Deadlight (37 page)

‘Again?’

‘’Fraid so. How’s life on the dole?’

‘Very funny. I need to talk to you about Dawn.’

Winter wanted to know whether Yates had been round to Dawn’s place. Yates grunted, noncommittal, trying to suss Winter’s angle. Was he after gossip? Had he baited some kind of trap? Or might this simply be a courtesy call?

‘She’s fine,’ he said simply. ‘As far as I know.’

‘Back at work? Only I tried to phone her.’

‘No idea, mate.’

There was a long pause. Winter normally hated silence.

‘You wouldn’t happen to know … ah …’

‘Know what?’

‘… whether she’s had any kind of session with those pillocks from Traffic?’

‘Why would she have done that?’

‘Because they’re trying to stitch me up.’

‘Ah.’ Yates was smiling now. ‘Gotcha.’

He gazed up at Faraday’s wall board, wondering how a grown man could live with pictures of birds all his life, then told Winter he was clueless about what Dawn got up to off-duty.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’ Yates was enjoying this. ‘Really.’

‘You didn’t talk to her yesterday afternoon?’

‘I might have done.’

‘And she didn’t mention anything about Traffic?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Then do us a favour, eh? If you see her, tell her I can’t remember a thing. OK?’ He paused, then chuckled. ‘That’s the least you bloody owe me.’

Faraday let himself into the cottage, struck at once by the shadowed bareness of the place. A single worn rug on the cold slate floor. Rough granite walls glittering with mica. A tiny pile of ashes in the fire-blackened hearth. Faraday stood motionless in the gloom for a moment, remembering the CCTV tapes at the Naval Home Club. The function over, a tiny group of
Accolade
s had gathered outside on the street. The lean, fit-looking figure in the leather jacket spoke of independence and a certain raw austerity, and if Faraday wanted any more evidence of the life this man had made for himself then here it was.

He looked around, aware of the cat winding itself around his ankles. There were books piled on one of the deeply recessed window sills, pages flagged with strips of torn newsprint. An abandoned copy of the
Guardian
, three days old, lay on the floor beside a battered-looking sofa and there was a saucer of fresh milk, presumably for the cat. Next door, in the narrow little kitchen, Faraday found a single mug upturned on the drainer beside the sink.

There were two other rooms downstairs. One was a bathroom – shower, tub, airing cupboard, plus a single toothbrush in the glass beside the handbasin – while the other room obviously served as some kind of study. There was a desk jammed in beneath the window with a PC and keyboard on top. A reminder list was Scotch-taped to the PC screen and an adjoining trolley held a

cardboard box full of files. Below the trolley, tucked against the wall, Faraday caught the dull gleam of a bottle. Famous Grouse. Half empty.

Faraday returned to the screen, peering at the list. The office was at the back of the house and the place was in semi-darkness, but Faraday could make out a number of what he took to be addresses. Each had a date and a sum of money beside it and Faraday began to wonder whether Beattie was making a living as some kind of tradesman. A plumber perhaps, or a carpenter. Stepping back from the desk, he was about to leave the room when his attention was caught by a framed photo hung on the wall. Even in the gloom, the picture was unmistakable. Beattie might have baled out of the navy nearly twenty years ago but in the shape of this single, unforgettable image, the Falklands War had stayed with him. HMS
Accolade
, on fire and sinking, 21 May 1982.

Winter had known Mick Clarence for years. As a young lad growing up on the Somerstown estate, he’d served a successful apprenticeship as shoplifter, housebreaker and occasional arsonist. By eleven, he’d learned four ways of nicking any number of vehicles from Transit vans to upmarket continental saloons, and his hot-wiring skills were in demand with older kids in a position to put serious money his way.

At the age of fourteen, with nearly two thousand quid in a Lidl bag under his mattress, Mick had treated his mum and himself to a fortnight on the Costa Brava. He’d done it on a whim, partly because he fancied the word ‘Brava’ and partly because he knew something horrible was going on with his mum. As it happened, Lloret de Mar was the very last place she should ever have gone. His mum’s alcoholism was totally out of control and three solid days at the hotel bar robbed her of any interest in survival. A man she’d never met before carried her back to her tenth-floor hotel room, raped her, then
sat her on the balcony wall before disappearing into the night. According to the local authorities, Elaine Clarence died the moment she hit the faux-marble walkway round the pool.

