Deadlight (29 page)

Dawn and Winter swapped glances. After putting up a spirited fight, she’d finally accepted Winter’s offer of a bed for the night.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, swilling the ice cubes round in her glass. ‘Paul’s being stern with me.’

Cathy laughed.

‘You’d like that.’

‘Really?’ Dawn glanced up, no trace of a smile. ‘You think so?’

Cathy stayed nearly an hour. Winter broke open a packet of crumpets from the supermarket and slipped them into the toaster. He was disappointed they’d never got round to discussing what remained of his CID career but he sensed the two women had more important things to gossip about. Through the open window in the kitchen he
could hear the low burble of conversation, and once or twice he thought he caught the name Andy, but the moment he appeared with the crumpets they quickly changed the subject. Cathy and Pete were contemplating a maiden voyage in their new boat. Cathy would have been happy with a trip down to the West Country but Pete fancied something more ambitious.

‘Britanny at least,’ she said, licking Marmite from her fingers.

Cathy left shortly afterwards, making Winter promise he’d take care of Dawn. Winter walked her to the front gate, ever the gentleman. They paused by the car.

‘She’s had a very big shock, hasn’t she?’

Winter nodded, reaching down with his good hand and opening the car door.

‘Too right, Cath.’ He smiled. ‘And then someone tried to burn her house down.’

Faraday was contemplating going home when Scottie called back. Excitement had become his trademark.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Are you sitting down?’

Faraday grunted something about calling it a day. He was starting to suspect this eager Reggie belonged in Hollywood, pitching wild ideas to fat-cat producers. Scottie was still at full throttle.

‘You know in the navy we have these little associations? Old shipmates getting together? Well, there were loads from the Falklands, specially the ships that went down.
Coventry. Ardent. Antelope
. They all have a meet, usually once a year, little church service, couple of prayers, something to eat and drink, happens all the time, especially round May and June.’

‘And?’

‘The
Accolades
have one, too. And you know when it took place?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Monday night.’

‘Where?’

‘Here, in Pompey, Naval Home Club.’

Faraday at last sat down. The Naval Home Club was a big, post-war building down the far end of Queen Street, a spit from the Victory Gate. Skates and ex-skates used it for cheap accommodation and a pint or two in the bar. Evidently it did functions, as well.

‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Certain. One of the guys I’d called belled me back. He was in
Accolade
when she went down, and he was there on Monday night.’

‘How many people are we talking about?’

‘Around sixty.’

‘He’s got names?’

‘No, but I got the secretary’s number from him, the guy who organised it all. He lives in Drayton. Local.’

‘You’ve talked to him?’

‘He wasn’t in. Gone to Lord’s to watch the cricket. His missus expects him back late.’ He paused. ‘You want the good news, too? The Home Club have CCTV. Sixteen fucking cameras. I’ve checked. Can you believe that?’

Winter took a taxi to Gunwharf, a big, forty-acre lifestyle development on a prime harbourside site. Misty Gallagher occupied one of the coveted waterfront apartments, a £600,000 opportunity for Bazza Mackenzie to unload some of his carefully laundered drugs money.

Winter, blinking in the sunshine, found her name on the entry speakerphone.

‘Mist? Paul.’

She buzzed him into the lobby and he took the lift to the third floor. To Winter’s delight, the lift opened directly into the apartment. He felt like he’d stepped into a movie set.

‘Awright, Mist?’

She was standing in the kitchen, doing something complicated to a glistening pile of monkfish. Winter
could smell garlic and fresh chopped ginger. He examined the fish, dipped his finger into a bowl of Thai sauce, and then gave her a peck on the cheek.

‘What happened to your arm?’ she asked.

‘Got in a fight. The other guy died.’

‘Bullshit.’

Misty reached for a tumbler of white wine and took a long pull. Life had written a story or two on her face, but for a woman in her forties she still had an amazing body. Winter knew that Bev Yates had been all over her in his younger days, and knew as well that half the CID office had kidded themselves they were next in the queue.

‘Bazza OK, is he?’

‘Mad. Never bloody stops. You know Bazza.’

Winter was at the window now, gazing out over the harbour. Most of Bazza’s money had, in the end, gone into bricks and mortar. Class properties like these. Nursing homes. Some of the seedier hotels. Restaurants. Café bars. Estate agents. Plus God knows what else abroad. Each of these businesses gave him a chance to wash money through the till. Add in all those freeholds, and a rising market made Bazza richer by the minute.

