Deadlight (12 page)

‘Third one they visited, bloke behind the counter recognised the mug shot.’ Michaels was sounding pleased with himself. ‘Apparently Coughlin used the place a lot. Couple of times a week. They’d started giving him extra pickles so maybe that helped.’

‘Where is this place?’

‘The Strand, across from the newsagent’s. Monday night they reckon he was there early, seven, seven-thirty, something like that.’

Faraday nodded. The Strand was up the road from Thresher’s, a ten-minute walk at most. Time-wise, this
thing was beginning to hang together. After the cash withdrawal, a bottle of Scotch and a kebab. Then what?

‘Was he alone?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘No one outside waiting for him?’

‘Christ knows. These guys get really busy. But Coughlin definitely ordered just the one kebab. Bloke was sure about that.’

‘OK. Anything else?’

‘Yeah. We’ve confirmed the Thresher’s end of it. Till receipt matches the time on the CCTV. Bottle of Johnnie Walker and some Doritos. There’s an empty packet of chilli-flavoured on the SOC log.’

‘They recognise the mug shot, too?’

‘Different girl behind the counter but it has to be him. The times match exactly.’

Faraday remembered watching the video of Coughlin’s body in the back of the Fiesta in Niton Road, the vomit pooled on the carpet around his open mouth. Chilli-flavoured Doritos would never taste the same again.

Michaels had more news.

‘Willard’s been on twice,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘Best give him a bell if I were you.’

The Detective Superintendent was sorting out his lecture notes at the conference centre when Faraday rang. An afternoon exploring the investigative challenges of product extortion had done nothing for his temper.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he said at once.

Faraday gazed at the phone, listening to Willard detailing a call he’d taken earlier. Apparently the Davidson lead was really strong. So why wasn’t Faraday piling on the pressure?

‘Davidson was one of a number of recent releases. We’re looking at them all.’ Faraday paused. ‘Who was this call from?’

Willard refused to answer the question. He wanted
facts. Was it true that Davidson had been interviewed up at his mum’s place?

‘Yes.’

‘And the girl was there, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mirror alibi for Monday night? No other corroboration? That says dodgy to me, Joe.’

Faraday began to explain about Bev Yates. According to Yates, there was no chance that Davidson was down for the Coughlin hit, not the way he’d reacted to the news. In Faraday’s view, it paid to trust an opinion like that, especially from someone with Yates’s experience.

‘But who’s saying he necessarily did it himself?’

Faraday blinked. Davidson part of some bigger conspiracy? This was a new development, even more bizarre.

‘I’m not with you, sir.’

‘No, you’re not, are you?’ Willard took a breath or two and Faraday wondered whether there was anyone else with him. Willard was a good boss, a fair man, but occasionally liked to demonstrate his grip on an inquiry. Not easy, when you were a hundred miles away.

‘I understand there’s intelligence,’ Willard was saying. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Comes from the Met. Sources at Streatham nick. Davidson’s name’s come up in a surveillance op they’re mounting. Something to do with a bunch of guys sorting themselves out a Securicor job. The way I hear it, Davidson knew them before. Now he’s back on the team.’

‘Before what?’

‘Before he went away. He’s a driver, Joe. Well thought of. Sorts out a motor and does the business on the day.’ He paused. ‘Why is it me has to tell you all this?’

Faraday didn’t answer. Streatham was Andy Corbett’s old patch. He’d done three years there as a DC before applying for a transfer to Hampshire. Dave Michaels had
told him only hours ago. Faraday sat back in the chair, beginning to sense where all this came from. His turn now to ask the questions.

‘Has Corbett been on to you?’

‘Yes. Should he have done? No. But where were bloody you?’

‘In Gosport prison. Talking to the governor.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it pays to get a second opinion. And a third. And a fourth. It’s called keeping your options open.’

‘Don’t you have a team to do that? Or aren’t twenty blokes enough?’

Willard was really angry now, not least because Corbett’s recklessness had driven a horse and cart through the management hierarchy. There were rules here, strokes you should and shouldn’t pull, and Corbett had broken them all.

‘Corbett should have talked to me,’ Faraday insisted, ‘or Dave Michaels. He had absolutely no right to go mouthing off to you.’

‘Of course he shouldn’t, but that’s not the point.’

‘It’s not?’

