but the Scenes of Crime boys had retrieved her jeans and T-shirt from her airing cupboard and thought there might just be a chance of rescuing something useful. A hair. A single fibre. Not that it mattered. Addison’s DNA inside the mask – from snot or scalp dandruff or sputum – would be more than enough for Faraday.

He glanced at his watch.

‘I’ll go and see Hartigan about an extension. Twelve hours won’t make any difference to the forensic, but we ought to have another go at him.’ He frowned. ‘Once he’s had a bit of a think.’

Eight

Tuesday, 20 June, early evening

Addison’s solicitor returned for the evening interview. She’d argued the case against detaining her client for a further twelve hours, pointing out that indecent exposure didn’t even warrant the power of arrest, but Hartigan had ignored her, contending that Sunday’s assault was serious enough to justify a custody extension pending further inquiries.

The solicitor’s name was Julia Swainson, and the jungle drums at the Magistrates’ Court suggested she was cutting a swathe through some of the city’s older legal fraternity too bored or desperate to care about their marriages. Not just an Oxford degree. Not just an implacable determination to succeed. But a lean, gym-honed figure and a slightly crooked smile that spoke, to Dawn, of mischief and curiosity.

Her presence in the interview room beside Addison stiffened Stapleton’s determination to put the lecturer away. Not only was he screwing the tastier students but he was clearly making a major impression on his legal adviser as well. The coolness of the guy under fire. The fact that he never betrayed anything more than a faint irritation at this intrusion into his well-ordered life. Stapleton was beginning to hate him.

He started the three audio cassettes, announced names and times, and then asked Addison about the Shelley Beavis video.

‘Souvenir, is it? Keepsake? Trophy?’

Addison and his solicitor exchanged glances the way good friends might at a party, an unspoken acknowledgement that they were in the company of lesser mortals. Dawn knew exactly what was coming next.

‘This has nothing to do with the offence in question,’ Julia said silkily. ‘As far as I’m aware, Shelley Beavis has made no complaint.’

Stapleton gave her one of his fuck-you looks, but Addison interrupted. He had absolutely no problem talking about Shelley. What, exactly, did Stapleton want to know?

‘I want to know about the video, the one where she says she fancies you. Why did she do it? Why did she put all that stuff on tape?’

‘It’s an exercise all my students go through. At the start of the first year I ask them all to give me a video statement. I want to know why they’re on the course, what they expect, where they want to get to. It’s a way of concentrating minds. It makes them think.’

‘And are they all as frank as Shelley?’

‘Of course not. She was exceptional.’

‘Because she said she fancied you?’

‘Because she did it so well.’

‘So
well
?’

For a moment, Stapleton was lost. Dawn, sitting beside him, came to the rescue. In these situations, it paid to be frank.

‘I don’t understand you, Mr Addison,’ she said. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

‘Shelley wants to be an actress,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s rare to find someone so young prepared to think so laterally.’

‘You’re saying she made it all up?’

‘I’m saying she was giving me a performance. She realised the potential of the video. She realised what an opportunity it gave her. It was a stage. She took advantage of that.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She told me. When we talked about it.’

‘She told you that she didn’t fancy you?’

‘She told me she was playing a role. I’d asked them all to come up with something original, to think hard about what they did with the tape. Most of them were pretty clueless. Shelley wasn’t. She was clever. She seized her opportunity. I applauded her.’

‘Did you believe her?’

‘Yes, I did. She caught my attention. That’s what a good actress does.’

Addison sat back, patient, articulate, waiting to see where the interview might go next. He might have been conducting a seminar on a particularly difficult subject. His air of self-possession, of command, was almost tangible.

‘So when you realised she didn’t fancy you …’ It was Stapleton this time.

Addison looked him in the eye, then shrugged.

‘No problem.’

‘You didn’t try and press it?’

‘No.’

‘Never tempted?’

‘No.’

‘So why is her father so convinced that you took advantage of her?’

‘I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps you should ask him.’

‘We did. He seemed pretty clear about it.’

‘And Shelley?’

Stapleton didn’t reply. Dawn was watching the solicitor. She had her fountain pen out and she was making notes on a big yellow pad. Dawn then turned to Addison.

‘I want to ask you about the mask again, Mr Addison. You’ve told us you’d never seen it before.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So how did it get there?’

‘I have no idea. There’s access to the garden from the alley at the back.’

‘But you say the door’s locked most of the time.’

