Turnstone (18 page)

‘About anything. Another man looks at you and instantly that becomes an affair. Or it would from Henry’s point of view. He was very possessive. He was always jumping to conclusions, always thinking the worst. And that can be difficult to live with, believe me.’

‘But you loved him?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And he had no reason to think that—’ Faraday hesitated again. ‘He might be sharing you with someone else?’

‘God, no.’

Faraday unrolled the student’s drawing. Ruth stared at it.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘The university.’

‘It’s me.’

‘I know. Why did you do it?’

‘For money,’ she said hotly. ‘Eight pounds an hour if you’re interested. Have you ever tried to live off the takings from an art gallery like this? No wonder he drank.’

‘Who asked you to pose?’

‘Stewart Maloney.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know … because … ask him.’

‘Are you friends?’

‘I know him, yes.’

‘But are you …?’

‘Friends like real friends? No, Mr Faraday, we’re not.’

‘He’s got your photos on his wall. Shots of the city.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘You’re telling me you didn’t know?’

‘I knew he’d bought some. But I haven’t a clue what he’s done with them.’

‘You’ve never been inside his flat?’

‘God no, I’d never get out in one piece.’

‘He phones you.’

‘All the time.’

‘Why?’

‘Because … Christ, why don’t you ask him? Why me? Why do I have to spell it out?’

‘Because he’s disappeared. As I think I explained earlier.’

‘Oh … and you’re assuming—’

‘I’m not assuming anything. Actually, that’s not true. What I’m assuming is that he had a thing about you. And that you knew it.’

‘That’s true.’

‘You’re saying he’s been pestering you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Harassing you? Stalking you?’

‘No, that’s not his style. He’s completely up front. It’s not creepy at all. He just comes out with it.’

‘With what?’

‘I’d rather not say … if you don’t mind.’

‘I do mind. Tell me.’

‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘He wants to have an affair. He’d like us to get it on.’

‘And you’ve been posing for him? Knowing that?’

‘I pose for the students.’

‘Knowing the way he feels about you?’

‘What he wants to do with me, yes. I’m not sure feelings come into it.’

‘But is that wise?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Or even kind?’

‘
Kind?
’ She laughed. ‘Maybe that’s why I do it.’

‘To taunt him?’

‘Something like that.’

Faraday studied her for a long time. Not far away, he could hear the clink of china.

‘And what about your husband, Henry? What did he think?’

‘About Stewart?’

‘Yes.’

‘He thought what you’re thinking. And he was as wrong as you are.’

‘Meaning we have no grounds?’

‘Meaning there’s no way in the world I’ll ever go with Stewart. None. Not ever. Not for money. Not for love. Not for the thrill of it. Not for anything. He knows that, by the way. Because I keep telling him.’

‘Then you might be off the hook.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think he’s probably dead.’

Eighteen

Back at the station, Faraday compared notes with Cathy. She’d got the team working on the morning’s actions and already Dawn Ellis had come back with a report on a conversation with David Kellard’s parents. They lived in Exeter, but they’d come to Cowes on the Friday night to take their son out to supper on the eve of the race. They said that he’d been cheerful as ever and eager to get started. His special buddy aboard
Marenka
had been young Sam. He’d only known the boy a couple of days but already they’d persuaded the skipper to let them watch-keep together.

Faraday asked about Charlie Oomes. Had she checked with him exactly where the boat had been berthed, over in Cowes?

Cathy shook her head. She’d phoned Oomes’s office but he’d been busy in a meeting. When she’d asked to talk to Derek Bissett, he was away on business and not back in the office until Monday.

‘Where on business?’

‘Germany.’

‘How convenient. And Hartson? You manage to get hold of him at all?’

‘No answer. I’ve rung three times so far and left messages.’

‘OK.’ Faraday nodded. ‘Try Oomes again. We’ll need another interview and before that see if you can lay hands on a plan of the boat. Get hold of the makers or something. We’ll also need a warrant for Hartson’s flat. We’ll go up this afternoon. Can you talk to the magistrates?’