‘No, not here and now it isn’t. I’ll deal with Corbett later. What bothers me at the moment is this Met intelligence. If it checks out, we’re looking at a conspiracy.’

‘Is that Corbett’s line?’

‘He’s saying one of these heavies is a professional hit man.’

‘How convenient.’

‘Listen to me, Joe. Davidson’s spent seven years banged up for something he says he didn’t do. Coughlin’s made all that much, much worse. There’s no way he’s going to whack Coughlin himself, but the guys up in town want him back behind the wheel. Odds are he’ll say no. Odds are they’ll look for ways to persuade him. Money’s one. A favour or two might well be another.’

Faraday could hear Corbett’s voice behind Willard’s version of events. It must have been one of the longer calls.

‘You’re telling me Davidson’s price is a contract killing? On Coughlin? You think he’s brainless enough to think he’d get away with something like that?’

‘I’m telling you that’s a possibility. Seven years inside does strange things to people. And I’m also telling you we should be actively developing this intelligence.’

‘A pleasure, sir. I’ll talk to Brian Imber and get the FIB on to it.’

The Force Intelligence Bureau was at force headquarters in Winchester. It would be their job to contact the Met’s S11 Intelligence Branch and get the ball rolling.

‘Anything else, sir?’

There was a long silence. Maybe Willard’s having second thoughts about bollocking his DSIO, thought Faraday. Maybe he might even credit his deputy with a little intelligence of his own.

‘No,’ Willard grunted at last. ‘But keep me in touch. At this rate, Perry’s holiday’s going to be shorter than he thought.’

Faraday put the phone down. For the second time that day, he fought to contain the scalding waves of anger lapping at his brain. Perry Madison was the DCI on Major Crimes. Under normal circumstances, he’d have been DSIO on
Merriott
but a pre-booked fortnight walking up and down mountains in the Lake District had put Faraday in the hot seat. Whether Willard meant it or not, the threat was now explicit. Another fuck-up, and Faraday would be off the case.

Paul Ingham, the DS in charge of Outside Enquiries, would know about Corbett’s movements. He answered on the second ring. Corbett, he said, was busy on house-to-house.

‘You’ve got his mobile number?’

‘Yes, sir. But I tried a couple of times just now and he’s not answering.’

Winter wanted Dawn Ellis to come back with him to Shelley Geech’s flat. This time they were going through the whole property. Ellis still had the original warrant and Winter knew it would get them in. At length, the door opened. Shelley Geech looked wrecked.

‘Where’s Darren?’ Winter pushed inside.

‘Dunno. You can’t just come in here.’

‘Yes, I can. Where is he?’

‘Fuck knows. Listen—’

Winter rounded on her. Instinctively, she took half a step backwards, colliding with the wall. Her eyes kept losing focus and she was having trouble with her balance.

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Hours ago.’

‘We were here hours ago. And so was he.’

‘He went out.’

‘And?’

‘That’s all I know. Why don’t you just fucking leave us alone?’

‘Us?’

Ellis had been in the kitchen. She emerged for long enough to gesture to Winter.

‘Come in here, Paul.’

Winter stepped into the tiny kitchen. KFC wraps were spilling out of the swing bin under the window and there was a half-eaten slice of toast abandoned on the side. Beside the gas cooker, neatly arranged on a cracked saucer, was a heat-blackened spoon and a plastic syringe. The length of rag she’d used as a tourniquet was lying on the floor. Winter held the back of his hand against the spoon. The metal was still warm.

‘Get her in here.’ Winter slipped on a pair of gloves and gestured back towards the hall.

Ellis left the kitchen and Winter heard the beginnings
of a bleary argument before Shelley Geech appeared at the open door.

Winter nodded at the syringe.

‘That yours?’

Shelley Geech stared at it, glassy-eyed. Then she reached for the wall to support herself.

‘What if it is?’

Winter took her left hand and pushed up the sleeve of her sweatshirt until her forearm was fully uncovered. She made no attempt to stop him. She’d made a botch of the injection, and there was a fresh bruise spreading around the dot of drying blood in the crook of her elbow.

‘Let’s talk about Darren,’ he said softly. ‘Only this is the last time, the last chance. Where is he?’

Ellis had disappeared again. This time she shouted Winter’s name. Winter turned Shelley Geech around and marched her out of the kitchen. The narrow little bathroom was up the hall, the door open. Ellis was standing over the bath, gazing down.

