The Take Read online

  ‘Is he right, though? Is there some kind of relationship between you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m talking about you, Shelley. You and Paul Addison.’

  She shook her head again, turning away. Her father was off the planet. He’d always hated her going to college. Woolies or B&Q would have been more his mark. Somewhere he could keep an eye on her. As for Paul, it was all a fantasy.

  ‘That’s what he says.’ It was Stapleton’s turn to take up the running. ‘He says he dresses you up.’

  ‘That’s right, he does. We both do. It’s called role play. It’s part of the course. Is that illegal?’

  ‘Not at all. Unless …’ He shrugged. ‘Unless you’re not up for it.’

  ‘Not up for what?’

  ‘Shagging.’

  ‘Is that what he’s saying? My dad? We dress up and then shag?’

  ‘Something like that. Only you’re not keen. That’s what’s bothering him.’

  Shelley said nothing, and then crossed towards the window to let in some air. As the light caught her face, Dawn thought she saw the faint remains of a bruise beneath the girl’s left eye.

  ‘We’re really here to help,’ she said softly. ‘You’d be wise to trust us.’

  The faintest smile crossed Shelley’s face, but she didn’t reply. As far as she was concerned, their little chat was over. Stapleton bent to the carpet and retrieved the dinner plate, counting at least three roaches among the litter of stubbed-out butts. Then he looked Shelley in the eye and nodded at the plate. Shame to taint a nice relationship like this with anything as silly as a visit from the Drugs Squad.

  At length, Shelley shrugged.

  ‘OK,’ she muttered, ‘he might have … you know … tried it on.’

  ‘Might have?’ Stapleton was frowning. ‘You’d know, surely.’

  ‘Yeah, but … these things … it’s me as well, you know.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I dunno. I dunno what you want.’

  There was a long silence. Dawn could hear the steady drip of water from the overflow outside.

  ‘Rape isn’t trying it on,’ she pointed out.

  ‘No, I know, but—’

  ‘Are you telling us he raped you?’ Stapleton this time, the smile gone. ‘Just yes or no, love.’

  ‘No, but … I dunno.’

  ‘Have you had intercourse with him?’

  Shelley was biting her lip. Stapleton asked the question again. She didn’t reply. Dawn had circled behind her.

  ‘So whose idea was it?’ she enquired softly. ‘His or yours?’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘Shagging.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You don’t have to. We’ve been there. No games, Shelley. Just tell us.’

  ‘But it’s not like that. It’s nothing like that. Honest.’

  Dawn turned away, leaving her to Stapleton.

  ‘Then why’s your dad so uptight?’ he enquired.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘That’s not an answer, love.’

  ‘But I’m telling you. I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ Stapleton was in her face now. ‘Addison tried to get his leg over and you were bloody upset and you told him what happened and he came to us and now you just want us to go away. Isn’t that it?’

  ‘The last bit’ – she stepped away from him – ‘definitely.’

  She was frightened, Dawn could tell. In terms of anything useful, anything evidential, they were light years away from a result, but they’d stumbled on something here, and she could tell that Rick felt it too. The girl was confused. She couldn’t quite make up her mind what role to play. There were knots inside her that deserved untangling, secrets she might be persuaded to share.

  Dawn caught Stapleton’s eye again and nodded at the door. Shelley watched him every step of the way as he left the room.

  ‘It’s first on the left,’ she called. ‘Keep pulling to flush.’

  The two women looked at each other. Dawn tried to narrow the gulf between them with a smile.

  ‘Tell me about the masks,’ she said softly.

  The girl stared at her.

  ‘He told you about that? My dad?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Dawn felt for a pen. ‘An address would be good, Shelley. Just for starters.’

  Paul Winter was in a traffic jam at the city end of the motorway, waiting for the queue of vehicles to drain down on to the big roundabout that would take him back to Fratton nick. His boiling anger with the consultant had gone now, replaced by a feeling of numbness. He’d been blanked by the world of medicine. Short of crank diets or a sudden attack of religious faith, there seemed to be absolutely nothing he could do. Maybe Joannie was right after all when she told him they had to accept it. Maybe she really was going to die. He shook his head, gazing sightlessly at the auto parts van on his left. Even a half-smile from the girl at the wheel failed to rouse him.

  His mobile began to chirp on the seat beside him. He looked at it a moment, totally disinterested, then picked it up. It was the manager from the Marriott hotel, the Scots guy.

  ‘It’s about our friend Mr French,’ he began.

  ‘Go on,’ Winter grunted.

  ‘I did some asking around. Just out of curiosity.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He had a meal in the hotel last night. Paid for it with his credit card. I checked out the slip and his name’s not French at all.’

  ‘Maybe he was using someone else’s card.’

  ‘Not if he signed, surely.’

  The traffic was beginning to move at last. Winter waved the auto-parts girl into the gap in front.

  ‘Faked the signature,’ he said. ‘Happens all the time.’

  ‘And that’s not illegal?’

  ‘Of course it is. If you’ve got the time to chase it and get a positive ID on the fella.’

  ‘Would that include video?’

  ‘Video?’ Winter was forcing himself to concentrate at last. Of course they had video. Even B&Bs had video these days. Shit. ‘How many cameras have you got?’ He tried to make the enquiry sound casual but knew he hadn’t a prayer. First the lawnmower. Now some doze of a DC who hadn’t had the wit to enquire about video.

  ‘More than a dozen,’ the manager was saying. ‘Including reception.’

  ‘And you’re telling me you’ve got a decent mug shot?’

  ‘Several.’

  ‘OK.’ Winter reached for a pen. ‘Give me the name he used. I’ll check it out.’

  ‘Pieter Hennessey,’ the manager said. ‘Pieter spelled the Dutch way.’

  Faraday brooded all afternoon about the accident in Larkrise Avenue. He brooded through a meeting on the implications of the European Convention of Human Rights. He brooded through a departmental run-in on the monthly overtime figures. And by the time Joyce appeared at the door of his office with a pile of internal correspondence, he was more or less certain that his raid on Traffic’s turf deserved some decent camouflage.

  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.’

  Four

  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.

&n
bsp; ‘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?’