Beyond Reach (49 page)

‘And is she right?’

‘She is. She knows me inside out.’ He gazed at the remains of his first pint. ‘At least that’s what she tells me.’

 

Gail Parsons was back in her office at Kingston Crescent by mid-afternoon. Faraday had given her a brief update on
Sangster
over the phone and she’d heard enough to realise that they needed a full discussion. Mo Sturrock may well have raped the young Tessa Fogle. Suttle had been onto the university authorities and confirmed that he’d been at the Poly at the same time as she had. Soon afterwards they’d started a proper relationship. Two decades later they’d had kids, put down roots, become - in Faraday’s phrase - a proper family. Only a DNA sample from Sturrock himself would prove his guilt, but if he turned out to be the rapist then surely
Sangster
was looking at a number of delicate issues.

Parsons didn’t see it at all. Neither did Suttle. Faraday sat with them both at the conference table.

‘It’s simple,’ Suttle said. ‘We knock on his door. We make up some fairy tale about an incident in the area. We say we’re taking lots of gob swabs and would he mind? We fast-track the sample and - bosh - he either did it or he didn’t.’ He was staring at Faraday. ‘You’re telling me I’m wrong, boss?’

‘I’m telling you I gave the woman my word that we’d be in touch if there were developments.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’d need to tell her partner.’

‘But it
is
her partner, boss. Or it might well be. What on earth is she supposed to do with information like that?’

Parsons agreed. There was an edge of impatience in her voice, even exasperation.

‘You’re a detective, Joe, not a marriage counsellor. Why on earth do you think there’s a problem?’

Faraday took his time trying to frame an answer. In the end it was simple.

‘Because they’ve made it work for themselves,’ he said. ‘Because they’re a family. We’re going to wreck all that. We’re going to tear it apart.’

‘So we do nothing? Is that what you’re suggesting? This is a guy that may well have raped a woman he probably didn’t know at the time. Not just that but he may have tried to kill her as well. The fact that they later formed a relationship is irrelevant. Rape is a crime. So is attempted murder. Why am I having to spell this out?’

‘Because it’s wrong.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Smashing up a family. We have to think of the consequences of what we do. We’re going to rob those kids of their dad. And we’re probably going to put them into poverty.’

‘Really?’ She was staring at him now, the way you might stare at somebody who’d suddenly become a total stranger. ‘And that’s worse than rape?’

‘Of course it is. Twenty-three years together tells me they’re good with each other. Kids need a dad. The thing works. Why wreck it all?’

Parsons pushed her chair back and gazed up at the ceiling. Suttle tried to play the peacemaker.

‘DCI Parsons is right, boss. The kids thing works both ways. Those kids are vulnerable. And so are the ones he’ll be trying to sort out professionally.’

‘Vulnerable to whom?’

‘To him.’

‘But he’s their father, Jimmy. He’s their
dad
for fuck’s sake. Don’t you see that? OK, let’s assume he did it. Let’s say that twenty-four years ago he had a moment of madness. He was pissed. He lost it. He did what he did. Since then he hasn’t put a foot wrong. Are you really saying we punish him for that one moment? Punish all of them?’

Neither Parsons nor Suttle answered. The implication behind Faraday’s outburst was all too clear. You don’t have kids. You don’t know what it’s like to be a dad. Finally Parsons produced her mobile and put it carefully beside her notepad.

‘How do you know that’s true, Joe?’ she said.

‘What’s true?’

‘That he hasn’t put a foot wrong?’

‘I don’t. Of course I don’t. But he certainly hasn’t raped anyone else otherwise the same DNA would have come up again.’

‘Maybe other rapes went unreported. Have you thought of that?’

‘Unlikely.’

‘But how do you
know
?’

‘I don’t. You’re right. I can’t
prove
it.’

‘Good word.’

‘What?’