Back in Somerstown, Mick went to the police. The first detective he met was Winter. He explained what had happened to his mum and begged Winter for some action. Winter did his best, but in the absence of evidence the Spanish authorities said they could do very little. The man must have worn a condom because there was no DNA. And – with the exception of Mick – no witnesses. The boy had been insensible on San Miguel and Bacardi chasers at the time, and with a long list of juvenile offences to his name he’d be an easy target if it ever got to court.

This realisation changed the boy’s life. Overnight, incandescently angry, he turned his back on a promising criminal career. He gave up drinking, became obsessional about drugs, hospitalised a slightly older youth he caught giving a couple of Asians a hard time. His one-time mates were baffled by this Robin Hood act but Mick Clarence didn’t care. When Anghared Davies, who ran the city’s Persistent Young Offender scheme, enquired whether he was interested in coming on board, he leapt at the invitation. Now, nearly seven years later, he was still there, tagged as a Youth Worker, one of the very few grown-ups that errant Pompey kids would ever listen to.

Winter met him at a café in Elm Grove. Wiry, aggressive, crop-haired and watchful, he was indistinguishable from the delinquents and other assorted mushers who were currently swamping the magistrates’ court.

Winter slipped a handful of photographs from an envelope. Mick Clarence had never seen the point of small talk.

Now, he glanced at the photos. Turned out they were all the same.

‘Geech,’ he said.

Winter nodded. He’d been pleased with the digital prints. The bruising showed up nicely, purple shading into black.

‘You know what happened?’

‘Someone gave him a smacking.’

‘Yeah, you’re right, but d’you know who?’

‘Haven’t a clue, mate.’

‘Bazza Mackenzie.’

‘Really?’ Clarence picked up the top print and studied it more closely. For the first time, a flicker of interest. Then his head came up, eyes that never blinked. ‘Why?’

Winter kept the explanation brief. Young Darren had been dealing for Bazza. Then had come the run-in with Rookie. Darren, his street-cred at stake, had rounded up a mate or two and given the bastard a battering. By going over the top, and killing the man, he’d seriously embarrassed some of Winter’s more senior colleagues. Fire-bombing the house of a serving CID officer, whatever the justification, was the boy’s second big mistake. Unable to collar young Darren, Major Crimes were about to turn their attention to Bazza himself. Bazza, less than amused, had consequently gone looking for Darren. Hence the pile of horror pix on the café table.

‘You mean he’s delivered the little cunt?’

‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘After a word or two in his ear.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Darren’s still facing a murder charge.’

‘So go ahead. You know where he is. Charge him.’

‘We can’t. There’s no evidence. We’ve recovered stuff from his mum’s place but she’s still blaming it on another kid.’

‘Like who?’

‘Won’t say.’

Clarence hadn’t taken his eyes off Winter’s face. The perfect detective, Winter thought. Scary as hell.

‘You want me to push these round?’ Clarence’s tattooed hand closed on the pile of prints.

‘Yeah. You’ll know the names, Darren’s mates, the ones who were with him when he did Rookie. Give them a copy each. Tell them Bazza is still itching to sort out Darren’s little gang. And then explain how cool it might be to make a statement or two.’

‘About what?’

‘Darren thumping Rookie.’

‘That’s grassing.’

‘No, it’s not.’ For the first time Winter smiled. ‘Let’s call it self-preservation.’

Bev Yates finally got through to Mark Harrington just before noon.
Accolade
’s First Lieutenant had been top of his call list since nine. Now a captain with a desk in the Ministry of Defence, he’d so far resisted the temptation to phone Yates back.

Until now.

Yates was still in Faraday’s office. The pad at his elbow was full of names ringed, ticked, or savagely scored through. To date, Yates had managed to arrange just five interviews with
Accolade
s from Monday night.

The phone to his ear, Yates explained the reason for the call. A Major Crimes team were investigating the death of a serving prison officer. Sean Coughlin had once been in the navy. They had reason to suspect a possible connection with an incident aboard HMS
Accolade
, back in ’eighty-two. Captain Harrington might be able to shed some light on this incident. Might he have time for a brief interview?

