Deadlight (33 page)

Outside, where the ambulances backed in, Corbett put a call through to Dave Michaels.

‘Definitely Geech.’ He was watching a nurse walking away down the hill. ‘Someone’s given him a whacking.’

Faraday and Yates took Wallace down to the Naval Home Club. The general manager, alerted by a phone call, had prepared Monday night’s video tapes and made available an empty bedroom upstairs. A television and a video player lay on a table beneath the window. Tea and coffee was just a phone call away.

The bedroom was tiny. Wallace perched himself on the single bed. They were still talking about Coughlin.

Back in ’eighty-two, the man had been chef in the wardroom galley, preparing meals for the ship’s officers. The hours were long but you fancied you were a cut above the chefs down aft, cooking for the rest of the ship’s company in the big dining room, and you were also left on your own, no one else in your way.

‘That suited Coughlin down to the ground,’ Wallace said. ‘Most chefs throw a wobbler from time to time
because they’ve got that kind of temperament but he was a really moody bastard.’

There was a sliding door to the wardroom galley, Wallace explained, and even the officers themselves thought twice about intruding into the chef’s space. That meant he had the place entirely to himself. Not only that, but he had access to virtually limitless spirits.

‘Scotch, gin, whatever you like. He’d just nick it from the wardroom supplies. Coughlin’s tipple was Scotch. Weeks when he was really drinking, he’d carry it around in a Coke can, just keeping himself topped up. That’s when blokes avoided him. When they saw the Coke can.’

‘You’re saying he was a drunk?’

‘Not all the time. He’d go without it completely some weeks, just use the spirits for currency, buying favours. Thinking back, he was a control freak, no doubt about it. He wanted to be in charge. Top dog.’

Faraday was watching Yates spooling back through the first of the tapes. He couldn’t get the sliding door out of his mind.

‘The galley you mentioned. The one where Coughlin worked. That space was completely his own?’

‘Totally. It was up forward, one deck, nice and private. That’s rare on a warship, believe me.’

‘And you say he worked with Warren?’

‘Every day. Depending on the watches we were keeping, Warren would be up first thing, helping Coughlin flash up for breakfast, laying the table in the wardroom, sorting out the cereals, all that. Even if he wanted to, there was no way Warren could avoid the man.’

‘Which suited Coughlin?’

‘Down to the ground. He had the boy exactly where he wanted him.’

Faraday nodded, watching the screen. According to Wallace, Warren had been the baby of the mess.
Accolade
was his first ship and though he did his best to hide it, everyone knew he was terrified of Coughlin.

‘How do you want to play this?’ Yates had cued the first tape.

Faraday glanced at Wallace. The secretary had brought his membership lists with him, together with a note of exactly who had attended the function on Monday night. Twenty years on, Faraday sensed he’d been disappointed at the turn-out.

‘Some of the guys have just had enough,’ he’d said in the car. ‘They ring me up and tell me they can’t put their lives on hold for ever but somehow I never think of it like that. A lot of our blokes died and twenty years on is a good time to remember them.’

Now, Faraday sought his advice. If they started with the tape from the main bar, half seven in the evening, they’d get a feel for the occasion. Wallace could maybe point out the odd characters, people who might have had a thing about Coughlin, younger ratings who might have buddied with Matthew Warren.

‘That OK?’

Wallace nodded, transferring to a chair Yates had found for him from a room up the corridor. Yates hit the play button and the first tape rolled through. The screen offered a grid of four pictures, each fed from cameras in different locations around the building, and Faraday watched the top right-hand picture as the bar slowly filled: portly men of a certain age, with blazers and ties and a ready handshake for friends and shipmates.

By eight o’clock the room was full. The camera offered a high shot from way up on the wall and the faces easing themselves into the scrum at the bar kept changing as the
Accolades
bought fresh rounds for each other. It was strange watching these pictures mute. This is the way J-J sees everything, Faraday thought. What would life be like without ever hearing laughter?

‘There.’ Yates paused the tape. Wallace was pointing
at a figure on the screen. Slightly taller than everyone else, he was locked in conversation with two younger men.

‘That was our Jimmy,’ he said. ‘The XO. Mark Harrington. Hellava guy. Lives in the Meon Valley now, Corhampton way. Drives a desk at the MOD during the week so it was nice of him to turn up.’

