Deadlight (28 page)

Willard broke off to take a call on his mobile and in the silence that followed Faraday told himself that sessions like these were one of Willard’s ways of testing the evidence. If a particular line of enquiry couldn’t
survive a ten-minute conversation, what chance would it ever have in court?

Willard finally pocketed his mobile. He’d obviously read Pritchard’s statement in some detail.

‘So what are we left with? Three guys he can’t name? Two he can’t even describe? And a third who turns out to be a big bastard with a grudge? Shit, Joe, that could be anyone in this city.’

‘He’s a drunk. He’s got a memory problem. We have to take what we’re given.’

‘Sure, but my point is we’ve been given fuck all.’

‘That’s not true. I’ve got a couple of DCs talking to Aqua. Pritchard called a cab for the guys in the bar Monday night. What they did next is critical.’

‘OK.’ Willard scribbled himself a note. ‘What else?’

‘CCTV. Pritchard thinks they walked from wherever they came from. There are cameras both ends of Granada Road.’

‘And Pritchard thinks he can recognise them?’

‘So he says.’

‘Hmmm.’ Willard was gazing at his notepad. ‘So what about Davidson?’ he asked again, pointedly.

‘We’ll talk to his girlfriend. Bev thinks she’s the way in – and she’s local, too.’

‘When do you plan the interview?’

‘Soon, sir. Today maybe.’ He paused. ‘What happened to Corbett, as a matter of interest?’

‘He’s back, behaved himself all morning, sweet as pie. Says he can’t wait to work with you again.’

‘Sense of humour, then?’

‘I doubt it, Joe.’ Willard got up and stretched. ‘I made that last bit up.’

SATURDAY
, 8
JUNE
, 2002,
15.30

Marie Elliott lived in a tiny terraced house in Eastney, a close, tight-knit extension of Southsea, five minutes’ walk from the beach. Someone had recently had a go at the front of the house with a tin or two of Weathertex, cream with a hint of yellow, and there were fresh flowers in a vase in the front window. While Bev Yates rapped at the door, Faraday gazed absently at a black and white cat which had appeared beside the flowers.

Bev had drawn a blank on the taxi driver who’d picked up the fares from the Alhambra on Monday night. They’d managed to trace the guy through the taxi firm, only to find that he’d just left for a long weekend in Amsterdam. Half a week on from his aborted day off, Faraday couldn’t remember feeling so tired.

Elliott recognised Yates at once. The long fall of raven-black hair was gathered in a twist of scarlet ribbon and she was knotting a green sarong. Judging by the blush of sunburn on her bare shoulders, she must have been in the garden for a while.

Yates had offered his warrant card, then introduced Faraday. Elliott barely gave him a second glance.

‘What do you want?’ Straight to the point.

Yates mentioned the Coughlin investigation. They had a couple of things they’d like to clear up. It wouldn’t take long.

‘It’s Saturday. You know that?’

Faraday was trying to smother a yawn. Too right, he thought.

She let them in without another word. The front door
led directly into a little sitting room, rugs on carefully stained floorboards, interesting prints on the wall, the smell of freesias hanging in the air. The cat watched Elliott as she padded barefoot through to the back. Yates was inspecting a newish-looking mountain bike, propped against the dresser.

‘Ainsley’s.’

Elliott was back from the kitchen. Leaning against the door jamb, she was nursing a glass of something long and cool. Faraday could hear the clink of ice cubes as she moved.

‘You want to talk in the garden? Or here?’

‘Wherever.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t want to talk at all but I don’t suppose I’ve got a choice.’

They settled for the sitting room. Yates and Faraday perched awkwardly on the two-seat sofa, Elliott sitting on a beanbag on the floor. Yates had produced the notes from their last encounter and, watching the woman’s face as he began to go through her statement, Faraday sensed a certain softening in her attitude. She had nothing against Yates personally. Only the implications of this abrupt intrusion into her otherwise peaceful weekend.

After she’d confirmed everything she’d said before, Yates started on her movements since.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

‘Work. As you might expect.’

‘In the prison?’

‘Of course.’

‘And Ainsley?’

‘He’s been in London.’

‘Still with his mum?’

‘As far as I know, yes.’

For the first time, Faraday spotted an opening. Yates saw it, too.

‘You’re not sure?’ he said.

