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  A hand went up. One of the older D/Cs wanted to know more about the domestic. A nod from Faraday told Suttle to explain.

  ‘I’m having a bit of trouble on this one,’ he said, ‘but it seems that our lot got there after the girl’s boyfriend. If anyone knows what happened, my guess is that he does. He lives with his mum in Newport. Mum’s away at the moment and we can’t raise anyone at the house.’

  ‘Name?’ It was Faraday.

  ‘Robbie Difford. According to the DVLA, he’s twenty-two.’

  Faraday told Suttle to carry on. Local house-to-house, he said, had produced intelligence on Holman’s shotguns, plus some gossip on the kind of people they seemed to be.

  ‘And?’ The question came from the Outside Enquiries D/S.

  ‘Party people, definitely. Lots of music, lots of young kids roaring up and down the lane. There was trouble over off-road bikes too, though that seems to have gone away. Julie was well-liked. She seems to have made a bit of an effort.’

  ‘All this aggro. Anything serious?’ Still the Outside Enquiries D/S.

  ‘Nothing flagged. Nothing that would justify something like this. The way I read it, there are loads of incomers around, mostly retired. It’s a bit of a lottery, really, who you get as a neighbour. Like I say, Holman was definitely a pain.’

  Local CID, he said, had blitzed the enquiry next day. Seized CCTV at local garages and the ferry terminals, automatic number plate recognition camera checks, plus an ever-widening trawl of local addresses. To date, no one had reported vehicle movements in the small hours of Sunday morning. Neither was there much regret at what had happened. The latter produced a small ripple of laughter around the room. One of the three female D/Cs asked about the girls. They’d have mates at school. What was their take on life at Monkswell Farm?

  Suttle said he didn’t think this line of enquiry had yet been actioned. So far the intel operation had concentrated on Johnny Holman. This was a guy with interesting Pompey connections. He’d never been arrested or convicted for any serious offences, but his name featured in a number of informant reports. He’d long been mates with some of the bigger figures in the Pompey underworld, and if you were looking for motive then his address book would be a great place to start. At this point in the inquiry Suttle wasn’t prepared to tie Holman to anyone in particular, but person or persons unknown would need a very good reason to justify a multiple homicide like this.

  ‘So what are we thinking, skipper?’ It was the female D/C again. ‘Someone gains entry to the house? Ties them up? Kills them? Sets a fire?’

  ‘That’s a possibility, sure.’

  ‘Why? What for?’

  ‘We don’t know. Not for certain,’ said Suttle.

  ‘But?’

  ‘There’s been some digging round the back of the property. A fair-sized hole. It may be recent, it may not. We don’t know why it’s there but there’s obviously a possibility that Holman may have been sitting on something valuable.’

  ‘And someone took it off him?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. At this stage it’s speculation. If you fancied a punt, I’d put my money on toot.’

  Suttle acknowledged the nods and smiles around the room. As far as motive was concerned, he was still keeping an open mind, but speaking personally he viewed intel enquiries around Holman as an obvious way forward. Over the years the guy had put himself around. In short, the key to Gosling’s door might lie in Pompey rather than on the island.

  Faraday agreed. Picking up on the work of the local CID, he’d already given the Outside Enquiry D/S a list of actions for tomorrow. He wanted more work done on the CCTV. He wanted careful briefings for the local media. He wanted the female D/Cs out among the dead girls’ associates, developing whatever lifestyle intelligence they could acquire. Everyone would be traumatised by the prospect of the forthcoming funeral – the perfect opportunity, in other words, to get these people onside.

  ‘And the young lad? Robbie whatever?’ The question came from Meg Stanley.

  ‘An absolute priority.’ He shot her a nod of gratitude. ‘We have to find the boy.’

  Minutes later the meeting broke up. Returning to his office, Faraday settled behind the desk and scrolled through the calls and messages that had stacked up on his mobile over the last half-hour. Most of them were Gosling-related. One, a text, wasn’t.