Bevan’s secretary, Bibi, was standing at the door. The boss wanted five minutes. Now. Faraday followed her to the superintendent’s office. The sight of Arnie Pollock sitting at the little conference table brought him to a halt in the open door. What was his CID boss doing here?

‘Join us.’

Faraday sat down, exchanging nods with Pollock. Bevan stayed on his feet.

‘That bloody woman’s been on again,’ he grunted.

‘Which one?’

‘Both, as it happens. Nelly Tseng is still threatening to write to headquarters, but that’s not the real problem. It’s the fact that she’s been talking to our journalist friend. Kate Thingy. She phoned this morning.’

‘And?’

‘She says she’s publishing regardless. I take that as a warning.’

‘Publishing what?’

‘She wouldn’t say, not exactly. Except that it’s about Port Solent and that it includes the dive search.’

‘
Dive search
?’ Faraday couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Who told her about that?’

‘I did.’

Bevan at least had the grace to look shamefaced. He’d phoned her after listening to her audio tape and briefed her about the search for Stewart Maloney. At the time, it had seemed innocuous, a prime example of the lengths the police would go to when it came to missing persons. Treated the right way, it might even impress the likes of Nelly Tseng.

Faraday blinked, trying to get this thing straight in his head.

‘So you gave her chapter and verse on Maloney? To keep her quiet?’

‘I told her as much as she needed to know. She was even talking about getting hold of a photo of Maloney. Under the circumstances, I imagined that might be helpful.’

‘Did she ask for quotes from us? CID quotes?’

‘Yes.’

‘So who supplied those?’

‘I did.’ It was Pollock this time. ‘Neville briefed me and I gave her a ring.’

‘What did you say?’ Faraday was staring at him. ‘Sir?’

‘I simply pointed out that Maloney was as entitled to his share of police time as anyone else. The man has gone missing. That, to us, may have serious consequences.’ He studied his carefully buffed fingernails for a second or two, then looked up again. ‘Unfortunately, this woman appears to be a loose cannon. We have absolutely no idea what she’s going to write.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it does.’

‘Why?’ Faraday was still thinking about Maloney. ‘As far as the public’s concerned, it’s just like any other inquiry. We put divers down. We follow up various other leads. That’s what they expect, isn’t it?’

Pollock permitted himself a tiny frown. When events turned against him, he had a habit of steepling his hands together and resting his head on the tips of his fingers. Right now, he might have been at prayer.

‘It’s not the public we should be concerned about,’ he said softly. ‘It’s HQ. There are sensitivities about media coverage. I don’t want to go into it but we should be aware that they like to play it by the book.’

‘Play what by the book?’

‘Major inquiries. Like this one should be.’

Bevan nodded heavily and Faraday at last sensed where the conversation was going. Both men had a sudden interest in declaring Maloney the subject of a major inquiry, under the command of at least a detective chief inspector. That way, Bevan got his CID coverage back up to strength while Pollock would – in simple terms – cover his arse.

‘You told me this morning you thought there was no case.’ Faraday was looking at Bevan. ‘So how come we’re suddenly talking major inquiry?’

Bevan didn’t even try to defend himself. Instead, he gestured towards the telephone and shrugged.

‘She might change the equation completely,’ he said. ‘We just don’t know.’

There was a long silence. Faraday looked first at Bevan and then at Pollock. Both remained totally expressionless.

‘So how long have I got?’ Faraday said at last.

‘We understand she’s publishing on Monday.’ Bevan glanced at his watch. ‘Give or take, I make that forty-eight hours.’

By the time Paul Winter found a moment to phone Juanita, it was early afternoon. He wanted to talk about uncompleted business. And he wanted to talk about Dave Pope. How come he’d tailed them to the car park? How come he’d just happened to be around?

