Happy Days Read Free Page A

to know how far D/I Hayder wanted to take this thing. He’d boshed the bedroom and the bathroom and checked out the other windows upstairs. No signs of forced entry. Nothing remotely suspicious. Suttle shrugged. This was Hayder’s decision, not his. As far as he was concerned, the story told itself. Faraday had slipped his moorings. Maybe death had been a kindness. Maybe the voice in the letter to J-J had it right. Maybe that’s exactly the way he’d wanted it.
    The CSI, drawn and pale, agreed. He said he’d check around downstairs just in case and then use the last of the daylight to have a nose outside. But, unless D/I Hayder had views to the contrary, he saw little point in turning this thing into a major production.
    Suttle nodded. The two men looked at each other. In all probability Faraday had jacked it in. There was nothing left to say.
    The doctor arrived within the hour. Suttle explained exactly how he’d found the body. Then he conferred briefly with Hayder and the D/S, and left them to it. Walking to his car, he suddenly realised how late it was. His wife, Lizzie, had long been used to the craziness of CID hours, but since the baby had arrived she’d been banged up at home on maternity leave, trying to coax some order into their domestic lives. Grace wasa delight but a handful. A sight of her dad from time to time would be a real help.
    The moment Lizzie answered the phone, Suttle knew things weren’t going well. He could hear his infant daughter in the background. If she wasn’t asleep by now they were probably in for another sleepless night.
    Lizzie wanted to know where he was. He could hear the anger in her voice. Lately, more and more, married life was like living with a stranger.
    ‘I’m at Faraday’s place,’ he said.
    ‘You stopped for a drink? Only Gill’s been on. She still wants to know where she stands. I told her I had no idea. This time of night, you’re probably both pissed. Am I right?’
    Suttle was looking out at the gathering darkness on the harbour. He felt suddenly very old.
    ‘He’s dead, love,’ he said. And rang off.

Chapter two
    PORTSMOUTH: THURSDAY, 13 AUGUST 2009
    The news got to Paul Winter late that night. Suttle, he knew at once, was drunk.
    ‘Son?’ he said. ‘What are you telling me?’
    ‘He’s dead. Gone. He topped himself. He did it.’
    ‘But who, son.
Who
?’
    ‘Faraday.’
    There was a long silence. Winter didn’t know what to say. The television was off. He was in his dressing gown. Intercepted on his way to bed, he could only stare out at the blackness of Portsmouth Harbour. Faraday?
Dead
?
    ‘For fuck’s sake …’ he murmured.
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘How? When?’
    Suttle did his best to explain. He was slurring. Badly.
    ‘Where are you, son?’
    ‘At home.’
    ‘You want me to come round?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You want to come here? Take a cab?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then what do you want?’
    There was another silence before the line went dead. Then a shiver of wind blew in from the harbour, stirring the yachts moored beside the Gunwharf pontoon. Winter could hear thehalyards rattling against the masts. He stepped closer to the window, the phone still in his hand, trying to understand what had just happened.
    The last time he’d seen Joe Faraday was a couple of months ago. Jimmy and Lizzie had thrown a party to celebrate the arrival of their daughter, Grace. Winter, as godfather, had naturally been there, and he and Faraday had tucked themselves in a corner and sunk a couple of lagers. His ex-boss had seemed a bit vague, sure, and social chit-chat was something Faraday never found especially easy, but they’d talked about the new baby, about when Suttle might start thinking about the D/I promotion exams, and they’d shared one or two war stories from the old days on Major Crime. As far as the Job was concerned, Faraday seemed to have turned his back on all those years of nailing the bad guys, and when Winter had pressed him for some kind of