Authors: Graham Hurley
The Sergeant would have gone bleating to one of the uniformed Inspectors by now. From there, it was only a phone call to someone way up the ladder, probably the uniformed Superintendent. He’d doubtless have his own views on Faraday’s lack of manners, and by the time the inevitable phone call came, he ought to be prepared. He hadn’t the slightest doubt that Vanessa Parry’s death was akin to murder. And murder deserved more than the attentions of a promising young patrolman.
Joyce was wanting to know whether he wanted tea or coffee.
‘Neither, thank you. How urgent is this lot?’
‘Most of it’s bubblegum. The stuff you need to worry about is on top.’
‘You’ve been through it?’
‘Yep. Just ask for triage next time you call.’
The wryness of the comment brought a smile to Faraday’s face. The contents of Joyce’s bottom drawer had come as something of a surprise, not least because her husband had always been banging on about his fitness routines. Listen to him over the course of one of the interminable Mess dinners at Netley and you’d think she’d married Super Dick. Evidently not.
‘Traffic have been on,’ she continued. ‘The Chief Inspector wants a word.’
‘I bet he does.’
‘You want me to get him for you?’
‘No, thanks.’
She looked down at him a moment. She had huge bosoms, fifties gloss lipstick and a head that seemed too small for her body, yet the legs beneath her pleated skirt, as more than one DC had commented, were amazing. Did she work out alongside her husband? Was that another of her little secrets?
‘This is about the guy who mashed Vanessa,’ she said, ‘isn’t it?’
Faraday blinked. A mind reader, as well as a connoisseur of German gay porn.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I’m guessing, but something tells me I’m guessing right.’ She paused. ‘We never did get to talk about Vanessa, did we?’
‘No, we didn’t.’
‘Well, I guess some day we should.’ She reached for his empty cup. ‘Before it gets to be a problem.’
Monday, 19 June, late afternoon
When Cathy Lamb finally ran Winter to earth, he was sitting by himself in the canteen, nursing a cup of coffee. She joined him, not making the running, not even attempting to begin the conversation. He’d know what was on her mind. He was a detective, for God’s sake.
At length, he looked up. He seemed surprised to see her.
‘Nice,’ he said, ‘outside.’
She leaned towards him. This wasn’t an exchange she was keen to share.
‘I’m really sorry about your wife but there are things in this life you just shouldn’t even think about doing.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah. And one of them’s badmouthing the guy who has to break the news. You’re lucky he’s not taking it further. He could see you in court for what you did.’
‘Allegedly.’
‘OK. So what’s your version?’
‘My version?’ Winter looked contemplative, the expression of a man for whom consequences were no longer of any interest. ‘Simple. Guy tells Joannie she’s history. Guy explains she hasn’t a prayer. Joannie has a problem with this. Hubbie returns to sort one or two details out.’
‘He’s saying you threatened him.’
‘He’s right. My mistake was leaving it there.’
‘You could lose your job over this, Paul.’
‘Yeah? And what’s second prize?’
Cathy sat back in the chair for a moment, exasperated. Nothing in Force Regulations had prepared her for this.
‘How did Joan take it?’ she asked at last.
‘Badly. Like we all would.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘At home.’
‘By herself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why aren’t you with her?’
Winter began to toy with the empty cup of coffee, running his finger round and round the rim, and Cathy was reminded of a child in class, caught out, robbed of an alibi or an explanation.
‘You going to bollock me, then?’ Winter was staring at the window.
‘I just did.’
‘And is that for the record?’
‘No. It’s just you and me. I managed to talk him out of taking it any higher. Just.’ She reached out for his hand and felt him flinch at her touch. ‘Go home, Paul. Be with her.’
For the first time, he looked her in the eye.
‘You’ve got a pile of stuff. You told me this morning.’
‘It’s all crap. It can wait.’
‘The Marriott thing needs sorting. I can’t just walk away.’
‘You can, Paul. I’m telling you to.’
He leaned forward across the table, pushing the coffee cup to one side, and explained again about the trashed room. The bloke had been using a false name and now he’d disappeared. Didn’t that lot deserve a bit more investigation? Or was it shoplifting and car thefts from here on in?
Despite herself, Cathy felt a stirring of interest.
‘Have you got a name for this guy?’
‘I’ve got two, like I said. He signed in as French and paid for a meal as Hennessey. Must be exhausting, keeping track.’
‘Paid for a meal as what?’
‘Hennessey.’
‘You’ve got a Christian name?’
‘Pieter. Spelled funny.’
Cathy was frowning. She got up and went to the cooler for a cup of water. When she got back, the frown was still there.
‘I’m serious about taking time off. It’s not just you, Paul, it’s Joan.’
