Deadlight (18 page)

‘So probably two of them,’ he said. ‘At least.’

‘What about Rooke’s mobile?’

‘They got a number off that last message. Traced it to another cell phone.’

‘And?’

‘Stolen off a kid from the school down the road last week. He was in class yesterday afternoon.’

‘Does he know who nicked it?’

‘Of course he does.’

‘Is he telling?’

‘No bloody chance – and no one else has come forward either. Cath organised a speaker tour last night, and put a media appeal out this morning. The house-to-house started at seven to catch the early risers. Hartigan seems pretty up about the prospects but he’s old-fashioned that way. Thinks the uniform still opens mouths. Amazing, isn’t it? Couple of years behind a desk and you’ll believe anything.’

Ellis was pouring hot water over the coffee and Winter noticed that her hands were shaking. Nothing heavy, just the slightest of tremors.

‘Good night?’ he enquired.

‘Wonderful,’ Ellis said bleakly. ‘So where do we find young Darren?’

Willard phoned Faraday mid-morning, between lectures. Faraday was in his office, waiting for Bev Yates to return from the magistrates’ court with a search warrant for the Alhambra Hotel. Scenes of Crime had already got themselves organised, calling in reinforcements from Southampton. The last twenty-four hours, in Jerry Proctor’s dry phrase, had been a challenge: a full day’s work still waiting at Niton Road, a near-murder in Somerstown, and now every prospect of the full monty on the premises in Granada Road. If you were looking for career experience in forensics then Portsmouth wouldn’t let you down.

Willard wanted to know more about Kevin Pritchard. The impatience and irritation of yesterday had vanished
and he was back to his old, measured self, following the story step by step, interrupting Faraday’s account with an occasional grunt.

Faraday brought him up to speed. He’d put a car out front of the Alhambra, two DCs, and stationed another one round the back. Orders had gone out that everyone leaving the hotel was to be discreetly stopped and ID’d. For the time being he had no idea whether Pritchard was in residence but he wasn’t taking any risks. By lunchtime, with Scenes of Crime, they’d be inside giving the place a thorough shake. Pritchard too, with luck.

‘Pritchard got any previous?’

‘Nothing on PNC.’

‘Anything else we know about him?’

‘No, apart from his manners on the internet.’

Willard’s chuckle took Faraday by surprise. Twenty-four hours without another head-to-head with Corbett had done wonders for his sense of humour.

‘What about Niton Road? Any hits on the print lifts?’

‘None. I phoned Netley this morning. They’ve run the whole lot now.’

‘That doesn’t sound like Davidson to me, then.’ He paused. ‘What about FIB? Have they got anywhere with SO11?’

‘No.’ Brian Imber had already fed Corbett’s hearsay into the headquarters Force Intelligence Bureau and was still awaiting an assessment. Whatever happened, there were very definite limits to the covert information other forces were prepared to share. Individual sources were fiercely protected and the most that FIB could probably expect from the Met was a nod or a shake of the head in Davidson’s direction.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, then Willard was back again. Famously manic about good housekeeping on major investigations, he wanted to know about media strategies, about the appointment of a Family Liaison Officer, about the state of the overtime
budget after the first blitz. Faraday jotted down the questions one by one. Photos of Coughlin had been released to local press and television. There was still no sign of a Family Liaison Officer on the inquiry but that was just as well because Coughlin didn’t appear to have any family.

‘None at all?’ Willard sounded incredulous.

‘Just a mum. She’s in her eighties in a home somewhere near Emsworth. Coughlin never saw her. Not even at Christmas. His dad died young and there were no brothers or sisters.’

‘Wives? Kids?’

‘Never married.’

‘OK.’ Willard seemed mollified. ‘What about the overtime?’

‘I checked again this morning. We’ve caned it over the last couple of days but we’re still within the allowance.’

‘Thank Christ for that. You know about this Rooke business?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Fella died an hour ago. Under the circumstances, I’m hoisting it into Major Crimes but there’s going to be resource implications. You’ll be looking at a smaller squad on
Merriott
.’

