Deadlight (42 page)

For a Monday night, the arcade was empty. The nylon carpet, cratered with cigarette burns, felt slippery underfoot.

‘Who phoned Mick Clarence, then?’ Winter saw little point in smalltalk.

Three faces, shadowed under baseball caps, stared him out. Under different circumstances, this situation could have been threatening and Winter found himself wondering yet again what had happened to the nation’s youth. In his day, wickedness began and ended at scout camp. These days, you found yourself counting the bodies.

At length, the smallest of the youths nodded at the machine. He was wearing baggy jeans and a Liverpool top. The Nike Air trainers looked brand new.

‘You got any money?’

‘I might have.’

‘We need three quid for starters. One go each.’

Winter eyed him a moment, then found a pound coin. The youth grinned at his mates and slipped quickly on to the bench seat, a child again. Winter had yet to give him the coin.

‘How does it work, then?’

The youth explained the controls – steering wheel, fingertip gear shift, two pedals for throttle and brake – then grabbed the money. The console came to life. A choice of options scrolled on to the screen, race circuits from Hockenheim to Sao Paolo. The youth went for Monte Carlo, and then spent a second or two contemplating his choice of weather.

‘Heatwave?’ One of his mates grinned. ‘Well cool.’

‘Whose been on this afternoon?’

‘Fuck knows. Let’s see.’

The youth at the wheel called up a list of current title contenders. Half a dozen names appeared on the screen. The fastest time to date had been posted by someone calling himself ‘Iceman’.

‘Wanker. I know him. You gonna do this or what?’

The youth at the wheel hit the Go button. The sound effects were deafening. A couple of dozen bright little Formula One cars squatted on the starting grid, maximum revs, then the lights on the overhead gantry flicked to green and the race began. The youths crowded round, sucked in by the noise of burning rubber, and even Winter had to admit to a flutter of excitement. The lad behind the wheel drove with some style, taking the first corner wide and passing a blur of scarlet on the outside of the bend. Seconds later, he was powering along the Corniche.

One of his mates was pointing at a huge white yacht in the harbour, the sundeck at the stern decorated with nubile young flesh.

‘Look at the tits on that,’ he chortled. ‘Well fucking fit.’

The harbour had gone. Next came a tunnel, the scream of the engines suddenly redoubled. Winter waited until a disc of light appeared, ballooning as the car burst into the dazzle of a perfect Monte Carlo afternoon, then he slipped a photo from his pocket, reached forward, and propped it on the screen. There was a scream of tyres as the youth at the wheel braked. Briefly, he fought for control, then threw himself backwards as the car hit the barrier and somersaulted into the crowd.

‘Fuck off,’ he yelled. ‘What’s all that about?’

The other two were staring at Darren Geech, his head arched back on the pillow, his face barely recognisable. This was the moment Winter had given the bed a nudge and the agony was unmistakable.

‘Been to see him yet? Only it might be wise to hang on a couple of weeks because he’s finding it hard to talk.’

The youth at the wheel didn’t care. He wanted another quid. Winter ignored him.

‘Who made the call to Mick Clarence then? Tonight?’

Two pairs of eyes flicked to the driver. The youth at the wheel was still complaining about the crash. His first lap had been going really well, half a second up on his all-time best. Keep that up, and he’d be untouchable.

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Winter had retrieved the picture. ‘Darren copped this because he upset the wrong people. The wrong people want Darren put away. Unless my lot get some help, the wrong people are going to be looking for more Darrens.’

The youth at the wheel had managed to re-set the game. One of his mates stirred, ignoring the cars on the grid.

‘What’s that then? This help?’

‘Statements. Witness statements. People who might have been around when Darren did the bloke in Fraser Road.’

‘That’s grassing,’ the youth said flatly. ‘No one fucking grasses.’

Winter looked at him. Mick Clarence’s point. Exactly.

‘You’re right, son,’ he said. ‘But there are limits here. What Darren did was out of order. It’s not me saying it. It’s the blokes he upset. Anyone with half a brain would draw the line at doing what Darren did. Now he’s lucky to have even that.’

‘What?’

‘Half a brain.’

‘But what did he do, though, Darren? Apart from that arsehole in Fraser Road?’