  Gabrielle.

  *

  It was nearly eight o’clock by the time Winter got to Eastfield Road. Jimmy Suttle lived in the bottom half of a red-brick Victorian terrace. This was where Southsea dribbled into an area called Milton, much favoured by estate agents desperate to breathe some life into the market. They talked of the ‘village atmosphere’ and the ‘vibrant social scene’, code for street after street of bedsits, many of them occupied by partying students.

  Winter waited on the doorstep, then rang the bell again. He hadn’t been here for nearly a year. Finally the door opened. Lizzie Hodson was Suttle’s partner, a small vivid woman with a bright smile. She seemed to have put on a bit of weight.

  ‘Paul.’ She stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Inviting me in or what?’

  She looked at him a moment, uncertain. She had nothing on her feet and her toes were curling on the cold tiles.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

  Winter followed her into the flat. The kitchen was at the back. Whatever she was frying included a hefty whack of garlic.

  Winter helped himself to a seat at the breakfast bar.

  ‘How’s tricks? Still working you to death?’

  Lizzie was a reporter on the local daily paper, the Pompey News. Winter, who was a bit of a fan, made a point of keeping up with her career. Lately, she’d been doing a series of features on the prospects for the local economy: how the credit crunch was affecting Pompey families, how people were coping with lost jobs.

  ‘Work’s fine. You want a beer or something?’

  Winter settled for a bottle of Stella. The mountain of rice in the frying pan reminded him how hungry he was. Maybe he should have eaten earlier, while he had the chance.

  ‘You fancy some of this?’ Lizzie was ahead of the game. ‘I was expecting Jimmy back but it’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Away, is he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Might I ask where?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  Winter grinned at her. This was a game and they both knew it. As a veteran D/C, Winter had taught Suttle every trick in the investigative book. Rule one: don’t admit anything unless you absolutely have to. Rule two: if in doubt, change the subject.

  ‘That boss of yours …’ Lizzie was ladling rice onto a couple of plates. ‘Whose idea was it to tap up the Guardian?’

  Winter blinked. As far as he knew, the interview with Baz had yet to make it into print.

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s in tomorrow’s paper. It’s a feature piece so it’s on the Guardian website already. You want a look?’

  She gave him a plate and disappeared into the lounge at the front of the house. Winter got off his stool and peered at a number scribbled on a pad beside the phone. By the time Lizzie returned, he was tackling the fried rice.

  ‘Delicious,’ he said. ‘The boy doesn’t know what he’s missing.’

  ‘That’s what I tell him. Here.’

  She put the laptop on the breakfast bar and angled the screen towards Winter. The photo of Mackenzie must have been taken in the restaurant at the Royal Trafalgar. Winter recognised the stretch of Southsea Common through the window and the grey lick of the Solent beyond. Bazza had adopted his statesman pose for the benefit of the snapper. He was even wearing a tie.

  ‘You’ve read it?’ Winter glanced at Lizzie.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He sounds quite plausible. A referendum for an elected mayor? Giving Citizen Joe a proper shout? Blowing the cobwebs off local government? Returning power to th
e grass roots? I don’t know who’s been feeding him all this stuff but he’s certainly ticking the right boxes.’

  ‘And you think it might happen?’

  ‘Depends. There’s a general election next year and Labour are going to lose. That probably puts the Tories in. Have you read their proposals for local government?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t.’

  ‘Then maybe you should. They’re going to offer referendums just like this one to the ten biggest cities in the country. For exactly the reasons your boss is talking about here. So …’ she shrugged ‘… if it works in Birmingham or Leeds, why not Pompey?’

  Winter was impressed. To date, if he was completely honest, he’d regarded Bazza’s political ambitions as an ego trip, or maybe some kind of wind-up. Lizzie Hodson, it seemed, was telling him he was wrong.

  ‘So you think it’s doable?’ Winter wanted to know.

