The Take by Graham Hurley Read Free Book Online

Your wife has my sympathies. And so, strangely enough, do you.’
    Winter stared at him a moment. The consultant was waiting for the phone to answer.
    ‘Who are you ringing?’
    ‘Security.’
    Winter took a tiny step backwards and began to laugh.
    ‘Try nine-nine-nine,’ he said, ‘and have me arrested.’
    ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr Winter.’
    ‘Too bloody right.’
    Winter kept his visiting cards in his inside pocket. Beneath the Hampshire Constabulary crest was his name and a CID contact number. He laid the card beside the telephone, turned on his heel and left.

Three
    Monday, 19 June, mid-afternoon
    With fifteen minutes to spare between meetings, Faraday dug out the photocopy he’d taken of Vanessa Parry’s RTA file and reached for his phone. Fatal road traffic accidents attracted a great deal of paperwork: an on-the-spot report form, witness statements, photographs, the findings of the motor engineers who took the crashed vehicles apart, and finally the painstakingly detailed analysis from the Accident Investigation boys over at Winchester. The latter, the work of a hard-pressed two-man unit with far too many accidents to attend, normally took at least a couple of weeks to come through, and so far Faraday, despite several phone calls, hadn’t seen it.
    ‘Traffic.’
    Faraday recognised the gruff tones of one of the duty Sergeants.
    ‘DI Faraday. Is Mark Barrington there?’
    Barrington was the motorcycle patrolman who’d attended Vanessa’s accident, a newish recruit three years into the job. Faraday had tracked him down via the traffic HQ at Fratton police station and Barrington had obliged with a look at the file and a detailed personal account of what appeared to have happened at the site of the accident. The Sergeant was infinitely less helpful.
    ‘Barrington’s not here,’ he said briskly.
    ‘Is he back later?’
    ‘I doubt it. He was early turn. He’s gone already.’ He paused. ‘Something I can help you with?’
    Faraday was looking at the rough sketch plan that Barrington had made once the ambulances had been and gone. Larkrise Avenue was up in Drayton, a long, straight suburban road with parked cars on both sides narrowing the through-way to a tight squeeze. The two cars, Vanessa’s Fiesta and the Vectra Estate, had met head on about a third of the way down. There had been no evidence on the road of skid marks from either car, though the tarmac had been gouged as the Fiesta was spun backwards by the impact. The sketch was necessarily rough and begged all kinds of questions that only the Accident Investigation report could answer.
    ‘It’s the Larkrise Avenue fatal,’ Faraday began. ‘I’m after the AI report.’
    ‘It hasn’t arrived.’ The Sergeant was blunt to the point of rudeness. ‘But when it does, we’ll sort it.’
    ‘I’m sure you will. Vanessa Parry was on our support staff.’
    ‘So I gather. Excuse me saying so, sir, I know it’s family, and I know you’re all upset, but we’re giving it our best shot, OK?’
    Faraday listened to the Sergeant staking out his bit of territory. Twenty years in the job had taught him a great deal about turf wars, and the no-man’s land between traffic and CID was never for the faint-hearted. The traffic guys had more than enough to do. Mark Barrington was a promising young copper. The Sergeant had no reason to question his handling of this particular episode. The preliminary query about the Fiesta’s brakes was unfortunate but it might be best to wait for the full AI report. If developments called for some kind of CID involvement, Faraday would be the first to know.
    ‘No offence, sir. But I’m sure you see what I mean.’
    ‘Of course I do. When do you expect the AI report?’
    ‘To be frank, I’ve no idea.’
    ‘What about the mobile?’
    ‘What mobile?’
    ‘The lad Matthew Prentice had a mobile with him. Barrington found it in the Vectra, along with all kinds of paperwork. I suggested he raise a C63