‘It is. But it’s not an enormous wall. It’s not wired or anything.’

‘You’re suggesting someone climbed in? Planted it?’

‘I’m saying it’s possible.’

‘But why would anyone want to do that?’

For the first time, Addison faltered. The easy, seamless pattern of question and answer, prompt and response, came to an end. Dawn repeated the question. Addison said he didn’t know.

‘Do you have enemies, Mr Addison? At the college, maybe? Colleagues with some kind of grudge?’

‘Everyone has grudges, especially in my business, but I can’t believe any of them would do that.’

‘Who, then? Who’d go to all the trouble of climbing your wall and hiding the mask like that?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘It would be somebody who knew, wouldn’t it?’

‘Knew what?’

‘Knew that you were in trouble already.’

The solicitor’s pen came to a halt. She looked across at Dawn.

‘My client wasn’t in trouble. I thought we’d made that clear already. There’s been no complaint from Shelley Beavis and there’s nothing actionable as far as the video tapes are concerned. My client is here to defend himself against a possible charge of grievous bodily harm regarding last Sunday’s incident by the pond. Until the mask appeared, there was no pertinent evidence to link him with that.’

Rick Stapleton jumped in.

‘The hiking boots? The lack of an alibi? A preoccupation with sex?’ He was talking to Addison now. ‘I’m not sure you’re taking this as seriously as you ought to, Mr Addison. You have a great deal at stake here.’

‘That sounds like a threat.’

‘Not at all. Three women have been frightened witless. One of them has been physically injured. She won’t be taking that dog for a walk for a long time. Not just because of her hand, but because it’ll take months before she gets her confidence back.’

‘I agree.’ Addison nodded. ‘But you’re talking to the wrong man. I wasn’t there. It wasn’t me.’

‘Can you prove that? In a court of law?’ Stapleton was staring at him. ‘Because quite soon you might have to.’

Addison raised an eyebrow, then sat back in his chair, leaving his solicitor to interject once again. She might have been talking to a child.

‘We have nothing to prove. The burden of proof is on you.’ She glanced at Dawn. ‘May I have ten minutes alone with my client?’

Faraday was still at his desk, wrestling with the overtime sheets, when he heard the tap at the half-open door.

‘Mr Faraday, sir?’

It was the young lad from Traffic, Mark Barrington. He was wearing a full set of motorcycle leathers and cradled a bulky white helmet. Acutely uncomfortable on CID territory, he had the look of a burglar disturbed during a particularly dodgy break-in.

Faraday beckoned him into the office.

‘Shut the door,’ he said. ‘Joyce tells me they had another go at the Fiesta.’

‘That’s right, sir. The engineers and Accident Investigation. Seems the Fiesta was well under the speed limit.’

‘And Prentice?’

‘Didn’t see her until the last.’

‘Does he say that? Admit it?’

‘No, sir. He still says he can’t remember anything.’

‘How many times have you seen him?’

‘Just the once, sir. For the full statement.’ He unzipped his jacket, producing a thick wad of photocopied sheets. ‘It’s all in there, sir. I’d appreciate them back when you’ve finished.’

He was already edging towards the door. Faraday left the photocopies untouched on the desk.

‘What about the phone? Prentice’s mobile?’

Barrington paused by the door.

‘That’s proving a bit tricky, sir. I filled in a C63 and the Inspector endorsed it, but I think there’s a bit of a hold-up with Vodafone. They’re talking about a four-week waiting list.’

‘Who says?’

‘My Sergeant, sir. He took the call.’

Faraday at last reached for the photocopies. The question he couldn’t answer was why the lad had taken the risk in coming over here to Southsea nick. Traffic belonged on the first floor at Fratton, a tightly managed fiefdom with absolutely no time for the scruffy lay bouts in CID. Not only that, but he’d brought a copy of the AI report with him, a gesture that could turn good intentions into an extremely difficult interview with his Sergeant.

‘You were the last to see her alive,’ Faraday murmured. ‘Vanessa Parry.’

Barrington’s grip on the door handle slackened. He muttered something about trying to give her CPR – cardio-pulmonary resuscitation, the last-chance kerbside bid to revive a bursting heart. Barrington was looking thoughtful. He nodded at the photocopies in Faraday’s lap.

‘I made a note of the phone number in red Pentel,’ he said. ‘It’s Prentice’s mobile.’