Winter nodded, saying nothing. Cathy swallowed a mouthful of water. She seemed to be having trouble trying to frame the next question.
‘You remember Pete? My ex?’ she said at last.
‘Ex?’
Winter was looking at the thin platinum ring on her finger. The shooting incident involving Pete Lamb had also flushed out an affair he’d been having with a young probationer on division. Cathy had thrown him out of the marital semi and for months afterwards the CID office had been running a book on when she’d bin the wedding ring. The fact that no one had ever collected had surprised most of them, but not Winter. As he knew only too well, there were worse things in a marriage than screwing around.
‘We keep in touch,’ she said defensively, ‘and it might be an idea if you gave him a call.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘This guy you mentioned. Hennessey.’ She emptied the cup. ‘I think Pete might have something to say.’
Dawn Ellis and Rick Stapleton had been parked up for less than ten minutes when Addison returned to his small, neat terraced house a couple of streets back from Milton’s busy parade of shops. Stapleton checked his watch. Half-past four.
‘College hours,’ he said in disgust. ‘What a doss.’
They got out of the car, feeling the heat bubbling up from the road, and intercepted Addison while he was still fumbling for his house keys.
‘DC Ellis. DC Stapleton.’ Rick pocketed his warrant card. ‘You are …?’
‘Paul Addison.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘What’s this about?’
‘A word, sir, if you don’t mind. Inside might be more private.’
Addison shrugged, then led the way into the house. Stapleton judged him to be mid-thirties. He wore Wrangler jeans with a nicely weathered leather belt, and a stone-grey Ben Sherman shirt. He carried a buckled leather bag on a strap over one shoulder and a folded copy of the
Guardian
in his other hand. His hair, cropped fashionably short, was beginning to grey and lent the tanned, evenly featured face a certain maturity. Paul Addison wouldn’t have been out of place in the classier weekend colour supplements, the kind of aspirational figure you’d associate with after-shave or trekking boots. The contrast with Kevin Beavis couldn’t be more complete.
‘You want coffee or anything?’
Stapleton said no, but Dawn settled for a glass of water. They both heard the fridge door opening in the kitchen and the clink of ice cubes dropped in a glass. Dawn looked round. Two rooms had been knocked into one, and through the arch in the middle, towards the back, she could see some kind of video set-up, two TV monitors on a desk with a control panel in between. Lines of video cassettes were racked on the walls, each one carefully labelled, and there were more videos in cardboard boxes on the floor.
‘Nice.’
Stapleton was admiring a series of black and white photos mounted on clip frames on the chimney breast. The use of light was distinctive to each, the low slant of winter sunshine casting hard-edged shadows across bleak expanses of upland moor. Wooden bookshelves filled the alcove beside the chimney breast. The lines of paperbacks seemed to be arranged alphabetically, lots of French poetry and American new-wave crime fiction, but Stapleton was back with the photos when Addison returned.
‘Pennine Way?’
‘Dartmoor.’
‘You take them yourself?’
‘If only.’ He handed Dawn the glass of water. ‘I go down there a lot. There’s a gallery in Bovey. A local guy’s produced a whole book of them.’ He waved them towards a low, chrome-framed sofa and hooked a canvas-backed director’s chair towards him with his foot. ‘How can I help you?’
Dawn was looking at a framed poster on the other wall, a swirl of greens and misty yellows with sails poking through,
EXPOSITION DES BEAUX ARTS
, it read,
MUSÉE D’ORSAY
.
‘What were you doing last Friday night?’ she enquired.
Addison took the question in his stride.
‘Working,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Here’ – he nodded towards the back of the room – ‘editing video tape.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Dawn ignored the question. Stapleton was consulting his notebook.
‘Two other dates,’ he began, ‘February nineteenth and April twelfth. Do you keep a diary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to check it?’
‘Listen …’ Addison had a tiny frown on his face. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier if you just explained what this is about?’
Stapleton offered a helpful smile, then described the series of incidents featuring a man in a Donald Duck mask. The ongoing investigation had thrown up his name and they were simply keen to eliminate him from their inquiries.
‘Thrown up how?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, sir.’
‘But someone told you it was me? Is that what you’re saying?’
Disbelief was giving way to derision. Crazy people. Crazy thought. Dawn suggested that the diary might help them clear all this up. Then they’d be out of his hair.
‘OK, why not?’ Addison shrugged and left the room. He was back within seconds, unfolding a Psion organiser. ‘Those dates again?’
Stapleton gave him the dates. On 19 February he’d been in London most of the day on a conference; 12 April was a blank.
‘So what does that tell us?’
‘The nineteenth I can remember coming back here. I’d have been at home.’
‘Could anyone corroborate that?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘No social life?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘What about April?’