At last she answered the phone.

‘Me,’ he said briefly, ‘Paul.’

He settled behind the wheel of his car, letting the traffic sluice past. Just picturing this woman on the other end of the line was enough to give him the hots.

‘You there, love?’

He could hear nothing. He held the mobile away from his ear, shook it, then tried again. Still nothing. Finally, he hit the redial button and waited for her to answer. When her voice came on, she didn’t even give him a chance to start the conversation.

‘You give me big trouble,’ she said. ‘Big, big trouble.’

The mobile went dead again, and Winter stared at it for a full thirty seconds, his big face beaded with sweat.

Armed with a magistrate’s warrant, Faraday and Cathy Lamb searched Ian Hartson’s Chiswick apartment. The state of the place reminded Faraday of his first glimpse of Maloney’s seafront apartment: a life abruptly interrupted. Amongst the litter of clothes, books, notes and newspaper cuttings about the Fastnet disaster, Faraday turned up a sheaf of bank statements. These revealed substantial transfers into Hartson’s account. Faraday asked Cathy to take the details and commission further inquiries from the bank through the Force Intelligence Unit at Winchester. He wanted a source for the transfers, plus details of movements within the account over the last couple of days.

‘If you push them, they’ll turn it round in hours,’ Faraday told her. ‘Give them a ring.’

While Cathy talked to the FIU, Faraday dialled 1471 on Hartson’s phone. His most recent call had come from a nearby travel agency. When Faraday phoned back, they confirmed an inquiry on behalf of Ian Hartson and despatch of ferry details for the crossing from Portsmouth to Bilbao.

Cathy had finished on her mobile. Force Intelligence were contacting NatWest with Hartson’s details and expected a result before close of play.

Faraday nodded.

‘Haven’t come across his passport, have you?’

Cathy shook her head. Faraday had fired up Hartson’s computer and she stood behind him, studying the files on the hard disc. He opened one marked ‘Cape Clear’ and found himself looking at the first draft for the feature film treatment commissioned by Charlie Oomes. He scrolled through the pages of dialogue, eavesdropping on the race that had caught Hartson’s imagination, and then stopped at a map showing the tracks of the lead yachts. There was an awful lot of ocean between Cowes and the Fastnet Rock.

Faraday stepped back from the screen, deep in thought. For the last twenty-four hours, he’d been trying to put himself in Henry Potterne’s shoes. Say he’d killed Maloney at Port Solent. And say he’d sailed with the body aboard. Would it really have been that simple to slip it overboard on the passage back to Cowes? Or was Bevan right when he’d dismissed the possibility? Whatever the answer, a body on the boat at Cowes would have been even harder to dispose of. Hundreds of surrounding yachts. Partygoers by the thousands. And then, at dawn, serious last-minute preparations for the race itself.

Cathy was over by the window, thumbing through a pile of sailing magazines.

‘Did you manage to lay hands on a plan of the yacht?’ he asked her.

‘Marenka
?’ Cathy nodded. ‘It’s in the car.’

‘Good.’

Faraday returned to the PC. Within seconds, the printer had given him a copy of the map from ‘Cape Clear’.

Cathy was watching him, puzzled.

‘What’s that for?’

‘Reference.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s hope Oomes is still at work.’

The headquarters of Oomes International were on a trading estate beside the M4 at Brentford. A high wire fence surrounded a car park, and a couple of spartan-looking warehouses bristled with closed-circuit television cameras.

At first, the receptionist dismissed the possibility of an interview. Without an appointment, no one got in to see Mr Oomes. Only when Faraday produced his ID did she consent to pick up the phone.

Charlie Oomes’s office occupied a whole corner of the administrative block. The Venetian blinds were down against the hot slant of the late afternoon sunshine, and Charlie was at his desk, brooding over a spreadsheet on the computer screen. Back in the real world of profit and loss, he appeared to have dismissed the events of last week.