Rick Stapleton looked at his watch for the second time. Addison and his solicitor were still in a huddle outside in the corridor. He could hear the low murmur of voices and, once, a little burst of shared laughter.

‘They’re taking the piss,’ he said in disgust. ‘Why don’t we just get it over with and charge him?’

Nearly a year of working with Rick had taught Dawn a great deal about patience. In these moods, he was like a kid denied his rightful due. Most suspects would have caved in by now, bowing to the sheer force of Stapleton’s conviction, but not Addison. Addison was outside, cooking up another little surprise.

‘Take it easy,’ Dawn told him. ‘Let him sleep on it. We’ve got half a day yet.’

‘He’s guilty.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘This is a waste of bloody time. You know it and I know it. If I was the guvnor, this would all be over.’

Dawn thought of Faraday’s natural caution.

‘If you were the guvnor, you’d be carrying the can when the CPS slung it out for lack of evidence.’

‘You’re joking. The forensic’ll be back by next week.’

‘Yeah? And what happens if there’s no match?’

Stapleton stared at her. The blank incomprehension in those big blue eyes made her laugh.

‘I didn’t hear that,’ he told her. ‘Whose bloody side are you on?’

Footsteps down the corridor announced the return of Addison. He stepped aside to let Julia into the interview room. Neither of them made any attempt to sit down.

‘My client has a proposal to offer,’ the solicitor began. ‘He’s prepared to take part in an ID parade.’

Stapleton began to laugh.

‘It was dark,’ he pointed out, ‘and the bloke was wearing a mask. What kind of parade’s that?’

‘It’s not the mask the witnesses might be interested in.’

‘No?’ Stapleton was looking lost again.

‘No. As we understand it, the nature of the complaints has to do with … ah … exposure. Am I right?’

Dawn nodded. ‘In all three cases.’

‘Excellent. In which case, we would suggest’ – she glanced at Addison – ‘an ID parade with a difference.’

There was a long silence. Dawn was staring at the solicitor. She’d been right about the mischief, righter than she could possibly have known. Was this a legal first? Or just a wind-up? She began to ask for clarification, but Stapleton got there first. He sounded slightly awed by the practicalities.

‘You mean a willy parade? Ten guys getting it up?’ He made a loose gesture at belly level. ‘For real?’

Back home by half-eight, Faraday began to read the accident report for a second time, realising at once that it was a mistake. There were some things he could – should – do here, steps he could take, but nothing would ever blunt the impact of those hideously perfect photographs. Even in black and white, after their passage through the photocopier, they were far too graphic for Faraday’s peace of mind. Vanessa Parry was dead, and no post-impact investigation would ever change that.

Putting the photocopies back in their envelope, Faraday collected his binoculars from the study upstairs and set off along the towpath for the distant smudge of Farlington marshes, an RSPB bird reserve at the top of Langstone Harbour. It was still warm, and the afternoon sea breeze had eased to the faintest stir of air. Striding north at a faster pace than usual, Faraday could smell the scents of summer, the richness of the harbour-side grasses spiked with wild honeysuckle, grateful for the distractions of memory.

June, for father and son, had been a time for squabbling. As far as Faraday was concerned, high summer was a hiatus, a largely empty bridge between the vivid passage of spring migrants – wheatears, chiff-chaffs, willow warblers – and those golden days in early autumn when the first of the Brent geese returned from their breeding grounds in the far north. To wake up to their comical honking across the eel-grass was to know that summer was over. Time to struggle into an anorak and a pair of sturdy boots. Time for some serious birding.

J-J, on the other hand, loved June. A neighbour had a little dinghy on a harbourside mooring that dried out at low water. He taught J-J how to row, gave him a key to his garden shed, and told him to help himself to the oars and rowlocks. J-J, who’d swum like a fish since the age of seven, needed no encouragement. In all weathers, he’d be out there, an increasingly tiny dot through Faraday’s living-room window.

It wasn’t that J-J was blind to birdlife. On the contrary, birds – their plumage, the way they flew, their habitats, their tiny offspring – had been one of the shared secrets that had cemented the bond between father and son, an entire world they’d made their own. No, it was simply that J-J, in common with many deaf kids, lived through his nerve ends. He loved the kiss of sunshine on his near naked body. He loved the surge of the harbour beneath the dinghy. And he loved most of all the smell of crusted salt on his skin at the end of a hot, hot day. Faraday remembered him now, perched on a stool in the kitchen, offering his skinny little arm for his dad to sniff.