‘It’s not that. It’s not that I’m not sure. It’s just that he does his own thing. This is a man who’s just spent the
last seven years inside. I imagine he might treat himself to the odd night away from his mum, yes.’

‘But not with you?’

‘Of course not, he does what he does. I’m not his keeper.’

‘But you are his’ … Yates hunted for the word … ‘girlfriend?’

‘I like to think so, yes.’

There was a long silence. She never took her eyes off Yates’s face. There was still resentment there, but something else as well. She wasn’t as sure about Ainsley as she might like.

‘Blokes, then?’ Yates suggested. ‘He’s off with mates.’

‘More than possible.’

‘Have you met these people?’

‘One or two of them.’

‘What are they like?’

‘
Like
?’ She tipped her head back, rolling her eyes. ‘They’re black. They’re young. They all hang around together. And they’re probably up to all kinds of’ – she shrugged – ‘stuff. I don’t know. Like I say, I’m not Ainsley’s keeper. Or his social secretary.’

‘You don’t approve? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Whether I approve or not is immaterial. I …’ She frowned. ‘Disappointment? Does that make any sense?’

‘Disappointment how?’

‘With this.’ She indicated the space between them. ‘With all of it. Ainsley’s paid his dues. Seven years wipes the slate clean, at least for me it does. Spend time in that place, like I do, and you get to know what those blokes go through.’

‘But you’re telling me that Ainsley’s back into it. You’re telling me that—’

‘Back into what?’ She was getting angry now, a flush that had nothing to do with sunburn. ‘I’m telling you that Ainsley has been banged up for seven years. That’s most of his adult lifetime, probably for something he never did.
He’s out now. He’s trying to make his way. And yet everyone does their best to put him right back on square one. You guys included.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that friend of yours. The other bloke. The one that came up to London.’

‘Corbett?’

‘I can’t remember. Tall. Loved himself.’

‘What about him?’

She was staring at Yates now, frank disbelief.

‘You’re telling me you don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

‘Following Ainsley around? Night after night? Trying to make life tough for him? That’s not even intimidation. It’s laziness. Ainsley wouldn’t go anywhere near Coughlin. He never wanted to see the guy ever again. Yet here you are again, same old questions, same old routine, trying it on. Haven’t you got anything better to do? No one else to hassle?’

Faraday stirred on the sofa. He didn’t feel quite so tired any more.

‘These friends of Ainsley’s. It’s important we know a little more,’ he said quietly.

‘Like what?’

‘Like whether or not they’re criminals.’

‘Of course they’re criminals. Everyone up there’s at it. That’s how you make a living.’

‘Sure. But you know what I mean.’

‘Serious criminals? Serious enough to kill someone? No.’ She shook her head. ‘Ainsley’s mates are kids. Lots of attitude, but kids. They’d no more kill someone than get a regular job.’

Faraday ducked his head for a moment. Even kids were capable of murder, as he knew only too well.

‘But you’re worried?’ Yates had put his notebook to one side. ‘About Ainsley?’

Elliott studied him a moment, trying to gauge where
this encounter might lead. Not an interview any more, but a conversation.

‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘To be frank, I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s so hard. Me? I’m middle class. I’ve got qualifications, a good job, all this …’ She gestured round. ‘I also love Ainsley. That’s not a small thing, believe me. So I want to share it with him. I want all this to be ours.’

‘And Ainsley?’

‘Shows willing. Of course he does. Christ, he even did the bloody front the other day. Had a proper discussion, chose the paint, did a nice job, even cleaned the brushes. But it’s not him. It’s not his world. And I’d be mad not to admit it.’

Another silence. Faraday, impressed, wanted to draw certain threads together, but Elliott beat him to it. She was on her feet again and up the stairs. Faraday could hear her moving around above them. Then came the scrape of a drawer closing and footsteps down the stairs.

‘Here.’

Faraday found himself looking at a sheaf of typescript. They were poems.

‘Ainsley’s?’

‘Yes.’ She was standing over Faraday. ‘Most of them he wrote in prison. You’re looking at three years’ work. Some of them are very good. In fact some of them are excellent. We wanted to get something together, find a publisher, get some publicity. We even had a title.
Periscope Depth
.’

‘And Ainsley?’

‘Doesn’t want to know any more.’ She shook her head. ‘Can’t be fucking bothered.’

Faraday stole a glance at the top poem. Something about seagulls. Finally he looked up at her.