‘Us. One of us. That might sound like a right laugh to you but we think it’s a serious piss-off. And you know what? Bazza Mackenzie happens to agree with us. Some things you do. Some you don’t. Problem with Darren, he never knew the difference.’ Winter paused, then passed the photo. ‘There’s a phone number on the back. It’s a
police number, direct line, a Mr Hayder. When you get through, mention that you’ve been talking to me. You’d be amazed at how nice we can be sometimes.’

Winter stepped back a moment, letting the thought sink in. The youth at the wheel had emerged from the Monte Carlo tunnel for a second time though Winter could see his heart wasn’t in it because the lap time was crap. Aware of everyone watching, he let out a half-hearted whoop and gunned it into the next corner, failing to brake in time to avoid the car in front. The screen suddenly filled with the back of a dawdling Ferrari. This time, the crash was terminal.

‘Shit,’ he said bitterly. ‘Look what you’ve done now.’

The first session with Paul Gault started at 20.47. It would have been fifteen minutes earlier but Faraday had been involved in a head-to-head with the Custody Sergeant. No way was he going to take responsibility for Beattie’s dog. He had nowhere to put the bloody animal since the local authority had taken over responsibility for strays and the last thing he was going to do on a wet Monday evening was take it outside for walkies. If Faraday had been silly enough to cart it 170 miles in the back of his car, then it could bloody stay there.

Faraday, slightly perturbed by the accusatory way the dog kept looking at him, had racked his brains to find a home. Taking it back to the Bargemaster’s House was a non-starter. J-J had once been bitten by a collie and gave anything with a bark a very wide berth indeed. That left friends, and in the end Faraday had been driven to give Eadie Sykes a ring. No problem, she said at once. She had the remains of the weekend’s joint and it would be a pleasure to see them both.

‘Both?’

‘You, too.’

Now, Faraday settled into the chair across from Gault, starting the tape machines and announcing the time, date
and individuals present. Beside Gault sat Michelle Brinton. A severe black two-piece gave the solicitor a lean, rather London look. Either that, or she’d started taking her gym membership seriously.

Faraday had asked Bev Yates to lead. He started with the obvious, inviting Gault to describe exactly what he’d done on the Monday night. Ignoring the question, Gault launched into a furious protest about the way he’d been treated at home. In front of his wife and kids, that had been a disgrace, totally out of order. The lightest touch on his arm stopped him in mid-flow.

‘Just answer the question,’ Michelle mumured.

Gault stared at her for a moment. He’d refused point blank the offer of soap and a razor and this decision had given his dark, jowly face a maniacally lop-sided look. Meet this big, shambling man on the street and you’d probably cross the road.

‘Monday I was at work at the pub.’ He was frowning now. ‘Couple of dozen lunches. I’d booked off the evening shift months before. I was home by half three. The missus’ll tell you that.’

‘So what did you do at home?’

‘Put my feet up. Had a couple of tinnies. Watched telly with the kids. Nice it was, knowing I didn’t have to go back.’

Around six, he went upstairs for a shower. It wasn’t often these days he wore a suit but his wife had ironed it specially and it was on the bed waiting for him. He broke off and the frown returned.

‘What d’you want to know all this for?’

‘Just tell us, OK?’ Yates was making a note. ‘We’ll ask the questions.’

Gault was close to another outburst but another look from Michelle was enough to return him to Monday night. He’d decided to treat himself to a cab to the Home Club. The walk from Milton would have taken him the best part of an hour.

‘The other two hadn’t been in touch?’ It was Faraday.

‘What other two?’

‘Beattie and Phillips.’

‘No.’ Gault shook his huge head. ‘But then there was no reason why they would have done. We weren’t special mates or anything. Nodding terms, maybe. Nothing more.’

‘Really?’ Faraday had somehow assumed all three had been close.

‘No way. Like I knew them, seen them before, but’ … he shrugged … ‘no.’

He’d got to the Home Club around seven fifteen. The bar had been filling up nicely, and he’d sunk a couple of lagers with blokes he knew well, proper messmates, by the time they’d gone next door for scran. That’s when he’d found himself on the same table as Phillips and the Joss.

‘They were right beside me, know what I mean? I’m not sure who did the table plan but it was crap. Me and my real mates were all over the fucking room.’

‘You didn’t like Beattie and Phillips?’

‘It wasn’t that, I just didn’t know them. Phillips was a Tiff, worked in the engine room – when does a cook get to meet a Tiff? As for the Joss, he’s not the kind of bloke you get rat-arsed with, not unless you’ve got a death wish.’

