Deadlight (43 page)

‘You’re talking about Warren?’

‘Yeah. There was pressure on all of us, we were all cacking ourselves about what would really happen, but young like that, Mattie really took it bad. That’s where Coughlin creamed himself. Couldn’t get enough of winding the kid up.’

‘How?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘Yes.’ Faraday nodded. ‘Please.’

‘OK.’ Gault looked first at Faraday, then at Yates. ‘Take the Jack Dusties, the stores blokes, they were in our mess. When we stopped at Ascension, we took on a load of body bags. It’s just what you do. You’re going to war, you take body bags. Now the great question was
how many
body bags. That’s what Coughlin banged on about all the time, how many body bags. Now I knew one of the dusties really well, good bloke, all right, and he told me it was seventy. Coughlin trebled it,
trebled
it, just to wind the boy up. Two hundred body bags, one each. The boy was terrified, never got to sleep at night worrying about all those Argie torpedoes. Two
hundred
? There wouldn’t be anyone left on the fucking ship.’

As
Accolade
sped south, life for Matthew Warren got worse. For one thing, according to Gault, he kept picking up little buzzes from the officers in the wardroom. How the French were flying thousands of Exocet missiles into Buenos Aires in the dead of night, and how effective these missiles were supposed to be. None of this mattered until
Sheffield
went down, then everyone – not just Warren – started taking the war very seriously indeed.

‘Turned out the blokes in the wardroom were right. The Exocets were fucking lethal. One of them in your galley, and you were history.’ Gault was back aboard, reliving those days. ‘You ever see the state of Shiny Sheff? The fucking boat was a hulk, burned-out, nothing left, and within hours the buzz is going round, Christ knows how many blokes have been wasted. So what does Coughlin do? He bangs on, day and night, about all this French technology. Heat-seeking, heat-seeking, I can hear him now. And why does he go on and on about the guidance system? Because the fucking missile heads straight for the galley, where the heat is, and that – surprise, surprise – is where Mattie spends most of his working life. Fetching and carrying, flashing up for Coughlin, helping do the washing up, thinking all the time about the next fucking Exocet.’

‘But what about Coughlin himself?’ Yates was confused. ‘Wasn’t he in the galley too?’

‘Of course he was. And so was I for that matter. Different galley, thank fuck, but same principle. No, the difference with us was that we were older. In my case, to be honest, I didn’t care the fuck what happened. In Coughlin’s, he thought he was bloody immortal. Just wouldn’t happen. Mattie? Like I said, he was cacking himself, just thinking about it.’

Faraday eased back from the table, aware of Michelle Brinton looking pointedly at the clock. This wasn’t an interview at all, more a glimpse of what it was like to go to war.

‘My client …’ she began.

Gault put his hand on her arm, a gesture of reassurance. Leave this to me, he was telling her.

‘You won’t know this, but Coughlin was screwing him.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘As sure as I can be, yeah. You don’t go to sea for years on end without getting a nose for stuff like that. And Mattie would have blown the whistle, for definite, had Coughlin not scared the crap out of him.’

‘You talked to him about it? The boy? Warren?’

‘A couple of times, yeah.’

‘And?’

‘He wouldn’t say, but that meant nothing. Coughlin was pulling strings all the time, getting Mattie on night watches, just the two of them in the wardroom galley. Trunker’s paradise, that galley. Even the fucking officers knock twice before going in. Tell you something else, too. Flaherty had sussed it. The killick Reg. He was in our mess, not a bad bloke for a Reggie. Shrewd, too.’

Faraday glanced up from a note he was making. Flaherty reported to Beattie. Had the Joss mentioned anything about Warren on Monday night?

‘I don’t know. He may have done.’

‘But when Coughlin turned up at the hotel … you must have talked about him afterwards. Didn’t Warren’s name come up then?’

Gault stared at Faraday, trying to remember. Faraday offered a prompt.

‘The bloke behind the bar, the hotel owner, he said you were up on your feet after Coughlin left, giving him the finger through the window.’

‘Yeah. I expect he’s right. Shame it was just the finger.’

‘And that was because of Warren?’

‘Yeah, and a million other things, but Warren mainly. Listen,’ – he beckoned Faraday closer – ‘what you have to understand is what it does to you, something like that.
The kid went over the side. Fuck knows how, we’ve all got our little theories, but either way he’s dead and gone. We should have done better than that, all of us, and maybe he’d still be with us now. That’s why I went to see his folks afterwards, did my best like, still do.’