Faraday settled into a chair at the nearby conference table. He wanted an exact chronology of the race. He wanted to know everything that had happened from Friday night through to the moment when the yacht had gone down.

The back of Charlie’s neck began to redden. He gestured impatiently at the grid of figures on the screen.

‘Ever tried running a fucking business, by any chance? Ever tried keeping track of it all? Takes a bit of time. Time I don’t have just now.’

‘We could do this at my place or yours, Mr Oomes. Mine is in Portsmouth.’

Oomes spun round. For a split second, Faraday scented the possibility of physical violence. Then Oomes calmed down, tossing his pencil on to the desk.

‘Class-wise we were odds-on to win,’ he said. ‘You wanna start there?’

Faraday declined the invitation. Painstakingly, he began to jigsaw the chronology of the Fastnet together. On Friday night, according to Ian Hartson, he and Henry had returned to Cowes in
Marenka
. True or false?

‘True, obviously.’

‘Where was she tied up?’

‘The Yacht Haven marina.’

‘What happened then?’

‘They both came up to the Royal Corinthian. Me and Derek were already there. We all had supper.’

‘How was Henry?’

‘OK, perfectly normal.’

‘Was he drunk?’

‘No way. I’ve told you. Henry drank. He didn’t get drunk, he drank. There’s a difference.’

‘Was he distressed at all? Upset?’

‘No.’

‘Was he … did he look … damaged at all? Bruised? Any signs that he might have been in some kind of fight?’

‘No.’

Oomes was hunched at his desk now, his head tucked into his shoulders, the classic boxer’s stance. He was playing it tight, giving nothing away. When Faraday asked which table they’d occupied, and exactly what time they’d eaten, he shrugged. It was mid-evening. It could have been any fucking table. He couldn’t remember.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, really. And you know why? Because since then we’ve all been to hell and back. I can’t remember where the table was and I can’t remember the name of the waiter’s mother-in-law. Oh, and by the way, I just lost three good friends at sea. Does that sound reasonable to you?’

‘But you had a booking?’

I expect so. Henry handled all that. He was a member. Phone them. Ask them.’

‘Was it busy that night?’

‘It’s always busy.’

‘So other people would have seen you?’

‘Of course. If they’d got nothing better to look at.’

Faraday watched Cathy scribbling notes. He’d make sure she had someone over in Cowes first thing tomorrow, testing every link in Oomes’s story.

‘So where were the two lads that night? Sam and David?’

‘Dunno. Out, somewhere.’

‘When did you next see them?’

‘Saturday morning. Half past nine. We all met for breakfast.’

‘At the house?’

‘Of course. I gave them a pep talk. Not that they ever fucking listened.’

‘So they wouldn’t have been on the boat since …?’ Faraday frowned, waiting for an answer.

‘Thursday. That was our last race round the cans. And we call it a yacht, by the way, just for the record.’ Oomes nodded at Cathy’s notepad. He was still combative, still angry, but he was stepping carefully now, doing his best to keep Faraday at arm’s length.

Faraday wanted to know exactly where
Marenka
had been berthed in the Yacht Haven marina on Friday night.

‘Why?’

‘We may decide to send divers down.’

‘Why would you want to do that?’

Faraday ignored the question. Were the berths numbered? Did you have to book ahead? There must have been a record, surely, of where the boat had been moored?

‘We tied up alongside another yacht,’ Oomes said. ‘I think she was one of the Aussies.’

‘Did you go out again that night?’

‘No way. Another couple of guys made fast to us. We were tucked up for the night.’

‘Have you got names for these boats?’

‘No. And it’s a big marina. You’re talking maybe a hundred yachts. Every night you’ve got a different neighbour. God knows who it was on Friday.’

‘We’ll check, then.’

‘Good fucking luck.’

Oomes had picked up the pencil again. When Faraday asked about the race itself, and the choice of course that first night, he began to tap it on his desk.