Faraday glanced at Yates. Corhampton was a stone’s throw from Bev’s place. Bev peered at the screen, then shook his head.

‘Never laid eyes on him,’ he said. ‘But then I wouldn’t, would I? I’m never bloody there.’

Seconds later, the bar began to empty as the
Accolade
s made their way into dinner. The bottom right-hand picture was fed from a camera in the Nuffield Room and Faraday’s heart sank as he watched the tables filling up. He wasn’t counting but sixty-three blokes represented a lot of interviews, especially with a squad as depleted as
Merriott
’s.

‘Tell me about the night Warren went missing.’ Faraday was still gazing at the screen. ‘Do you remember any of that?’

‘Very well. Like I say, the lad was in our mess. You keep an eye on the kids, it’s just something you do, and it seemed all the more important down south because none of us had been to war before and no one had a clue what it was really going to be like.’

‘You were nervous?’

‘Not really. More thoughtful than nervous.
Belgrano
had gone down by then, and so had
Sheffield
, so you couldn’t kid yourself it was an exercise any more.’

Well inside the Total Exclusion Zone, they’d been on defence watches the night Warren had disappeared, six hours on, six hours off. It was winter in the South Atlantic, not much daylight, and you quickly lost all track of time.

‘But you remember when he went missing?’

‘I remember when the alarm was raised, yes. I was in my pit. The messing was luxurious compared to earlier ships, that was one of the reasons 21s were so popular, and each gulch had four bunks in it. There’s a little curtain you can pull to give yourself a bit of privacy and this particular morning I remember the Officer of the Watch making a pipe for Warren. The lad was in the next gulch to us and I pulled the curtain back, wondering whether anyone was going to give him a shake. They couldn’t, though. Because he wasn’t there.’

Faraday nodded. In the Nuffield Room, after bowed heads for grace, waitresses were circling with bowls of soup.

‘What happened next?’

‘There was another pipe, this time for Thimblehunt. That means you all search your own particular areas of the ship. Thimblehunt wasn’t a good sign, not as far as Warren was concerned.’

‘And after that?’

‘The Captain turned the ship around. One of my oppos up in the Commcen told me later he’d been on to
Hermes
for permission. Man overboard, there’s a drill you do, special kind of sea search, but by that time it was pretty obvious Warren was a goner. Mid-winter, that far south, he wouldn’t have had a prayer.’

Wallace was looking glum. Yates had spooled on through the meal. The dessert courses had come and gone, and the speeches were under way. Yates hit fast forward, then put the machine on pause again. The room was on its feet, glasses raised.

‘When guys go overboard, or get themselves killed, you organise an auction. A lot of their clothing and stuff goes back into stores but all the personal items are put up for sale. We call it Dead Man’s Kit. The stuff’s sold over and over again, doesn’t matter what it is, scabby old pair of trainers might fetch twenty quid, maybe thirty, then another thirty from someone else. Same with Walkmans
or old cassettes. I remember Warren had loads of Status Quo and AC/DC. Terrible stuff. Raised a fortune.’

‘Where does the money go?’

‘Normally his wife. In Warren’s case, probably his mum and dad.’

‘Where was he from?’

‘Pompey.’

‘I see.’

Faraday couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. Absent friends, he thought. And some poor scrap of an eighteen-year-old, adrift in the South Atlantic, either dying or dead.

‘Exit tapes next?’

Yates consulted the log the general manager had provided. One camera covered the lobby area outside reception. Another the steps leading down to the street outside.
Accolades
began drifting away around eleven o’clock, often in twos and threes. Faraday watched them for a moment, then told Yates to pause the tape again.

‘You were there in the main bar after the meal?’ He’d turned to Wallace.

‘Some of the time, yes.’

‘Do you remember a particular group? Three blokes? Might have been talking about Coughlin?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘But then I can’t remember anyone ever talking about Coughlin. He was like a bad dose of flu. Why would you want to remember something like that?’

‘OK,’ Faraday went on, ‘was anyone talking about the Alhambra?’

‘The what?’