  ‘I think there might one day be a referendum, yes.’

  ‘And you think Baz might be the man for the job?’

  ‘I think this is exactly the kind of city that might take a step like that, yes.’

  ‘You’re serious? Bazza? Lord Mayor? Big car? All that bling they wear?’

  ‘Sure, Paul, but power too. Real power. That’s what turns him on, isn’t it? Or are you telling me that Tide Turn is just window dressing?’

  Winter steadied himself. This conversation was fast turning into an interview.

  ‘Bazza loves this city,’ he said carefully. ‘Always has done, always will. He wants to do the best by it. He wants to get it sorted.’

  ‘Are we still talking Tide Turn?’

  ‘Yeah. And one or two other things.’

  They looked at each other, amused, an unspoken acknowledgement of what Bazza’s toot money, carefully washed, had done for the likes of Southsea. The quietly tasteful café-bars, largely Marie’s doing. The Royal Trafalgar with its fourth star. A whole raft of jobs for kids from Portsea and Somerstown who’d otherwise be up to all kinds of wickedness. And now Tide Turn.

  ‘So …’ Lizzie gestured towards the laptop again ‘… no wonder the Guardian are impressed.’

  ‘They gave him an easy ride?’

  ‘It’s much worse than that. They seemed to believe him.’

  ‘No mention of –’ Winter frowned ‘– the 6.57?’

  Lizzie peered at the screen a moment. ‘“A passion for football and a talent for mixing with all kinds of people took Mackenzie to every corner of the kingdom. The skills he picked up on the terraces should stand him in good stead in the cut and thrust of political debate.”’ She looked across, grinning. ‘How’s that sound?’

  ‘They’re taking the piss. Either that, or Baz is.’

  ‘On the contrary, they’re telling him he’s passed the test. Believe me, you don’t get profile like this by accident.’

  Winter nodded, returned briefly to the remains of the rice. There was a name he wanted to run past her. Someone who Bazza was keeping under wraps.

  ‘Leo Kinder?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You know this guy?’

  ‘I’ve met him a couple of times, yes. Lawyer? Young? Good-looking? Political ambitions? Right wing? Fell out with the Tories, big time? What are you telling me, Paul?’

  ‘Nothing, love. Just curious.’

  ‘Curious, bollocks. Is Kinder thick with Mackenzie? Is that it?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Has to be. That’s where all this comes from.’ Her eyes returned to the laptop. ‘Kinder knows the Tory manifesto by heart. He probably helped write the thing. In the end his face didn’t fit, and for my money he’s gone looking for a new political home.’ She laughed. ‘They’re made for each other, those two. Beauty and the Beast. Shit …’

  Winter was studying his hands. He hadn’t been so effortlessly kippered for years. Lizzie was a class act.

  ‘So who’s the Beauty?’ he enquired

  ‘Kinder, of course.’

  ‘I’ll tell him that.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Beast.’ Winter pushed his stool back and stepped away from the breakfast bar. ‘So where’s young Jimmy?’

  ‘You asked me that before.’

  ‘I know I did. I’m asking you again.’

  ‘Same answer. No comment.’

  ‘Shame.’ He stooped to give her a kiss. ‘But thanks for the hospitality.’

  She saw him to the door, said goodnight, promised to remember him to Jimmy when he got back. Only when Winter was back in his car did he scribble down the number he’d clocked beside her phone.

  01983 prefix. The Isle of Wight.

  Je suis à Salisbury, chéri. Avec la petite. Gros bisous. G. Faraday was back in his room, rechecking Gabrielle’s text. She was evidently in Salisbury. La petite, the little one, had to be Leila. Somehow she’d secured the funding and flown the broken little doll he’d glimpsed at El Arish to the UK. He knew nothing about the Burns Unit – what it entailed, where he might find it – but for the time being that didn’t matter. More important was the fact that Gabrielle was still intact, still in touch. The word bisous flooded him with a deep sense of relief. Gros bisous meant ‘Lots of kisses.’