‘Still do what?’

‘Still pop round, bunch of flowers every May the twenty-first, make the odd call, pay my respects.’

This, too, was news to Faraday. Warren’s family were still in Pompey?

‘Yeah, absolutely, couple of streets down from me. Dad’s a builder and Matt’s brother does a bit, too. Ask me, they’ve never got over it, especially the mum. Poor bloody woman. Son goes off to war and ends up trunked to death.’

‘Is that an allegation?’

‘No, but I’m marking your fucking card, aren’t I? You ask me why we all hated the cunt, I’m telling you. You ask me why he deserved whatever he got, I’m telling you that, too.’

Faraday nodded, accepting the logic of Gault’s argument. Then he pushed his notes to one side, and looked Gault in the eye.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘So what do you say if I suggest that you killed Coughlin? That he came into the hotel that night, that you somehow traced him back to where he lived, and that you squared it with him later? Maybe you didn’t mean to kill him. Maybe you just meant to settle a debt or two. But that’s a bit academic now because either way he died. That means you murdered him’ … he spread his hands wide … ‘doesn’t it?’

Gault gave the suggestion some thought. Finally, he leaned back in the chair and shook his massive head.

‘Definitely not,’ he said. ‘I’d remember something like that.’

It was midnight before Faraday made it to Eadie Sykes’s
seafront apartment. The rain had stopped now, and the air smelled fresher. Faraday coaxed the big old Alsatian out of his car and took him on to the beach for a last-chance walk, crunching down through the pebbles towards the soft lap-lap of the falling tide.

Another hour or so with Gault had failed to progress the investigation one inch. After a wealth of motivation – any number of reasons for wanting to see Coughlin dead – the interview had stalled on what Gault claimed to be the facts about Monday night. They’d all got arseholed at the hotel. Someone had called a cab. And Gault had finally tumbled into bed with his long-suffering missus. Challenged for times, Gault said he hadn’t a clue. Accused, once again, of giving Coughlin a well-earned seeing-to, he’d regretfully declined the honour. Given half a chance, he’d have beaten the man senseless. Alas, though, he’d been too pissed.

The Alsatian was nosing around amongst the bundles of drying bladderwrack. Tomorrow, thought Faraday, there’d be a chance to test Gault’s account against Beattie and Phillips. Tomorrow, as well, he’d organise for someone to talk to Gault’s wife, establish some times, check them against the CCTV tapes and taxi log. That way, fingers crossed, he’d be able to fill in the bits that had fallen through Gault’s memory. But what if it all tied together? What if the time-line put all three of them in the clear? Faraday shook his head, watching the dog at last lift its leg. Willard, for one, would be extremely vocal. And that didn’t bear thinking about.

Eadie Sykes fell in love with the dog on first sight. In two minds about the fairness of imposing a large Alsatian on this impeccably designer apartment, Faraday was amazed to see her on all fours on the carpet, giving the dog the full treatment.

‘Name’s Rory,’ Faraday muttered. ‘Lives in the country.’

‘But you’ve been on the beach, haven’t you? All that
nice tar?’ She glanced up at Faraday. ‘Cupboard over the cooker. Stuff called Vanish. And there’s surgical spirit in the bathroom for his paws.’

Between them, they cleaned the dog up. The tar on the carpet, on the other hand, resisted their best efforts. Not that Sykes appeared to mind.

‘Rory? Here …’

She’d sorted out a makeshift bed in the bay window beyond the sofa, a couple of old blankets and – inexplicably – a stuffed pink elephant that had seen better days.

‘Got it when I was seven.’ She was back on her hands and knees, playing with the dog. ‘We used to have a couple of mutts in Ambrym. They used to kick the shit out of my poor little elephant. He can probably still smell them.’ She looked up. ‘You hungry?’

She’d made a big salad, tuna, mackerel, boiled egg, with a top dressing of green olives stuffed with anchovy. Much to his surprise, Faraday discovered he was ravenous, the kind of hunger that barely paused for a third glass of wine. At length he collapsed on the sofa, checking over his shoulder for the dog. Rory, to his immense relief, appeared to have settled.

‘You liked it then?’

‘Loved it.’

