Read Beyond Reach for Free Online

things about Munday that had stuck in his mind was the allegation that he and some of his scrote apprentices had cornered Morrissey behind the parade of shops at the heart of the estate. They’d forced the lad to the ground and Munday had stamped on his hands. The damage, mercifully, had been less severe than you might have expected but the message was clear. Think you’re special on that fucking piano of yours? Think again.
    ‘And we’re saying Morrissey had no mates who might have fought back? You can’t think of anyone who might have had it in for Munday?’
    ‘No. That’s why the lad came to us about the stamping incident. It was his mum’s idea, had to be, but Morrissey named names. Which is probably what got him killed. Remember?’
    ‘Yeah.’ Faraday nodded. Munday’s little gang had all been arrested and interviewed after the stamping, but denied any involvement. Forensic evidence from footware had later tied two of the kids to Morrissey but the case had gone nowhere.
    Faraday was eyeing the cheerful chaos of Suttle’s kitchen, last night’s dirty dishes still piled on the draining board. One day back into the Job and already he felt knackered.
    Suttle settled himself on a stool by the breakfast bar. In truth, he hadn’t had a serious look at Munday since Melody began to wind down after Christmas. Early spring had taken him onto other killings, other jobs. Since then Munday could have got himself into all sorts of situations, pissed off trillions of people, probably had. If the hit-and-run had been deliberate, then the guy at the wheel might never have heard of Tim Morrissey.
    ‘You’re saying it needs more work, more intel?’ Faraday said.
    ‘Only if it gets sticky. And this Road Death skipper, he’ll know that.’
    ‘It’s a woman. Steph Callan.’
    ‘Her, then. These people deal with hit-and-runs all the time. You plough into someone, you’ve had a drink or two, there’s no way you’re going to hang around. A tenner says they’ll crack it on the forensic. Trace the vehicle. Get an address. The bloke’s been sitting there for days expecting the knock on the door. Bosh. Job done. Who needs intel when it’s that simple?’
    Faraday nodded. He was thinking of Steph Callan’s face when she left his office. He’d treated her like some rookie probationer. He’d slipped effortlessly into Parsons’ mindset, playing the Major Crime sleuth, assuming complications that simply weren’t there. Suttle was doubtless right. A couple of beers too many. An empty road. A face in the windscreen. A bump or two underneath. A glance in the mirror. Foot on the throttle. Gone.
    ‘Boss …’ Faraday became aware of Suttle looking at him.
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘How was Montreal?’
    ‘Crap.’ Faraday drained his mug. ‘But thanks for asking.’
     
    Winter was late getting to the youth club. He’d had a ring round first thing, talking to mums, stepdads, brothers, sisters, occasionally even the kid himself. Conversations never got beyond a sleepy grunt but that didn’t matter. In essence the message was simple. Somers Road. Half nine. Be there.
    The minibus had been Marie’s idea. Before Christmas, once Winter was sure the Tide Turn Trust would get the thumbs up from the Charity Commission, she’d leant on Bazza to acquire appropriate transport. At first, Winter had thought it was a neat idea. Appearances were important to kids and a decent set of wheels, badged with the Trust’s logo, would give the operation a bit of class.
    In the event, though, Bazza had talked to a couple of headbangers who ran a forecourt operation in Fratton Road. They’d just taken a minibus in part-payment of a credit debt and were happy to offer it on extended lease. The fact that this loan was free remained Bazza’s little secret, but the moment Winter set eyes on the vehicle he knew he’d been had. Almost 146,000 miles on the clock. An ominous rumbling from the prop shaft. And - worst of all - THE WEE GREEN BUS scrolled below