  Twice he’d tried to phone her back but both times she was on divert. Now, almost light-headed, he checked his watch. It was gone nine and he hadn’t eaten since a snatched sandwich in the police station at Newport. He knew that Suttle had joined a bunch of detectives at a pasta place on Ryde High Street. He’d been nice enough to leave directions in case Faraday fancied it, but the thought of an evening of Job-talk filled him with gloom. Thanks to Gabrielle, he seemed to have regained a little of the ground he’d lost since the accident. He didn’t know how much faith to place in this welcome moment of sanity but he knew he didn’t want to squander it. On the point of wandering out on his own to find somewhere quiet, he had another thought. He’d stored Meg Stanley’s mobile number. No, she hadn’t eaten yet. And yes, she’d like to join him for a curry.

  They found a restaurant in Union Street, the Ryde Tandoori. Midwinter, with flurries of rain still blowing in off the Solent, the place was empty. They chose a table beside the Calor gas heater and ordered drinks. Cobra for Faraday. Orange juice for Meg.

  ‘Strange being here …’ She was gazing out at the street.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I went to school up the road. Five of the worst years of my life.’

  It had been a boarding school, she said. Her father worked in the oil business, a geologist prospecting all over the world, and most of the time he took his wife with him. As a result, Meg had been dumped in a series of boarding schools. Yuk.

  ‘How bad was it?’

  ‘On a scale of ten? Probably four or five, but that doesn’t count at the time because all you’ve got to go on are the people around you. I was an only child. I never had a problem with that. Not until I was chucked in with hundreds of others.’

  The experience, she said, had been the steepest of learning curves, and the known limit of the real world had been here in Ryde.

  ‘We used to get leave out once a month, always a Sunday. There was a bus you could catch to get down to Ryde. I used to stand on the end of the pier and watch those huge oil tankers sail past. Oil was something I knew about. It paid the fees, for one thing, so I blamed it for banging me up. I hated the place, loathed it.’

  ‘You said learning curve.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did you learn?’

  ‘Serious question?’

  ‘Serious question.’

  ‘I learned how to be alone. To be properly alone. Back home it was easy. Just little me. In a school with a couple of hundred other gals, it’s trickier. Still …’ she ducked her head ‘… like I say, you learn.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Still alone.’

  ‘And happy?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Faraday raised his glass. ‘Here’s to solitude.’

 
They talked about the Job for a while but without much passion. She’d never dreamed of ending up in the police, but a postgraduate degree in forensic science had given her a taste for putting all her knowledge to the test and in the end she’d won herself a post as a Crime Scene Investigator in the Devon and Cornwall force.

  ‘Exeter,’ she said. ‘Lovely city.’

  From there, she’d won promotion to the West Midlands as a Crime Scene Manager, before heading south to her current desk with Scientific Services at the Training HQ at Netley.

  ‘So how does all this stuff sit with a BA in theology?’

  ‘Rather well, since you ask. I’ve always regarded God as the biggest mystery, totally unsolvable. Forensic science gives a girl like me a bit of hope.’

  Faraday laughed. ‘Do you use that line at parties?’

  ‘I don’t go to parties.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Not if I can avoid them.’

  ‘So, where are you living?’

  ‘Lock’s Heath. I bought a horrible little newbuild. It’s a tent. It’ll meet my needs for a while. Then I’ll move on.’ She smiled at him. ‘How about you?’

  The question took Faraday by surprise. He was glad not to be talking about charred bodies but there was a directness about Meg Stanley that left him nowhere to go.

  ‘Me?’ He frowned. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Are you married? Kids?’

  ‘Partnered. One child.’

  ‘Yours? Plural?’

  ‘Mine. His name’s J-J. Joe Junior. He’s in his thirties now.’

  ‘And his mum?’

  ‘She died way back. Her name was Janna. Cancer.’ He touched his chest.

  ‘How old was J-J?’