himself with more D/Cs than he could remember in any previous case. He fired up the Major Incident Room and dispatched detectives to the four corners of the Paulsgrove estate. Media appeals for witnesses from the bonfire celebrations brought a flood of calls, all of them disappointing. Hundreds of people that night reported gangs of youths on the prowl, pissed, aggressive, lippy. Some, with long memories, even produced a name or two. But none of these lines of enquiry got any further than a bunch of revelling kids out for a laugh. Never carry a blade, mate. Not my style, know what I mean?
Within days, increasingly frustrated, Parsons was demanding progress. From the start, after a difficult interview with Morrissey’s mum, Faraday was convinced the answer lay in the earlier file held by the detectives who’d investigated the stamping incident. The knife attack, while a clear escalation in violence, was clearly Munday’s MO. Word on the estate suggested he’d lost it. The bloke had become psychotic. Too much White Lightning. Too many vodkas. Plus all the toot he could lay his hands on. A state like that, you start playing God. Which is precisely what he’d done. Morrissey, the cunt grass, needed a lesson in manners. And Munday had been happy to offer his services.
Faraday had pulled Munday in, plus all five of the kids named by Morrissey after the stamping incident. To no one’s surprise, every single one of them had an alibi for bonfire night. The alibis, corroborated word for word, proved unbreakable. While individuals on the estate exchanged looks at the mention of Munday’s name, no one was prepared to talk, let alone offer a statement. Stuff happens. None of my business. Shame about the kid.
Parsons, twisting Willard’s arm, got clearance to put in Special Ops. Melody spent thousands of pounds plotting up surveillance on a series of addresses in Paulsgrove. Steps were taken to tap phone lines and plant bugs. But Munday, with his evil little ways, was streets ahead of them. People buttoned their lips, even behind closed doors. Not because they were clever, or even experienced, but because they were afraid of him. It was common knowledge that Munday had done the kid Morrissey. But common knowledge would cut no ice in court. Who wanted ten minutes in a locked room with Munday’s pit bull?
Faraday read a little further, reliving those grim days of late November, then closed the file. He understood now why Parsons was so keen to extract a little something, anything for fuck’s sake, from the shambles of Operation Melody. The fact was that Munday and his little band of helpers had humiliated the Major Crime Team. For all their investigative reach - dozens of detectives, thousands of man hours, every covert trick in the book - the sheer brutality of Munday’s MO, his preparedness to maim, even to kill, had put him beyond reach. Here was a man, thought Faraday, who had pitched camp in the darkest corners of a society in free fall. He preyed on the weak and the vulnerable, and gloried in their pain. The fact that he’d got away with it was deeply shaming but the dawning realisation that younger kids were only too prepared to follow in his footsteps was frankly scary. Until, that is, Munday found himself looking at a pair of headlights at half past one in the morning, still playing God.
Faraday reached for his keyboard, glad he’d seen the post-mortem shots. Where Major Crime had failed, some nameless driver had done the world a favour. Tomorrow Jimmy Suttle would be back in harness. Faraday tapped out an email, enquiring whether a red VW had featured in Melody ’s thousands of actions, knowing in his heart that the driver deserved a medal.
Chapter five
TUESDAY, 20 MAY 2008. 17.45
The Tatchbury Mount Spa Hotel lies on the eastern edge of the New Forest. Internet checks had already told Winter that it offered four-star accommodation, fine dining, a fitness centre, pool, beauty and health spa, two squash courts,
Within days, increasingly frustrated, Parsons was demanding progress. From the start, after a difficult interview with Morrissey’s mum, Faraday was convinced the answer lay in the earlier file held by the detectives who’d investigated the stamping incident. The knife attack, while a clear escalation in violence, was clearly Munday’s MO. Word on the estate suggested he’d lost it. The bloke had become psychotic. Too much White Lightning. Too many vodkas. Plus all the toot he could lay his hands on. A state like that, you start playing God. Which is precisely what he’d done. Morrissey, the cunt grass, needed a lesson in manners. And Munday had been happy to offer his services.
Faraday had pulled Munday in, plus all five of the kids named by Morrissey after the stamping incident. To no one’s surprise, every single one of them had an alibi for bonfire night. The alibis, corroborated word for word, proved unbreakable. While individuals on the estate exchanged looks at the mention of Munday’s name, no one was prepared to talk, let alone offer a statement. Stuff happens. None of my business. Shame about the kid.
Parsons, twisting Willard’s arm, got clearance to put in Special Ops. Melody spent thousands of pounds plotting up surveillance on a series of addresses in Paulsgrove. Steps were taken to tap phone lines and plant bugs. But Munday, with his evil little ways, was streets ahead of them. People buttoned their lips, even behind closed doors. Not because they were clever, or even experienced, but because they were afraid of him. It was common knowledge that Munday had done the kid Morrissey. But common knowledge would cut no ice in court. Who wanted ten minutes in a locked room with Munday’s pit bull?
Faraday read a little further, reliving those grim days of late November, then closed the file. He understood now why Parsons was so keen to extract a little something, anything for fuck’s sake, from the shambles of Operation Melody. The fact was that Munday and his little band of helpers had humiliated the Major Crime Team. For all their investigative reach - dozens of detectives, thousands of man hours, every covert trick in the book - the sheer brutality of Munday’s MO, his preparedness to maim, even to kill, had put him beyond reach. Here was a man, thought Faraday, who had pitched camp in the darkest corners of a society in free fall. He preyed on the weak and the vulnerable, and gloried in their pain. The fact that he’d got away with it was deeply shaming but the dawning realisation that younger kids were only too prepared to follow in his footsteps was frankly scary. Until, that is, Munday found himself looking at a pair of headlights at half past one in the morning, still playing God.
Faraday reached for his keyboard, glad he’d seen the post-mortem shots. Where Major Crime had failed, some nameless driver had done the world a favour. Tomorrow Jimmy Suttle would be back in harness. Faraday tapped out an email, enquiring whether a red VW had featured in Melody ’s thousands of actions, knowing in his heart that the driver deserved a medal.
Chapter five
TUESDAY, 20 MAY 2008. 17.45
The Tatchbury Mount Spa Hotel lies on the eastern edge of the New Forest. Internet checks had already told Winter that it offered four-star accommodation, fine dining, a fitness centre, pool, beauty and health spa, two squash courts,
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