Winter wedged himself beside her. There was an inch or two of water in the bath, pinked with blood from a pair of jeans. There was more blood seeping out of a pair of black runners. Even Winter, with half a lifetime’s experience of Pompey crime, was amazed at the find. Subtle, this wasn’t.

‘Your boy’s in serious shit, Mrs Geech. They’ve just transferred the bloke he did to the neuro unit in Southampton. If you’re lucky, he might not die.’

Shelley Geech was looking dazed.

‘They belong to a mate of Darren’s,’ she managed. ‘Had an accident. Fell over.’

‘You’ll have to do better than that, love. Accessory to murder will put you inside for a very long time. Last chance. Where’s Darren?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘I ain’t got a clue.’

It occurred to Winter that she was probably telling the truth. Like so many mothers on this crap estate, she’d
just let her life fall apart. The fathers had long gone. The kids were out of control. Only those consolatory little wraps would offer the promise of some peace and quiet.

He backed her out of the bathroom. The sitting room was bare except for a broken-backed sofa, a dodgy-looking beanbag and an upturned plastic drinks crate to support the telly.

Winter indicated the sofa. Shelley Geech sank on to it without a word. Even an armful of heroin couldn’t soften the trouble she knew she was in.

‘Tell me about Rookie,’ Winter suggested. ‘How often is he round here?’

The name seemed to make an impression.

‘As often as I needs him. I calls his mobile from the box on the corner. Good as gold, he is.’

‘Charge you for it, as a matter of interest?’

‘You mean money?’ Her eyes were struggling to focus. ‘Yeah, sometimes.’

‘The rest in kind?’

She looked at him, then shook her head from side to side with infinite care, as though it might fall off.

‘He may as well move in, Rookie. There ain’t enough smack in the world the way I’m getting through it lately.’

‘Darren wouldn’t like that, though, would he?’

‘Darren can fuck off. I’ve had enough of Darren. It’s Darren’s got me in this state in the first place.’

‘And Rookie?’

‘Rookie helps. Rookie always helps. Strange-looking bloke, ain’t he? Not that looks matter. Good heart, that man. Yeah …’ She sighed. ‘Rookie.’

For a moment, Winter thought she was going to sleep. Ellis had appeared at the door. She was shaping something with her hands, holding them maybe a metre apart, but Winter signalled her that he was busy. They were getting close, now. The next couple of minutes might save a lot of time in the interview room.

‘There’s something you ought to know, love.’

Shelley Geech tried to smile. It made her look even older.

‘Yeah?’ she said vaguely. ‘What’s that, then?’

‘The bloke Darren did was Rookie.’

‘Darren didn’t do no bloke. I told you.’

‘He did, love. And we can prove it.’

‘Bollocks, can you.’

Winter waited for her to draw a line between the two dots. When she finally made the connection, sensing the trap she was in, she closed her eyes and sighed. Then came the tears, welling up beneath her eyelids and trickling down her cheeks.

‘Little bastard.’ She sniffed. ‘What did Rookie ever do to deserve that?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Fuck knows.’ She shook her head again and then wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Her words were beginning to slur. ‘Dependable bloke, Rookie. Good gear.’ She nodded, as if reaching out for some distant memory, then closed her eyes again, slumping back against the single cushion. For a moment, Winter thought the sofa was going to collapse. He leaned forward and gave her a little shake. She stirred.

‘What was that for?’

‘Your Darren came back. Was he alone?’

‘Yeah. No. I can’t remember.’

‘Try.’

‘I’m trying.’ She gave another little sigh. ‘Must have been a friend of his. Dunno.’

‘You’re still telling me the jeans aren’t Darren’s?’

‘Yeah … fuck knows …’ She trailed off, her eyes closing again.

Winter tried to rally her, reaching for every trick in the book. A deal on what might happen next. Even the possibility of more smack.

‘I need some clues, love. This mate of Darren’s. Other mates of Darren’s. Names. Addresses.’ He waited for a
response. Nothing happened. He leaned forward, whispering in her ear, ‘Remember who they’ve done, love. Remember Rookie. Eh?’

It was no good. She was out to the world, her head lolling back, her face still shiny with tears. Another couple of months like this and she’d look about ninety.