The Take Read online

  Langstone Harbour lay in the darkness outside. The big sliding doors to the lounge were still open and the night wind spiked the room with the scent of seaweed and newly cut grass. Ruth had promised to keep an eye out for a decent mower. Something motorised. Something Faraday wouldn’t have to push.

  Winter was sitting on the sofa with a big glass of Scotch, talking about the incident at the Marriott hotel. How the guy had checked in under a false name. The mess he’d made of the room. The blood around the hand basin next door. Faraday knew him in these moods. He was setting the scene, baiting a trap.

  ‘So what’s it worth?’ he said at last.

  ‘You tell me, boss. On the face of it, fuck all. But you get an instinct, don’t you?’

  ‘And what does that tell you?’

  ‘It tells me the guy was attacked.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘Hennessey. He was a surgeon.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yeah, and I can think of several thousand women who’d gladly see him dead.’

  Faraday reached for the bottle and splashed more Scotch into Winter’s empty glass. The name Hennessey rang bells.

  ‘Gynae surgeon? Cocked up lots of operations?’

  ‘That’s right. You’d have seen him in the papers.’

  ‘So what’s the evidence? At the Marriott?’

  Winter was staring at the photos on the wall. The photos were Janna’s work, Faraday’s dead wife. She’d had a talent as mysterious as Ruth’s, only in her case it revealed rather than hid itself. He’d kept the photos ever since she’d died, in exactly the same place on exactly the same walls, part of the geography of his life, and he must have mentioned them to Winter the last time he’d been here because he seemed to recognise them. He was pointing to a shot of Puget Sound during a snowstorm. Seattle had been Janna’s home town.

  ‘That’s where I am,’ Winter said quietly, ‘that’s exactly where I am. Snowed in. Totally fucked.’

  Faraday blinked. This wasn’t about the Marriott at all.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Winter glanced round at him.

  ‘Cath not told you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Joannie’s got cancer. Three months, give or take. How do you cope with something like that? Eh?’

  The question was genuine. And, more importantly, Faraday knew that Winter wanted him to answer it. His own wife had been taken by cancer. Same brutal news. Same brutal outcome.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Faraday said quietly. ‘Truly sorry.’

  ‘I don’t want sorry. I want advice. How do you cope? What do you do? I’m telling you, I’m fucked, snowed under. I need clues, boss. Know what I mean?’

  Faraday nodded. He’d been a younger man when Janna died, much younger, but at the time youth hadn’t helped at all. Whenever it happened, you looked death in the face and refused to believe it.

  ‘It must seem unreal.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘And bloody unfair.’

  ‘Yeah. And it gets worse.’ Winter gestured down at his ample belly. ‘It gets you like you don’t know what to do, how to react. I just want to …’ He stared at the empty tumbler, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  Faraday reached for the bottle of Bell’s. A moment or two with the memories of Janna’s final weeks and he could do with a refill himself. Day after day in the tiny bungalow over at Freshwater Bay, doing his best to nurse his infant son. Endless nights, watching his wife asleep, wondering whether she wasn’t already dead. People had it wrong about death. It was never pretty, never comforting.

  ‘You’ll need time off,’ he said. ‘Serious time off.’

  ‘But it could take from here to Christmas. Probably will.’

  ‘Exactly. But that’s why you need the time. I’ll sort something out tomorrow. Give you a ring, eh?’

  The question seemed to rouse Winter. He got up on one elbow, the Scotch still in his hand.

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said at last. ‘It’s not the time off. That’s not why I came here. It’s something else. A thing like this, it kills you, kills you stone dead. A woman. Your wife. You live with her for all those years, and then bang, this happens, and you’re really on the spot. I can’t look her in the eye any more. I just can’t.’ He looked up at Faraday. ‘You know what I mean, boss? About women? The kind of bloke they think you are? And the kind of bloke you know you really are?’

  Faraday nodded, turning away. He had another bottle of Bell’s in the kitchen.

  ‘That’s well put,’ he said softly.

