Free Blood And Honey by Graham Hurley Page A

her seventies, or older. Someone on whom Faraday had evidently left a bit of an impression. He tried to visualise the files in the bottom drawer of his desk at work: inquiries that had made it to court, jobs that the CPS had thrown out, still-open cases that awaited further attention. Then, for no reason at all, he had it. Grace Randall. 131 Chuzzlewit House.
    Faraday had met her on day one of an inquiry that had very nearly killed him. A young teenage girl had thrown herself off the top of Grace Randall’s block of council flats and Grace herself had unwittingly provided one of the keys that had finally unlocked the case. Faraday could see her now, a thin, game, wheezy figure bent over a Zimmer frame, embroidered nightdress, pink slippers, little silver bells on the toes. She seemed to exist on a diet of ham sandwiches and Asda sherry. A big gas cylinder she hauled round the flat on a trolley forced oxygen into her heaving lungs, and her proudest possession – in a living room crowded with souvenirs – was the view from the window.
    Up on the twenty-third floor, the view was sensational: the muddle of houses around the ancient bulk of the cathedral in Old Portsmouth, the dull green spaces of the Common, the sturdy sentry box of Southsea Castle, the tiny bathtub ships out on the tideway. Grace, it turned out, had spent her twenties and thirties as a singer on the big transatlantic liners out of neighbouring Southampton and had a treasured display of black and white photos on her drinks cabinet to prove it. That first time they’d met, Grace Randall been playing Puccini. ‘Come here, young man,’ she’d gasped, beckoning him towards the view, bent on explaining how the grand old Cunarders had slipped away to America, hogging the deep water over by Ryde Pier.
    Faraday had returned to the flat a number of times, slowly piecing together the jigsaw to which Grace Randall held some of the parts, but until now it had never occurred to him that he’d been anything but a passing irritation in her life. Gentleman? He was intrigued, as well as flattered.
    A little later, mid-morning, an email arrived from J-J. He’d got two complimentary tickets for a photographic exhibition in Chichester. His mate had called off and he could use a lift. How did Faraday fancy a couple of hours with some amazingly cool black and whites? Faraday, by now deep in the Sunday papers, declined. ‘Previous engagement,’ he tapped back. ‘Sorry.’
    The Church of the Holy Spirit’s hall lay in the heart of Southsea, an area of terraced streets, second-hand furniture shops, Chinese takeaways and smoky street-corner pubs. Faraday at last found a parking space and did his best to avoid the worst of the rain. By the timehe pushed into the hall through the big double doors, it was already late afternoon and he was soaking wet.
    The music engulfed him at once, a soupy wave of nostalgia. At the far end of the hall, up on the stage, a nine-piece band was belting out Glenn Miller numbers in front of a huge poster of the
Queen Mary
. Balloons hung in nets from the ceiling and pinboards on each side of the band featured more shots of the great Cunarder. Long rows of tables piled with food and drink lined each side of the hall and the space in between was a slow blur of couples dancing.
    Faraday watched them from the doorway, aware of his anorak dripping onto the scuffed parquet floor. Gwen’s invitation hadn’t mentioned anything about fancy dress. How come he’d stepped into a 1940s time warp?
    A woman in a striking green dress made her way towards him through the sway of dancing couples. A mass of frizzy grey curls framed a wide smile.
    ‘Mr Faraday?’ She had a broad Pompey accent.
    ‘How did you know?’
    ‘I’ve lived here all my life. Spot a copper a mile off.’ She extended a hand. ‘Gwen Corey. It’s nice of you to come.’
    ‘Joe.’ Faraday was looking for somewhere to hang his coat. ‘I’m afraid I’m underdressed.’
    ‘No problem.