‘Proof. We’re one swab away from proving this man raped Tessa Fogle. If that’s the case, and we have the evidence, then our job is done. Everything else is irrelevant. Consequences, as you put it, are not our concern. Can you imagine what would happen if we did nothing? If we
didn’t
take a swab? If we ignored the match with this woman Morrissey? You tell me this guy will be working around kids. He has kids of his own. Jimmy’s right. Something kicks off, he has another moment of madness, and there’s an inquiry. What does that inquiry discover? It discovers that we, the
police
for Christ’s sake, knew all along that this guy was probably a rapist. But we did nothing. We put hurt feelings before the law. We pussyfooted around the problem and decided to look the other way. This is crazy, Joe. We’re here to gather evidence not deliver judgement. Since when has forgiveness been part of our brief?’

Faraday had held her gaze throughout this speech. It was, he knew, a statement of the blindingly obvious. For the second time in a month events had conspired to corner and punish individuals for whom Faraday felt some sympathy. First Jeanette Morrissey. Now her brother. The law drew a very narrow bead on the consequences of particular actions. Morrissey had killed someone. Mo Sturrock may once have raped the woman who was later to bear his children. The wider ripples of these small tragedies should be of no concern. And yet Faraday was still left with a deep foreboding. Families in good working order were becoming a rarity. And this one was probably doomed.

Parsons clearly regarded the meeting as over. She’d reached for her mobile. Looking up, she caught Faraday’s eye.

‘I’m referring this decision to Mr Willard,’ she said. ‘In deference to the strength of your feelings, Joe.’

 

Mo Sturrock’s whirlwind blitz around Pompey had won him an interview with a journalist from the
News.
At Winter’s suggestion, he’d phoned Lizzie Hodson. Winter had known Hodson for years and knew she specialised in major features. The fact that she was now living with Jimmy Suttle sweetened the bid still further.

On the phone, Hodson had been impressed by Sturrock’s pitch for the Offshore Challenge. She’d arranged to meet him at La Tasca, a café-bar in Gunwharf. Sturrock, arriving from his lunch with Marie, had held her attention for more than an hour. By the time Winter strolled over from Blake House to join them, Lizzie had filled seven pages of her notepad and knew she had enough for a decent feature. Wayward kids were always good copy for the Pompey readership. The fact that someone might have dreamed up a scheme to turn them into human beings was definitely worth a feature slot.

‘We’ll need a photo,’ she said. ‘We like to take our own.’

‘When would this be in the paper?’

‘Thursday. That way we can cover the launch as well. I fancy a photo with you and your own kids. When could we do that?’

Sturrock was watching Winter ordering refills at the bar. He’d lost count of how much he’d drunk since meeting Marie.

‘Tomorrow would be good,’ he said. ‘Though you’d have to come over to the island.’

‘No problem. What kind of time?’

‘Late afternoon would be best. After the kids get back from school. I should be back by five.’

‘Half five, then. You’ll give me directions for the snapper?’

Sturrock nodded. He’d never learned shorthand and looking at Hodson’s pad he wondered which bits of the Offshore story had caught her eye.

‘You’ve got enough?’ He nodded at the pad.

‘Loads, thanks. You’re sure you don’t want to talk about that conference speech?’

‘I can’t. I’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement. They’d sue the arse off me.’

Hodson grinned, making room for Winter at the table. She’d googled Sturrock before the interview and had shared his unscripted remarks with half the newsroom. How often did public servants break ranks like this?

‘Gentle, was she?’ Winter nodded at Lizzie and put the drinks on the table. Another pint for Sturrock. San Miguel this time.

‘She was fine,’ Sturrock said. ‘We’ll all be famous by Thursday night.’

‘Yeah. Here’s hoping.’

Winter swallowed a mouthful of Stella, spotting Jimmy Suttle as he stepped in from the waterfront boardwalk. The moment he saw Sturrock he paused, but Winter was already on his feet, organising another chair.

‘Party time,’ he said. ‘How are you, son?’

‘Fine.’ Suttle was still looking at Sturrock. ‘I just came to pick up Lizzie. We’re off to Southampton.’

‘Are we?’ Hodson looked up in surprise.

‘Yeah. That movie you wanted to see. It’s on at the Harbour Lights. You remember?’

The question had the force of an order. Winter was still on his feet. He nodded at the glasses on the table.

‘My shout, son. What are you having?’

Suttle checked his watch then shook his head. The movie started at half six. The traffic on the M27 was a nightmare. They’d have to leave now.

Hodson shrugged. Then she gathered up her notes and pushed her glass of Chardonnay towards Sturrock.