  Five

  Tuesday, 20 June, 0900

  A double-dose of ibuprofen and three cups of tea had failed to do anything for Faraday’s splitting head. At best, the regular Tuesday morning senior management team sessions with Hartigan were a test for his patience, a reluctant genuflexion towards organisational flow charts which seemed to change almost monthly. Normally, Faraday survived these meetings by seeming to go along with all the bullshit about information cascades and service performance indicators, and then sounding the usual weary note about conditions down on the street. This morning, though, he doubted whether he could even manage that.

  Hartigan was his divisional boss, a uniformed Superintendent with barely a year in the rank. Unlike Bevan, his predecessor, whose down-to-earth coppering had won Faraday’s deep respect, Hartigan had come newly minted from the headquarters assembly line. Scoring top grades on the Bramshill Senior Command Course, and winning high praise from the Winchester apparatchiks for a lengthy paper on the methodology of SWOT analysis (Strengths! Weaknesses!! Opportunities!!! Threats!!!!), he’d descended on Portsmouth with a mission to transform the city’s policing.

  Like most of his colleagues, Faraday had at first assumed that Hartigan’s zeal was a gesture, no more significant than an introductory handshake, but it had slowly dawned on him that this small, intense little man with the buffed nails and carefully trimmed moustache really meant it. Pompey was a tough case, but he was going to turn the place around. And afterwards, once the dust had settled, he’d find himself behind an even bigger desk.

  ‘Now then’ – Hartigan had one perfect fingernail anchored halfway down the agenda – ‘the Good Neighbours Initiative.’

  There was a murmur of anticipation around the conference table. Of the six officers present, five were uniformed. Only Faraday spoke for CID. He sat back, eyeing the coffee pot as Hartigan launched into one of his mantras about the importance of putting a smile on the city’s face. Listen to Hartigan in this mood, and you’d think he was running a travel agency.

  ‘We can only cope with so much negative publicity,’ he was saying. ‘We have to get Paulsgrove behind us.’

  Paulsgrove was a sprawling council estate on the lower slopes of Portsdown Hill, in the north of the city, a carefully planned post-war refuge for bombed-out families. Since then, socialist good intentions had slowly fallen apart under the weight of poverty, broken families and an epidemic of petty crime, and the estate had recently become a national byword for anarchy and mob violence after a series of paedophile riots. Faraday, who knew the area well, had some sympathy for most of the folk who lived there. Getting by on a pension or dole money was hard enough. Living alongside the estate’s hardcore of loonies, inbreds and psychopaths would stretch anyone to the limit.

  Hartigan, more self-important than ever, had decided the city needed a bit of a boost. Put Pompey pride before Paulsgrove paedophilia and the crime rate would sink overnight. Salvation, he announced, was staring us in the face. A hundred million pounds’ worth of investment. Architecture to be proud of. Unrivalled views. Decent people in decent housing and all kinds of retail goodies to raise the tone. Faraday, like everyone else around the table, waited for Hartigan’s call to arms, the magic phrase that would transform this battered old punchbag of a city.

  ‘Gunwharf Quays, gentlemen.’ Hartigan looked around him. ‘That’s what should be concentrating our minds. How we help them make it work. Why we nee
d to think even harder about good neighbourliness.’

  Neighbourliness, Faraday knew, was code for Portsea, a couple of square miles of towering council blocks and rusting Transit vans that surrounded the new jewel in Portsmouth’s crown. Portsea, like other inner-city areas, was disfigured by poverty and petty crime. Some of the neediest people in the country lived in Portsea, and the sight of well-heeled buyers queuing for half-a-million-pound harbourside apartments would do nothing for their self-esteem.

  Hartigan was cross-examining his Chief Inspector about the latest crime figures for Portsea. Vandalism and street violence were on the increase. So were thefts from motor vehicles. Hartigan looked pained.

  ‘We need to tackle this.’ His hand chopped down on the table. ‘It’s an undertaking we need to make. We have to be pro-active. Community meetings and poster campaigns simply aren’t good enough. Joe?’