‘The same. I’d be teaching during the day. Back here for the evening.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘Probably not. Most nights I’m either editing or marking. Stuff I prefer to do alone.’
‘So we’ve only got your word for it? All three dates? Is that what you’re saying?’
Addison was beginning to tire of these questions. Dawn could sense it.
‘There’s a problem with one of your students,’ she began.
‘Who?’
‘Shelley Beavis.’
‘What about her?’
Dawn outlined the father’s complaint. Addison held her gaze, unblinking.
‘
Raped
her?’
‘That’s what he’s saying. Or at least that’s what he thinks it amounts to.’
‘And what does she say?’
‘She’s a bit confused.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that she wouldn’t tell us.’
‘Wouldn’t tell you whether I’d raped her or not?’ He began to laugh. ‘Are you guys serious?’
Dawn glanced at Stapleton. He had a pen out now and he was making notes.
‘Shelley mentioned dressing up,’ he said. ‘Costumes and masks and stuff. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’ Addison nodded. ‘She’s doing a drama module. She wants to be an actress. Did she tell you that too?’
Stapleton ignored the question.
‘Do these sessions happen here?’ His gesture took in the whole house.
‘Yes. Though “sessions” would be the wrong word. Some parts of the curriculum you can only reach through interactive role-play. It’s highly structured, believe me.’
‘And she’s alone when this happens?’
‘Yes. And she’s alone because she’s very good. In fact, she’s outstanding. In this city, talent like hers deserves a little attention. Most of the students I teach have difficulty getting up in the morning. Shelley’s in a class of her own.’
Stapleton was bent over his pad again, smiling.
‘Attention,’ he said quietly. ‘I like that.’
There was a long silence. Addison looked pointedly at his watch.
‘Are you through? Only I’ve a life to get on with.’
‘We need to be clear, Mr Addison.’ It was Dawn this time. ‘Do you have any kind of relationship with Shelley Beavis?’
‘Of course I do. She’s a student of mine. I teach her. I watch her learn, watch her develop. From where I’m sitting, that’s a privilege as well as a pleasure, but if you’re asking whether it ever goes further than that then the answer’s no. We don’t hold hands. We don’t go to the pub together. We don’t screw. I talk. She listens. I teach. She learns. It might sound simple, and in many ways it is.’
‘Nice speech.’ Stapleton was smiling again. ‘Why so passionate, Mr Addison?’
‘Because I’m frankly pissed off with the line you’re taking. You barge in here. You’ve obviously made up your minds. And now all you want is for me to make some crass admission about a relationship that doesn’t exist. Don’t invent mischief where there isn’t any. Life’s complex enough as it is.’
‘Is it?’
Dawn let the question hang in the air. She thought she detected a hint of colour beneath Addison’s tan, but she wasn’t sure. Stapleton began to ask about the masks again.
‘They’re upstairs. Along with the other stuff, the costumes and so on.’
‘Mind if we have a look round up there?’
‘Of course not.’
Stapleton glanced across at Dawn. The premises search forms were outside in the car. Dawn was back within a minute, showing Addison where to sign. This sudden formality sparked another shake of the head from Addison, but he scribbled his signature readily enough, carefully folding the carbon copy and leaving it on the mantelpiece. Shelley’s been on to him already, Stapleton thought. She’s phoned him on his mobile and told him about our little chat in the basement flat.
Dawn told Addison she preferred to look round with him in attendance. Just in case.
‘Just in case what?’
‘Just in case there’s any problem later.’
‘With what?’
She smiled at him, not saying anything, then gestured towards the door. They both left the room and Stapleton listened to their footsteps on the stairs before he wandered through to the back room. Overhead, he could hear drawers opening and closing, then the bang of a wardrobe door. He paused beside the edit suite. The master power switch was mounted on the left of the controller. He flicked it on, watching the monitors come to life. The play and record machines were on the floor and there were cassettes in both. Curious to know what preoccupied Addison evening after evening, he peered at the control panel, then pressed one of the two play buttons.
The screen on the left-hand machine fizzed for a second or two, then the picture stabilised. A man was making love to a naked woman on her hands and knees. Light from an open hearth fire in the background flickered over their bodies, and in the gloom beyond there was a hint of roughcast stone walls. As Stapleton watched, a voice stopped the action. The camera began to move, circling the bodies on the floor. The woman was young, no more than twenty. She had olive skin and a long fall of thick black hair. The shot closed on the woman’s buttocks. The man’s genitals swam in and out of focus and then the camera steadied and he began to make love again, long deep strokes, taking his time.
Stapleton heard footsteps coming back down the stairs. His finger found the pause button and he turned in time to catch Dawn coming in from the narrow hall. She was shaking her head, obviously disappointed.