‘So what happened? Monday night?’

‘You want the truth, I don’t remember too well. I know we had a bit to drink at the meal. Me and Beattie and Phillips started buying wine between us, house red, not a bad drop, then we got on to whisky chasers in the bar afterwards. They turned out OK, both them blokes. Must have done, otherwise we’d never have gone on together, know what I mean?’

Faraday stirred. He could sense the effort Gault was making to reassemble the evening and he began to wonder about the long-term legacy of an experience like
the Falklands. ‘The bottle of Grouse on the bedside table,’ Beattie had said. And now this, an alcoholic ex-cook having a problem remembering what happened just seven days ago.

Yates wanted to know whose idea the Alhambra had been. Gault shrugged.

‘Wasn’t mine. I’d never heard of the place. Wouldn’t have been the other two, either. They were Guzz lads. Must have been someone else. We were up for it, I remember that much, so we’d have asked around.’

‘How did you get there?’

‘Walked. I wanted to take a cab but the Joss was for doing it on foot.’

‘Call in anywhere en route?’

‘Doubt it. It would have been late by then.’

Faraday nodded. So far, everything Gault had said tallied with notes he’d made from the tapes: Beattie on the steps of the club, wrapped in his leather jacket, surrounded by half a dozen others. Two of them must have been Gault and Phillips. He’d check later.

Yates had nudged Gault on to the Alhambra. At this point his memory gave out altogether, until Faraday mentioned Coughlin.

‘You remember him coming into the bar at the hotel?’

‘Too fucking right I do.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Sitting down. We had a table at the window end of the bar, manky fucking place. The door was down by the bar itself. Fuck knows how but there he suddenly was, horrible as ever, make your flesh creep just looking at him.’ He paused, staring down at his hands. ‘I think we’d bought the bottle by then. Bacardi. Phillips’ idea. Claimed he’d picked the taste up in Spain getting pissed with his missus. He was all for giving Coughlin a glass, but I remember telling him we should empty the bottle first, then I could smash it over Coughlin’s fucking skull. Yeah.’

He nodded, the same abrupt downward thrust of the head that had broken Dave Michaels’ nose. Faraday and Yates exchanged glances, aware of the look on Michelle Brinton’s face. There were easier clients to defend than Paul Gault.

‘Why do you say that?’ Yates enquired.

‘Say what?’

‘Say you’d have liked to have whacked him with the bottle?’

‘Because he was a trunker. A trunker’s trunker. The biggest fucking trunker of all time. Real shagnasty. And because he made that nipper’s life a fucking misery.’

There was a long silence. Michelle was close to interrupting again, trying to bring this particular exchange to an end, but this time Gault just ignored her. Playing it by the book, Faraday – too – should have kept Gault on the rails, insisting he finish his account of what had happened on Monday night, but something told him they were closing on a more important truth.

‘Nipper?’ he queried.

Gault looked startled.

‘You don’t know about Matt?’

‘Tell us.’

‘He was a kid. Our mess. Two Delta. I can see him now, runs ashore, cropped hair, Doc Martens, cut-offs, strutting his stuff, the Marine that never was. Skates don’t fool that easy. We all knew the lad was just out the egg. Yeah … Mattie Warren. Mr Disco.’

‘And Coughlin?’

‘Spotted him at once. Easy meat. Easy, easy meat. That’s the thing about blokes like Coughlin. They’re like animals. They
are
fucking animals. You can see them sniffing the wind. The first time he laid eyes on Warren, he knew he was there for the taking. You did what you could but blokes like Coughlin around, what fucking chance did you have?’

‘You got to know the boy?’

‘I did, yeah. He was a nice lad. He was pretty fucking clueless but that wasn’t his fault, we all have to start somewhere. What he needed was someone to keep an eye out for him. You do your best but … fuck.’ He lowered his head again, a gesture – Faraday realised – of defeat. Whatever else this man had brought back from the Falklands, he’d never forget Matthew Warren. ‘There’s a saying in the navy. Everyone like Mattie, all the skins, they need a sea daddy. That was me, believe it or not. I tried to be there for him. My own marriage was down the khazi. I had two kids, a missus who couldn’t stand me, a bloke who’d moved in when I was away, and nowhere to fucking go if we ever got through the poxy war. I was Mr Fucked-up, believe me, and the least I thought I could do was try and keep the boy in one piece.’