  Faraday knew the summons was bound to come. Although he also reported directly to Willard, his Detective Superintendent, the divisional structure meant that Hartigan claimed ownership of his services. The DI belonged to him, not Willard. Faraday and his team of detectives was a divisional asset to be deployed as he, Hartigan, felt fit. Look for a way of nipping trouble in the bud – targeting known troublemakers, setting up surveillance, feeling a few collars – and Faraday would be tasked with delivering, in the fashionable phrase, the appropriate outcomes. He wasn’t a detective, not as far as Hartigan was concerned. He was a crime manager.

  Faraday gazed numbly at his copy of the agenda. After the Good Neighbours Initiative came Crime and Citizenship. The morning could only get worse.

  ‘This undertaking you mentioned, sir … to whom, exactly?’

  ‘The Gunwharf Quays people. I’ve had a couple of meetings, and I have to say I’m impressed. They’re born troubleshooters. And they want to know we’re on their side.’

  ‘Is that in doubt?’

  ‘Not at all, Joe, not at all. But these people speak the language of results. We can flannel them all we like, but they’re not stupid. Words are cheap. They want to see that we mean it.’

  Faraday suppressed a smile. He’d seen the glossy brochures for Gunwharf Quays, with its promises of ‘world-class shopping’ and ‘lifestyle malls’. If anyone understood the power of language, it was surely the developers.

  ‘We can try and up our game,’ he said carefully, ‘but in the end it’s about resources.’

  ‘Of course, Joe, of course. So what are you proposing?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Give me a couple of days. I’ll get something down on paper.’

  Hartigan glanced at his watch.

  ‘Thursday? Close of play? Something I can table at our next meeting? Something you might like to come along and present?’

  Faraday had a sudden vision of Hartigan taking him along on some kind of lead and introducing him with the appropriate flourish. Meet Joe Faraday. My tame DI. He reached for his pen and scribbled something on his copy of the agenda, hoping to God that Hartigan would move on. Maybe he could task one of his DSs with drawing up some half-arsed plan. Maybe, if it looked good enough on paper, he might even blag some of that precious overtime reserve he knew Hartigan kept in his bottom drawer.

  Hartigan was still eyeballing him, his head lowered, his pen in his hand, eager to tick yet another box.

  ‘Last thing Thursday, Joe? Is that a yes?’

  Winter was wondering about the possibility of a free breakfast when the manager finally emerged from his office. He’d been on a conference call with the Marriott high command up in London. He had the promised video tapes ready and waiting.

  Winter followed him back into his office. An image of a man in a light zip-up jacket quivered on the TV monitor in the corner. He was standing at the reception desk, his wallet in his hand. Judging by the angle, the camera must have been mounted on the back wall, slightly above head height.

  ‘That’s him. Hennessey.’ The manager was glancing through a sheaf of notes on his desk.

  Winter stood over the monitor, staring at the figure on the screen. A long, fleshy face. Jowliness verging on plump. Receding hair, combed sideways over a balding skull. Thick lips. Square, rimless glasses. And, most revealing of all, a big, self-confident smile, the smile of a man used to being in charge. Winter had yet to pick up the cuttings from Pete Lamb but he had no doubt that this face fitted the bill. Pieter Hennessey. Butcher of the Year.

  ‘You’ve got hard copy of this?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘One for me?’

  ‘No problem. You want to see the rest?’

  The night manager had already dubbed footage from the other cameras onto this single tape. The next image showed two men in the big revolving door which led out to the car park. Hennessey was on the left – same jacket – and the bulk of his body partially obscured his companion. The other guy was slightly taller and a good deal less fat. He was wearing jeans and a suede jacket and his face was turned away from camera.

  ‘Is this the best you can do?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The system records single frames every three seconds. Otherwise we’d be forever changing tapes.’

  Winter nodded. Hennessey’s mystery companion seemed to be offering the surgeon support, his arm locked around Hennessey’s ample waist. Either that, or Hennessey was being marched out against his will.

