ticket enquiries was on the first floor. Winter went in without knocking, pinged the bell a couple of times for attention. He heard a muffled phone conversation coming to an end, then a blurred glimpse of someone standing up through the ribbed glass behind the counter.
She was young and extremely pretty, Pompey accent, big smile.
‘Can I help you?’
Winter extended his warrant card. He’d already talked to someone on the phone about a bunch of season tickets that had been sold last month. There were twelve of them, different dates but all on the same debit card. Winter had details of the name on the card, the dates of the transactions and the number of the bank account. A Mr Givens. With an HSBC card.
‘Ring any bells?’
The girl disappeared. Seconds later, Winter found himself talking to an older woman. She had a folded piece of paper in her hand, some kind of computer printout, but she looked worried.
‘We don’t usually give out these kinds of details,’ she said. ‘We have our customers to think about.’
‘Of course.’ Winter gave her a smile. ‘I can go to court for a Production Order if you’d prefer.’
The woman’s frown deepened. She sucked her teeth for a moment or two, then shrugged.
‘Here,’ she said, flattening the printout on the counter. ‘Have you got a pen?’
Lines of pink highlighter ran through several entries. Winter could read anything upside down.
‘That’s a Somerstown address,’ he said. ‘Were all the tickets sent there?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the name of Alan Givens?’
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘What’s the problem? Do you mind me asking? Only it might be nice to know.’
Winter scribbled down the address, then pocketed his warrant card. At this point, he told her, enquiries were strictly at the preliminary stage. Should anything dodgy have happened, he’d doubtless be back again.
He turned for the door, then paused. ‘I take it all those transactions went through OK?’ he said.
‘Oh yes.’ The woman nodded. ‘But apparently there were a couple of other calls from Mr Givens. He wanted more season tickets.’
‘And?’
‘The card was rejected.’
‘Why?’
‘Insufficient funds.’
Faraday spent the late afternoon in the Coroner’s office in the city’s Guildhall, confirming that the events surrounding the death in the Buriton Tunnel were currently under criminal investigation. The Coroner, Martin Eckersley, listened carefully to Faraday’s account of progress to date before declaring the inquest into the mystery death opened and adjourned. Should police enquiries lead to charges and a conviction in court, then a formal inquest would no longer be necessary. If, on the other hand, Faraday drew a blank then the inquest would be resumed at a later date.
On his way out of the Coroner’s office, Eckersley called him back. He wanted to know how Eadie Sykes was getting on. Momentarily nonplussed, Faraday had forgotten Eadie’s success in enrolling him in a project of hers a couple of years earlier. Eckersley had smoothed the path to certain sequences in a video she was making, an exploration of the circumstances leading to the death of a young local junkie, and some of this footage had even been screened at the lad’s inquest. This official nod of approval from the city’s Coroner had helped immeasurably when the contents of the video - shocking, graphic, immensely powerful - provoked a storm of controversy, and Eadie had afterwards made a point of adding Eckersley to her invite list of trophy professionals. Eckersley had come to a couple of her parties, enjoying the slightly raffish company Eadie liked to keep. Now he wanted Faraday to pass on his best. He hadn’t seen Eadie for a while. She was a live wire, made things happen. Where on earth was she hiding?
‘Australia,’ Faraday told him. ‘Sydney.’
‘Holiday?’
‘Work. She’s making videos there, films, too. She loves it.’
It dawned on Eckersley that they were no longer
She was young and extremely pretty, Pompey accent, big smile.
‘Can I help you?’
Winter extended his warrant card. He’d already talked to someone on the phone about a bunch of season tickets that had been sold last month. There were twelve of them, different dates but all on the same debit card. Winter had details of the name on the card, the dates of the transactions and the number of the bank account. A Mr Givens. With an HSBC card.
‘Ring any bells?’
The girl disappeared. Seconds later, Winter found himself talking to an older woman. She had a folded piece of paper in her hand, some kind of computer printout, but she looked worried.
‘We don’t usually give out these kinds of details,’ she said. ‘We have our customers to think about.’
‘Of course.’ Winter gave her a smile. ‘I can go to court for a Production Order if you’d prefer.’
The woman’s frown deepened. She sucked her teeth for a moment or two, then shrugged.
‘Here,’ she said, flattening the printout on the counter. ‘Have you got a pen?’
Lines of pink highlighter ran through several entries. Winter could read anything upside down.
‘That’s a Somerstown address,’ he said. ‘Were all the tickets sent there?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the name of Alan Givens?’
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘What’s the problem? Do you mind me asking? Only it might be nice to know.’
Winter scribbled down the address, then pocketed his warrant card. At this point, he told her, enquiries were strictly at the preliminary stage. Should anything dodgy have happened, he’d doubtless be back again.
He turned for the door, then paused. ‘I take it all those transactions went through OK?’ he said.
‘Oh yes.’ The woman nodded. ‘But apparently there were a couple of other calls from Mr Givens. He wanted more season tickets.’
‘And?’
‘The card was rejected.’
‘Why?’
‘Insufficient funds.’
Faraday spent the late afternoon in the Coroner’s office in the city’s Guildhall, confirming that the events surrounding the death in the Buriton Tunnel were currently under criminal investigation. The Coroner, Martin Eckersley, listened carefully to Faraday’s account of progress to date before declaring the inquest into the mystery death opened and adjourned. Should police enquiries lead to charges and a conviction in court, then a formal inquest would no longer be necessary. If, on the other hand, Faraday drew a blank then the inquest would be resumed at a later date.
On his way out of the Coroner’s office, Eckersley called him back. He wanted to know how Eadie Sykes was getting on. Momentarily nonplussed, Faraday had forgotten Eadie’s success in enrolling him in a project of hers a couple of years earlier. Eckersley had smoothed the path to certain sequences in a video she was making, an exploration of the circumstances leading to the death of a young local junkie, and some of this footage had even been screened at the lad’s inquest. This official nod of approval from the city’s Coroner had helped immeasurably when the contents of the video - shocking, graphic, immensely powerful - provoked a storm of controversy, and Eadie had afterwards made a point of adding Eckersley to her invite list of trophy professionals. Eckersley had come to a couple of her parties, enjoying the slightly raffish company Eadie liked to keep. Now he wanted Faraday to pass on his best. He hadn’t seen Eadie for a while. She was a live wire, made things happen. Where on earth was she hiding?
‘Australia,’ Faraday told him. ‘Sydney.’
‘Holiday?’
‘Work. She’s making videos there, films, too. She loves it.’
It dawned on Eckersley that they were no longer
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