‘I don’t understand,’ Harrington said at once. ‘What kind of incident?’

Yates mentioned Matthew Warren. There was a silence, then Harrington was as measured and businesslike as ever.

‘I’m not quite with you,’ he said.

‘We understand Warren disappeared over the side.’

‘That’s right, he did. Unfortunate to say the least, poor kid. We did our best to find him, of course, but these things happen. Bloody tragic, actually, though I suppose he was spared what followed.’

Yates repeated his request for an interview. Half an hour, max.

‘When?’

‘This afternoon?’ Yates glanced at his watch. ‘I can be with you by three.’

‘No can do, I’m afraid. Meetings all afternoon.’

‘This evening, then?’

‘I’m off to Leicester.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Stafford. Then Stoke-on-Trent. I’m on the Recruiting Directorate. You won’t believe how understaffed we are.’

Join the club, Yates thought. He pushed the pad away, his patience suddenly exhausted.

‘I understand there was a Ship’s Investigation into Warren’s death.’

‘Of course. Standard procedure.’

‘So there’d be an official report, something in writing.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘We don’t seem able to access it.’

‘Really … ?’ Harrington strung the word out. For the first time, Yates imagined a smile on his face. There was a long silence. Then Harrington was back on the phone. ‘Listen. Best I can do is make some enquiries. It won’t be today and probably not tomorrow but I’ll give you a call back. How does that sound?’

Fucking useless, Yates thought, but the line had already gone dead.

MONDAY
, 10
JUNE
, 2002,
12.10

Dave Beattie returned to the cottage shortly before noon. Faraday, alerted by the approaching growl of a diesel engine, stepped towards the window with his second mug of coffee, watching an ancient Land-Rover bumping down the track between the trees. Parked-up, Beattie got out. With him was an Alsatian dog. The pair of them paused to examine Faraday’s Mondeo, then made their way towards the cottage.

Beattie seemed smaller than Faraday remembered from the CCTV tapes, a lean, slight figure in grubby shorts and a torn blue T-shirt. The T-shirt was blotched with sweat and he paused by the garden gate to stamp the muck and dust from his boots. Glancing up again, the sunshine caught his face. It was an outdoors face, a face weathered by hard physical work. Faraday guessed his age at early fifties, maybe a year or two older. His greying hair was drawn back, a ponytail secured with a rubber band, and he wore a tiny gold earring.

They met at the door. Beattie’s handshake was dry and firm. The dog sniffed Faraday up and down while Beattie clumped through to the kitchen. A blast of water from the tap, then the sound of the electric kettle being filled.

‘How did you know about the birds?’ Faraday had propped himself against the jamb of the kitchen door.

‘I gave Derek Grisewood a call. After we talked on the phone.’

‘Checking me out?’

‘Of course. He said you were all right. Apparently you’d been discussing birds with him.’

Faraday nodded. Grisewood was the manager at the Home Club in Pompey.

Beattie busied himself with a jar of Maxwell House. He wanted to know the purpose of Faraday’s visit. Just what was he after?

On the phone, Faraday had simply referred to a major inquiry. Now, he began to talk about Monday night.

‘Does the name Coughlin ring any bells? Sean Coughlin?’

‘Yeah. Killick chef aboard
Accolade
. We were only talking about him the other day. Arsehole, if you want the truth.’

‘So I gather. Maybe that’s why he’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ Faraday’s news put the ghost of a smile on Beattie’s face. ‘You mean someone whacked him?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You’ve got a squad on it?’

‘Obviously.’

‘So how’s it going?’

Faraday didn’t answer. Instead, he suggested they talk next door, somewhere more comfortable. Beattie followed him into the big living room, settling himself on the sofa with the dog curled beside him. Faraday retrieved his mug from the window sill and took the other armchair.

‘I want to talk about
Accolade
,’ he began. ‘And what happened in the Falklands.’

Beattie frowned. A conversation like this appeared to be the last thing he expected.

‘The Falklands was a bummer,’ he said. ‘We lost the ship.’

‘I know.’

‘Sure you know. Everyone knows. It’s history. It’s in all the books. What you don’t know is what it feels like.’