‘But that doesn’t make him a murderer.’ He held out the poems. ‘Does it?’

Late afternoon, Cathy Lamb appeared at Winter’s bungalow. Winter and Dawn were sitting in the garden, enjoying the sunshine. Dawn, after two hefty shots of Bacardi, appeared to be asleep. Winter was reading the
Daily Telegraph
.

‘Convalescence, is it? Or have you two got it on?’

Cathy had made her own way round the side, letting herself in through the garden gate. Winter struggled to his feet, making a mental note to buy a new padlock. Dawn hadn’t stirred.

‘Sweet of you, Cath.’ Winter was eyeing the huge bunch of flag irises. ‘I’ll sort a vase out.’

‘They’re for Dawn, Paul. Much though I love you.’

‘I’ll still find a vase.’

‘Really?’ Cathy raised an eyebrow but didn’t pursue it.

Back inside, Winter dumped the flowers in the sink and went through to the lounge for another tumbler. He was clueless about Cathy’s taste in spirits but the next half an hour was already shaping up nicely and a slug or two of Bacardi wouldn’t do any harm.

Through the kitchen window, he could see Cathy squatting on the lawn beside Dawn. By the time he joined them, she’d obviously been through the events of last night.

‘Geech, little toerag.’ Cathy shaded her eyes, peering up at Winter. ‘Has to be him, doesn’t it?’

Winter nodded, splashing Bacardi over the ice he’d just brought from the kitchen.

‘You want a Coke with it?’

‘Nothing at all, thanks. I’m driving. Give it to the invalid.’

Dawn took the tumbler. She and Cathy had been close for a couple of years now. After Cathy had thrown her husband, Pete, out it had been Dawn who had provided the listening ear, cementing a friendship that had survived ever since. Cathy and Pete were now back together and they’d recently moved to a neat thirties pebbledash in
leafy Alverstoke, but Dawn and Cathy still managed the occasional girlie night out.

Dawn wanted to know how Cathy had screwed the time off to drop by. The way she was hearing it, every detective in Portsmouth had been press-ganged into the hunt for Darren Geech.

‘Yeah.’ Cathy nodded. ‘Every detective except me. It’s mad out there. You don’t need that kind of grief, not on a Saturday.’ She looked up at Winter again. ‘So how come Geech knew where Dawn lived?’

Winter had been asking himself exactly the same question for most of the afternoon. There were a number of options but most of them were far too sophisticated for the likes of Darren Geech. Instead, he favoured the obvious.

‘He’d clocked her car.’

‘The red racer?’

‘Yeah. Car like that, brand new, stands out a mile in Somerstown. We parked outside the flats when we turned his mum’s place over. When we seized the dog and came out, he watched us getting in. I remember him doing it.’

‘And he followed her later?’

‘Yeah. The kids know where we operate from. Car park round the back at Highland Road, they’d just wait in one of those little next-door streets.’

‘In a nicked car? That’s not very bright, is it?’

‘
Bright
?’ Winter snorted with laughter. ‘We’re talking Darren Geech, Cath. The boy knows no fear. Couldn’t care a fuck about anything.’

Cathy nodded, saying nothing, and Winter wondered whether now was the time to ask how the inquiry was shaping up. To his own surprise, he’d yet to receive as much as a phone call from the likes of Hartigan.

Dawn took another sip of Bacardi. There was still something bothering her.

‘But why try and burn my house down? I don’t understand.’

‘Because we hurt him, love.’

‘
Hurt
him? How?’

‘By nicking his dog. And then making it tough for him when he tried to snatch it back.’

‘That’s an assumption. We don’t know he was going to do that, not for sure.’

‘You don’t think so? You don’t think him and his mate were after stopping at number twelve? Tapping on the door? Taking Charlie for a little ride? Maybe you’re right, love. Maybe he was out for an afternoon drive.’

Dawn dismissed him with a wave. Winter in these moods wasn’t worth the effort of a conversation. Cathy, too, favoured a change of subject. She told Dawn she didn’t want to see her until Tuesday at the earliest. That would give her time to sort her place out, contact the insurance, get a new carpet laid. After an experience like that, the last thing she needed was the smell of charred viscose.

‘You’ll be all right on your own?’ Cathy enquired. ‘Only you can always stay over with us. It’s pretty chaotic but we’ve got a mattress and a spare bedroom.’