Beyond Reach by Graham Hurley Page A

wants - needs - to have all that off you. Not least because it will do his career a power of good.’
    ‘You’re telling me he’d put his career before what we have?’
    ‘I’m telling you he can’t help himself. He’s just programmed that way, Ez. Once a copper, always a copper.’
    ‘So what does that make you?’
    ‘A copper. Employed by your dad. Finding out stuff. Just like now.’
    She was losing it again. Winter could see the flare of light in her eyes, the way her mouth had compressed. A princess, he thought. Exactly the way Bazza had said.
    ‘You think he’s set me up? You think he’s using me? You think I couldn’t see through something like that?’
    ‘I think he may be as infatuated as you are. For the time being.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘He’ll screw you. Properly. And everyone else as well.’
    ‘How do you mean?
    ‘Your dad. Your mum. Me. And probably several hundred other people. All he needs is evidence.’
    ‘Of what?’
    ‘Of stuff that your dad’s been up to. Of stuff that you’d know about. Fuck knows, he might have got enough already.’
    ‘From me, you mean? You really think I’d tell him stuff like that?’
    ‘You might. If you were pissed or silly enough.’
    ‘Perry doesn’t drink.’
    ‘It’s not Perry I’m worried about.’
    ‘Thanks, thanks a lot. You think I’m some drunken old slut who can’t keep her mouth shut?’
    ‘No, it’s much worse than that. I believe you. I think you’re in love.’
    She looked at Winter for a long moment, trying to find a way out of this conversation, trying - somehow - to turn it all around.
    ‘And if I told you Perry’s planning to chuck it all in? Resign? Call it a day?’
    ‘I’d say he was lying.’
    She shook her head very slowly, back in control. She even smiled.
    ‘You’re wrong, Paul. Perry doesn’t lie. Not to me. Not now. Not ever. It’s something we pledged to each other. No lies. Only the truth. Does that make sense to you?’ The smile widened. ‘Probably not.’

Chapter seven
    WEDNESDAY, 21 MAY 2008. 16.36
    Jeanette Morrissey was at home by the time Faraday returned to Paulsgrove. He’d met Steph Callan in the car park at the Marriott Hotel and they’d driven up together for the interview. The atmosphere in the Mondeo was icy.
    It was a while before Mrs Morrissey came to the door. There was a new-looking Fiesta parked outside.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    Jeanette Morrissey was tall and slightly gaunt-looking. Her face seemed to have missed out on the recent spell of decent weather and there was a deadness in her eyes as she took in the strangers on her doorstep. She’d met Faraday over the death of her son but showed no signs of recognising him.
    Faraday offered his warrant card and introduced Steph Callan. He knew at once that this woman had been expecting a knock on the door.
    ‘Have you come about the camper? Have you found it?’
    Faraday suggested they step inside for a chat. The front lounge was chilly. A cat was curled on one end of the sofa and Faraday saw Callan’s attention caught by a line of photos on the mantelpiece above the flame-effect gas fire. The lad looked younger than his fifteen years. There was something slightly feminine about the softly curled hair and his face was lightly dusted with freckles. He wore a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses and in all four shots the smile had the same guileless innocence.
    ‘This was your son?’ Callan didn’t hide her interest.
    ‘Tim? Yes.’
    ‘Lovely-looking boy. It must have been heartbreaking, what happened to him.’
    ‘It was. It was horrible.’
    The cat fled the sofa the moment Faraday sat down. In the car he’d agreed that Steph Callan would take the lead. She settled herself on the other end of the sofa and produced a notebook.
    ‘You may be aware of an accident up on Southwick Hill Road …’ she began, ‘last Saturday night.’
    Mrs Morrissey said she’d heard about it. A man off the estate had been killed.
    ‘May I ask you what