‘The Alhambra. Hotel in Granada Road. Kind of place you might go for an after-hours drink or two. Run by a sailor by the name of Pritchard.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Wallace said. ‘Or him. That doesn’t mean to say no one went on there. The mob’s a
smaller organisation than you might think. But you’re asking me? I don’t know.’

Yates hit play again. The Home Club was emptying by now, more bodies making their way into the street, checking watches, looking for taxis, saying their goodbyes. Without Pritchard here to mark their card, Faraday knew they had no option but to trawl through the whole list, sixty-three interviews.

‘There. Look.’ It was Wallace again. He was pointing to a group of departing guests. One of them had his face to camera: lean, fit-looking, hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. He eased himself into a leather jacket and then nodded at another man on his left.

‘That’s the guy you want to talk to about Warren.’ Wallace reached for his membership list.

‘Why? Who is he?’

‘He was our Joss, our Master-at-Arms. The killick Reg was in our mess, hard bastard, name of Flaherty. The killick Reg works with the Joss. They run the ship, discipline-wise. Whatever’s going on, it’s their job to know, especially the killick.’

‘Was Flaherty there as well? Monday night?’

‘Flaherty was killed when the ship went down. That’s why the Joss is your man.’ He nodded at the screen again and Faraday turned to watch the figure in the leather jacket disappearing down the street. He counted five others with him.

‘Is he local? This Joss?’

‘Negative. Lives down in Devon somewhere. Hang on.’ He had his head buried in the membership lists. ‘Here it is. Dave Beattie. Ezentide Quay.’ He looked up. ‘You know the Tamar Valley at all?’

SUNDAYM
, 9
JUNE
, 2002,
14.20

Winter, on a roll after ambushing Corbett, bought the flowers from the ground floor shop at the QA hospital. The woman behind the reception desk had keyed in Darren Geech’s name and traced him to a ward on the third floor. Winter, suitably concerned, had enquired about visiting times but she’d referred him to the staff on the ward itself. If there was a problem with access, they’d be the ones to know.

Cradling his enormous spray of carnations, Winter headed for the lifts. Cathy Lamb had phoned Dawn with the news about Geech. An ambulance had scooped him up from Somerstown and taken him to the QA. Odd thing was, he’d been dumped on exactly the spot where Rookie had received his beating.

Winter loved the touch. Vintage Bazza, he thought. Not just a lesson for the little knobber but a sweet twist at the end to bring this whole episode full circle. Had Bazza’s blokes screwed the location out of Geech before they got down to business? Or had it taken a preliminary whack or two before he’d volunteered the information? Either way it didn’t matter. Darren Geech’s infant career in hard narcotics was very probably over.

Beds on D20 were supervised from an L-shaped nursing station at the junction of two corridors. A harassed-looking sister took a cursory glance at Winter’s warrant card, and a longer look at his arm.

‘Been in the wars, have we?’

Winter ignored the raised eyebrow. The flowers, he said, were a humanitarian gesture from himself and his
colleagues. Young Geech had been through a great deal on their behalf. Where might he find the lad?

The sister indicated a small glassed-in cubicle at the end of the longer of the two corridors. Winter had already spotted the uniform sat outside. The young PC looked up at Winter’s approach. A copy of the
News of the World
lay open on his lap. Beside him, on a low table, was the visitor log.

The PC studied Winter’s face. He hadn’t a clue who he was. Out came the warrant card again.

‘What’s this, then?’ the PC enquired.

Winter gave him the flowers and asked him to sort out a vase. Bewildered by a lapful of mixed carnations, the PC said that access to Geech was strictly limited: inspectors and above, unless through prior arrangement.

Winter looked astonished.

‘You didn’t get the call?’

‘Who from?’

‘Major Crimes.’

The PC looked dubious a moment, then shook his head.

‘Not a peep from anyone,’ he said. ‘And I’ve been here since six.’

‘Overtime?’

‘You have to be joking.’

‘Shit.’ Winter wagged his head. ‘You wonder sometimes, don’t you?’ He hooked a chair towards him with his leg and sat down. The view through the glass was half-shuttered by a fall of Venetian blind, but from here Winter could make out the hump of a body in the single bed. ‘How is he?’

‘Fuck knows. I’m just the gate man.’

‘You don’t go in there at all?’