Faraday had been telling her about the Tamar Valley: the depth of the peace; the slow brown river flowing past Beattie’s cottage; the woods full of interesting birdlife; the knowledge that industrial life had come and gone, leaving this little cut-off promontory miraculously intact.

‘You must take me there. Sounds like a film to me.’

‘That’s the last thing it needs. Can you imagine somewhere that perfect that close to a major city? Doesn’t happen. Not round here.’

‘Is that a no, then?’

‘Not at all.’ He watched her sorting out meat for the
dog. ‘Just me being selfish. Who’d want to spoil a secret like that?’

‘OK. No film. Does that make it better?’

‘Much.’

‘Is that a yes, then? Little expedition? You and me?’

Faraday smiled. He’d known this woman all of a week, yet already she seemed to have worked out how to square him away. Part of it was his own fault. Saddling her with Beattie’s dog was a definite imposition. Yet he was fascinated by the speed with which she’d managed to connect the various dots in his life. First, she’d established squatters’ rights over J-J. Now, she was talking of a long weekend in the Tamar Valley.

Not that he objected. Life with Eadie Sykes was so easy, so risk-free. She was every inch her own woman. She had a brilliant job, a flat to die for, and the kind of self-respect that sent her loping along the seafront at God knows what hour every morning. Faraday, if he was anything in her life, was a novelty, the opportunity for conversation and a laugh or two. They’d made love the other night, a coupling that was all the sweeter for being so shamelessly free of any emotional commitment, and afterwards Faraday had slept like a baby.

Now, he sensed something similar in the offing. Nice.

‘Coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’ Faraday smothered a yawn. ‘Tell you the truth, I’m buggered.’

‘Me, too.’ She bent over him, and kissed him on the nose. ‘You’ll give me a ring about the dog tomorrow? Only I’ll need to lay in supplies.’

Dawn Ellis, alone in the big double bed, listened to the pumping of her heart. The phone had woken her up. She’d looked down at it in the half-darkness, flooded with relief when it stopped. Now it was ringing again, and this time she knew she had to answer it.

The clock on the little bedside table read 02.18. Had to be her caller again. Had to be.

At length, she reached down. The phone felt cold against her ear. There was a long silence. She was scarcely breathing, determined to offer not a shred of provocation. Finally, there came a strange laugh, high-pitched, then a voice that chilled her to the bone.

‘Bitch,’ the voice said. ‘You know you’ll have to pay.’

Another laugh, sealing the conversation, before the line went dead. Dawn lay sideways in the bed, still up on one elbow. She managed to get the ringing tone back, then her fingers tapped out 1471. There was a click on the line, then a recorded voice offered a number that didn’t take incoming calls. Call-box, she thought numbly, settling back against the pillow.

TUESDAY
, 11
JUNE
, 2002,10.15

To Faraday’s astonishment, Willard was rather impressed with the opening interview with Gault. He’d listened to extracts from the tapes first thing and had drawn the obvious conclusion.

‘The man’s a pisshead,’ he said. ‘And he loathed Coughlin. If that doesn’t take us closer, then tell me what does.’

They were in Willard’s BMW, driving up the motorway to nearby Waterlooville where the first interview with Beattie was to start mid-morning, as soon as he’d had a chance to confer with his solicitor. Willard had managed to lay hands on two DCs from the Somerstown job. Faraday had already discussed the overall strategy with the Tactical Interview Manager, and also found time to give the two DCs a flavour of the investigation to date. First off, Faraday and the TIM wanted an open account, a step-by-step description of exactly what had happened on the Monday night.

Willard was already looking beyond that.

‘Where’s the crux?’ He eased into the outside lane. ‘What do we need to develop?’

Faraday had been pondering exactly the same question.

‘I tell you where it falls down,’ he said. ‘We can put all three of them at the hotel. Coughlin’s obviously not flavour of the month. Gault in particular would happily sort him out. The man arrives, takes one look, knows he’s not welcome, goes again. Agreed?’ Faraday looked sideways at Willard.

‘With you.’ Willard nodded.

‘OK. So where does Coughlin go?’

‘Home.’

‘Do we know that? For sure?’

‘No.’ Willard shook his head. ‘But it’s a reasonable assumption. Niton Road’s five minutes away. And it’s late.’

‘OK. So let’s assume we’re right. Coughlin legs it home, leaving the three guys banging on at the hotel. There’s no suggestion any of them followed him.’