‘It’s been a pleasure,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a ring about tomorrow afternoon.’

Moments later, they’d gone. Sturrock gazed after them, bewildered. Then he turned back to Winter.

‘What was that about? Something I said?’

 

Faraday was home by six o’clock. He prowled around the house gathering up bits of laundry, checking his food stocks, running the hot water in the kitchen to do last night’s washing-up, trying to throw a blanket over the day’s developments.
Sangster
had become a nightmare. He felt trapped by events. As a serving detective, as Parsons had pointed out, he had a duty to gather evidence. That evidence was about to take a wrecking ball to a bunch of people who seemed to have weathered most of life’s storms. Was that why he’d joined up in the first place? To be complicit in the destruction of yet another family? Was this a new definition of Major Crime?

He sensed that madness lay in questions like these and he wondered how to silence the voices in his head. He’d known other cops who’d shared similar qualms, similar misgivings. Most of them had had the good sense to keep their mouths shut and the rest had quickly become the butt of endless canteen jibes. To survive in a job like this you had to kill a part of you. You had to become hard, or unforgiving, or simply indifferent to the consequences of a particular action. The law was nothing more than a set of rules. That’s the way society functioned. Break the rules and people like Faraday would be on your case. If you were lucky, you got away with it. If you weren’t, and the Faradays of this world did their jobs properly, you suffered. That was the deal. That’s what he’d signed up for.

But it wasn’t enough. He stepped out into the garden, scanning the harbour. Torn shreds of cloud were scudding in from the west and he could taste rain in the air. He lingered a moment, watching a pair of cormorants revving up for take-off, and he tried to imagine the conversation that Parsons must have had with Willard. If there’d been a suspicion that Faraday had lost his appetite for the Job then here, surely, was the proof. The guy was one swab away from nailing a rapist. A DNA match would turn
Sangster
into a stone-bonker, the sweetest of victories. Yet here was the Senior Investigating Officer, the captain on
Sangster
’s bridge, turning the ship around and heading for the open sea.

Faraday slipped through his garden gate and onto the towpath. He found the image of the trackless ocean oddly comforting. Better to have no clues at all, he thought, than this morning’s grim tidings from Birmingham.

 

It was nearly dark by the time Winter and Sturrock struggled back through the rain to Blake House. Drinks at La Tasca had developed into a bit of a session. Afterwards Winter had insisted on a curry. Now he had no choice but to offer Sturrock a bed for the night. No way was he in any condition to make it home.

Sturrock phoned his partner from the lounge in Winter’s apartment. Listening from the kitchen, Winter heard him mumbling something about garlic. He’d be home tomorrow. He loved her passionately. He loved the kids. He’d had a few to drink. Night night. God bless.

He appeared at the open kitchen door asking whether there was any brandy. Winter found a bottle of Armagnac. He poured a couple of glasses and they went through to the lounge, where Sturrock collapsed full length on the sofa. He appeared to have no idea where he was.

Winter eyed him from the comfort of his recliner. Jimmy Suttle was troubling him. The line about the movie at the Harbour Lights had been bullshit. Why had he been so keen on a hasty exit?

Sturrock’s eyes were closed. Winter asked him about the interview with Lizzie Hodson. Had he mentioned the possibility of an endorsement by Harry Redknapp? Even a personal appearance at the Wednesday launch?

Sturrock appeared not to have heard the question.

‘The conference,’ he muttered. ‘She wanted to know about the conference, man. That fucking speech of mine. Know what I mean?’ He dragged himself upright, feeling blindly for the glass of brandy Winter had left beside the sofa. ‘Conference?’ he said again. ‘That fucking speech I made?’

Winter nodded. Conversation was pointless. He was tired of being addressed as ‘man’. He’d quite like to go to bed.

‘Brave boy, weren’t you? Telling it the way it is?’

‘Brave, bollocks. Not brave.’ Sturrock shook his head. ‘I just fancied it, man. It just happened. Bang. You go for it. That ever happen to you? You just go for it? Just do it? Fuck the consequences? Bang? In? Do it? Just like that?’

He’d found the glass but missed his mouth. Most of the brandy was dribbling down his chin.