‘I hear he offered for the Saracen’s Head the other day.’ The Saracen’s Head was a big eighteenth-century hotel with harbour views. Lack of maintenance over the years had brought it to its knees, a prime target for wealthy barrow boys like Bazza.

‘That’s right.’ Misty nodded. ‘Bought and sold in half a day. Lawyers line up the paperwork, bank supplies the loan, and Bazza walks out with three hundred grand profit. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘Wonder what, Mist?’

‘Why anyone bothers working for a living.’

She cackled with laughter and then Winter caught the slurp of wine as she emptied the rest of the bottle. Across the harbour, he could see a big yacht easing out from the Camper and Nicholson marina. Closer, one of the early
evening cross-Channel ferries was making its way upharbour.

‘Been anywhere nice lately, Mist?’

‘No. Baz is talking about the Caribbean again but I’ll believe it when it happens. Be lucky if Trude and me make Bognor this year.’

Winter smiled to himself. Trudy was Misty’s seventeen-year-old daughter. Mackenzie had set them both up in a Gunwharf maisonette more than a year ago, tired of shagging Misty in the back of his Mitsubishi 4Runner, and more recently – after months of nagging – Mist had managed an upgrade to this magnificent view. Arethusa House was one of the best addresses in Portsmouth, but Winter knew that Misty’s days in the sun were numbered. Bazza had lately been screwing a young Italian woman from Siena. She had an education, as well as huge knockers, and Misty was heading for early retirement.

‘I’m going to open a new bottle. Chianti be OK?’

‘Fine.’ Winter hooked a stool towards him and sat down. ‘I’m here on an errand, Mist. Little message to deliver.’

‘Yeah?’ She struggled with the cork a moment, then out it came.

‘’Fraid so.’ Winter pushed a glass towards her. ‘There’s a kid called Darren Geech. You might know him.’

‘Of him, yes. Somerstown? Wild child?’

‘Off his head, Mist, a real liability. Problem is, he’s been working for Bazza, or says he has.’

‘You’re sure? Baz is normally fussy that way. Doesn’t take head-cases.’

‘Doesn’t matter, love. True or not, everyone believes he runs gear for Bazza. Including my boss.’

Misty abandoned the fish. Winter had her full attention now. Winter relaxed, sipping the wine. Perfect temperature. He could take his time over this. He knew he could.

‘Problem is, Mist, young Darren has got himself in serious shit. Number one, he gave a bloke called Rookie
a whacking. Rookie died soon after so we’re looking at murder.’

‘That was in the paper.’

‘You’re right, but get this. Number two, Darren cranks it up a notch, tries his hand at arson, and chucks a bottle of four-star through someone’s window up in Portchester.’

‘Why? Why would he do that?’

‘Complicated. The place didn’t go up in the end but that’s not the point. The owner is one of us. CID. And my guvnor’s not best pleased.’

‘So … ?’ Misty was trying to open the curtains on this little mystery. ‘What’s this message you’re supposed to be delivering?’

Winter struggled off the stool and went through to the big lounge. The window was enormous, the room flooded with sunshine, the Isle of Wight ferry almost close enough to touch. Winter gazed at the view a moment longer, then took in the rest of the room. He hadn’t seen Misty since Christmas but the intervening months had done nothing for her taste. Teletubbies propped on the drinks cabinet. A hideous African sunset in oils on the wall. Two stuffed pandas wedged in respective corners of the long leather sofa. Living in Gunwharf, with its bijou shopping opportunities, crap like this was only a five-minute stroll away.

‘Well?’ Misty was leaning through the kitchen hatch.

‘Nice.’ Winter gestured round with his glass. ‘Handsome.’

‘I meant Geech.’

‘Ah, yes …’ He frowned a moment, deep in thought, then grinned at her, old mates. ‘No point in dressing it up, Mist. My guvnor’s laid hands on a huge squad. If he can’t find young Darren, he’s going to start looking at Bazza.’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘Cheers, Mist. Here’s to the view.’

The general manager of the Naval Home Club was a small, fit-looking Scot with three teenage daughters and a passion for golf. His office lay towards the back of the building, the single window barred against the kids from the neighbouring estate. Faraday had phoned him from Kingston Crescent, expressing an interest in Monday night’s function. Might Derek Grisewood have time for a chat?