  The manager pointed his remote at the screen, and the image changed again. This time the two men were out in the car park, and as the sequence jumped from image to image, it became apparent that Hennessey was indeed damaged goods. In some of the shots, he was plainly nursing his left arm, his whole body sagging to one side, and when they got to a black-looking Mercedes in the far bay, it was Hennessey’s companion who first folded the surgeon into the passenger seat, and then got in behind the wheel. The last shot showed the back of the car as it turned towards the main road. Winter made a note of the registration.

  ‘Copies of those, too. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll get them done this morning. Have them sent over.’

  ‘I’ll need the tapes as well. For evidence.’

  ‘OK.’ The manager permitted himself a small, private smile. ‘No problem.’

  Winter was thinking ahead, planning the wall he’d build around Hennessey.

  ‘You’ve still got the credit-card slip?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’ll need that too, please.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The room you showed me. We ought to give it a proper going-over.’

  The manager glanced up, sorting through the paperwork on his desk, still looking for the credit-card slip.

  ‘Too late, my friend. I had the maid clean it.’ The smile had returned. ‘After you said you weren’t interested.’

  Back in his office, Faraday called for Rick Stapleton and Dawn Ellis. On the phone, first thing, Stapleton had already briefed him about the lecturer, Addison. They’d arrested him on suspicion of producing material liable to deprave and corrupt, and gone through his house again, more thoroughly this time. This second search had failed to produce any evidence of a Donald Duck mask, but they’d seized seven boxes of video tapes and, at Dawn’s suggestion, a pair of walking boots with mud and grass on the soles. Of the black tracksuit reported by all three victims, there’d been no trace.

  Booked in by the Custody Sergeant down at the Bridewell, Addison had spent the night in the cells. They’d interviewed him for a couple of hours in the early evening with his solicitor present, and he was due a second session this morning, once the brief could make it back to the Bridewell.

  ‘So where are we?’ Faraday waved his two detectives into chairs the other side of the desk.

  ‘He’s got an explanation for more or less everything.’ Stapleton was flicking through his notes. He sounded disappointed.

  ‘What about the tapes?’

  ‘He says they’re legit. No kids. No animals. No violence. No anal. Just straight sex. He’s running some kind of business. Says lecturing’s c
rap money.’

  ‘Business?’ Faraday had seen the videos next door in the CID office, the cardboard boxes stacked to desk height.

  ‘It’s all through a student of his from last year, Albanian girl, comes from somewhere in Kosovo. Apparently she was a bit of an artist with the camera. She did her three years on the course and graduated with a first.’

  ‘In porn?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Stapleton nodded. ‘Good as.’

  The girl, according to Addison, had returned to Kosovo and begun to make skin flicks. Her trademark was moody lighting and quality performers. On both counts she was only interested in the best, and the deal with Addison was simplicity itself. She admired his editing skills. He had his own gear. She liked him, trusted him, as a guy. So how about sending back the rushes for him to view and edit? Addison, naturally, had said yes, and now spent most of his evenings churning out premium-quality porn videos. The masters went to duplicating houses in London, mainly for transfer to DVD.

  ‘Where does he sell them?’

  ‘He doesn’t. She does. Apparently she’s got some kind of agent, German guy. He sorts out the European end of it. The rest go back to Kosovo for the squaddies. They buy them by the lorryload. Neat, eh?’

  ‘Do we believe him?’

  ‘We may have to. He’s got all the paperwork: invoices from the duplicating house, faxes from the Albanian girl, even copies of cheques she’s sent him. It all stacks up.’

  Faraday glanced across at Dawn.

  ‘Nearly eleven hundred quid in a good month.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Imagine getting paid for a job like that.’

  ‘What about the videos? Have you looked through them all?’

  ‘You’re joking, boss. There are hundreds of them. In fact, we were wondering …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whether you might lend a hand. It’s easy on the eye, most of it. And you can always fast forward.’