Grisewood had been only too happy to oblige. He had a full house tonight but was free for the time being.

‘HMS
Accolade
? Am I right?’

Grisewood nodded. The Home Club regularly laid on functions like these. The navy had several similar associations and it would be the membership secretary who’d normally phone up to make the booking. Once the details were straightened out, the thing went like clockwork.

‘Details?’

‘Numbers. Accommodation. Whether or not wives are coming along. What kind of scran they fancy. Special requests. Any VIPs. It’s all pretty routine.’

Yates was sitting beside Faraday. He jotted down the odd note from time to time but in between he couldn’t take his eyes off the line of framed photographs on a shelf behind Grisewood’s desk. Three lucky sons-in-law were going to have the time of their lives.

Faraday wanted to know about numbers on Monday night.

‘Sixty-three. No wives.’ Grisewood’s finger was anchored in a file. ‘About half of them stayed with us. The rest were either local or kipped over with mates.’

‘And times? How does an evening like this go?’

‘They muster in the main bar around seven. Seven-thirty they go through to the Nuffield Room. They get a tot of rum at the door, then more drinks in a little bar at the side. Round eight we sit them down.’

‘One long table?’

‘No. Round tables of ten.’

‘There’s a seating plan?’

‘That’s up to the secretary. They sort themselves out.’

‘OK.’ Faraday nodded for Yates to make a note. ‘Then what?’

‘We serve the meal.’ He peered at the file. ‘That night it was Crofter’s Soup with a roll. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, all the trimmings. Then trifle … plus wine, of course, red or white. After they’ve eaten they generally have a speech or two, what’s happened over the year, that kind of thing. Then a toast.’ He looked up. ‘Normally, it’s Absent Friends.’

Faraday glanced at Yates again. Since Scottie’s phone call, he’d thought of nothing else but the images that came back from that long-ago war. The bows of a sinking frigate, silhouetted against the flare of a huge explosion. The burned-out hulk that had once been HMS
Sheffield
. Welsh Guardsmen staggering ashore at Bluff Cove, their flesh hanging off in ribbons. Absent Friends, he thought. And then some.

Grisewood was waiting for the next prompt. Yates supplied it.

‘They stay in the Nuffield Room afterwards?’

‘No, they go back to the main bar. More drinks, more dits, lots of catching up, maybe a hug or two if they talk about the old days. You’d be surprised. These occasions can get quite emotional, especially if there aren’t any women around.’

I bet, thought Faraday.

‘What time did the bar close?’

‘Twelve. Last orders, ten to.’

‘And then what?’

‘People drift away, go up to their rooms, share a bottle, get cabs, go home.’

‘Or go off somewhere else, maybe? Carry on drinking?’

‘Of course, if they fancy it.’

‘Were you there yourself that night?’

‘No, I was up in Scotland as a matter of fact. Troon. Wonderful course if the rain holds off. Back in harness Wednesday morning.’

‘So who looked after the reception?’

‘Young lady called Bella. My XO.’

‘Is she around now?’

‘I’m afraid not. Back Monday.’

‘What about CCTV? I understand you’re state of the art.’

Grisewood nodded, confirming the set-up. Eight internal cameras, covering everything from the lobby to the ground-floor toilets. Plus another eight external cameras, offering all-round surveillance. The cameras fed live pictures to a matrix system, monitored from a small security office next to reception.

‘What about the main bar?’

‘One camera.’

‘The Nuffield Room? Where they had dinner?’

‘Same.’

‘And no one can leave without being taped?’

He shook his head and closed the file.

‘We keep the recordings for seven days.’ He smiled. ‘And you’re welcome to take a look.’

A single glance at the monitor screens in the security office was enough for Faraday. There were moments in any investigation when the door at which you were pushing began to open, and this was very definitely one of them. The CCTV system looked new. The resolution, even on replay, was excellent, faces easily recognisable.

Faraday took Yates by the arm and stepped outside. ‘Get hold of Pritchard,’ he said. ‘Bring him down here. I’ll hang on.’

Yates nodded and disappeared while Faraday returned to the bar. The general manager set him up with a pint, made a couple of calls of his own, then came back. It turned out he knew a great deal about birds, as well as
golf, and they were deep in a discussion about Scottish tidal estuaries when Faraday’s phone began to trill.