Faraday was still thinking about Willard’s reference to ‘circumstances’. Dave Michaels’ account of the Somerstown beating had left little to the imagination. Paul Winter had found a bathful of blood in some nearby flat and Scenes of Crime had allegedly picked up brain tissue from the pavement. Any more kids turning executioner on city streets and the top corridor at force HQ would be thinking hard about early retirement.

Willard was musing aloud about personnel. He’d already put a call through to Operational Support for yet more bodies but he knew the cupboard was nearly bare and Faraday should start drawing up a list of DCs to be
transferred to the Rooke killing. Nick Hayder would be SIO until Perry Madison got back on Monday.

‘Any ideas, Joe? People you might want off your hands?’

‘No problem.’ Faraday kicked his office door shut. ‘Let’s start with Andy Corbett.’

From the unmarked Skoda, Winter had a perfect view of Mrs Czinski’s house. Off to the left, in the heart of Old Portsmouth, was the picturesque muddle of yachts and fishing smacks that filled the Camber Dock. Look to the right, where the road curved away between rows of new-looking town houses, and the red front door of number twelve was unmissable. Soon, if Winter had this right, young Darren would appear.

Dawn Ellis sat in the passenger seat, reading the first edition of the
News
. Winter’s contact had been as good as her word, penning a brief three-paragraph story about Mrs Czinski’s precious Charlie. The dog had unaccountably gone missing. Pompey’s finest, in the course of their duties, had scooped the little terrier up. And here was Charlie, bedecked once again in big pink bows, sprawled on his owner’s lap.

‘So what makes you think Geech is going to see this?’

Winter didn’t take his eyes off the rear-view mirror. The street was one-way. He was looking for a red Audi A4, XBK 386 W.

‘Has to. Celebrity’s a big thing with these kids. They like seeing their efforts in the papers. That’s why they’ll all be buying the
News
, to check out Rookie.’

‘But what makes you think Darren can read?’

‘Doesn’t have to.’ He leaned over and tapped the colour shot of Mrs Czinski. ‘A picture’s worth a thousand words.’

His eyes returned to the mirror again. If he’d got it right, the Audi would appear first beside the pub up the road, slowing for the speed bumps. Darren would be at
the wheel, looking for number twelve. That left them plenty of time to ready themselves for the moment when he found the address, stepped on to the pavement, and left himself wide open to what would inevitably follow. Game, set and match. Drinks in the bar and a herogram from Willard.

Dawn wasn’t convinced.

‘You really think the dog matters to the boy that much?’

‘I know it. You were there. You heard what his mum said. Geech loves the bloody animal to death.’

‘His mum was off the planet. She’d have said anything.’

‘Nonsense.’ Winter shook his head. ‘Darren’s found himself a little friend. This is a kid who’s probably never loved
any
living thing in his life. If all that stands between him and Charlie is a couple of pink bows he’ll be round here like a shot. Guarantee it.’

Dawn tried not to laugh. Winter was at his least credible when he tried to sound like a social worker.

‘Since when have you cared about kids like Darren?’

‘Never. You asked a question. I gave you an answer.’

‘That’s not an answer. That’s wish fulfilment. How long has Cathy given us?’

‘As long as it takes.’ He hesitated a moment, then frowned. ‘Three hours.’

Faraday decided to accompany Bev Yates and the Scenes of Crime team to the Alhambra Hotel. Strictly speaking, he should have stayed at Kingston Crescent, chained to the precious Policy Book, tallying his latest decisions and fielding the incessant stream of incoming calls, but there had to be compensations for this crippling sequence of twelve-hour days and a potential breakthrough like this was undoubtedly one of them.

Yates had the search warrant in his hand when the door opened to his second knock. A small, dark woman
of uncertain age peered out at them. She was wearing a black wig and far too much eyeliner. A thick layer of make-up masked a face that might once have been pretty.

‘Can I help you?’ West Country accent, softer than Pompey.

Yates introduced himself. He was investigating a major crime. He wanted to talk to a Mr Kevin Pritchard.

‘You can’t, my love.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s not here.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Gibraltar.’

The woman held the door open and stepped back to let them in. The smell of the hotel hit them at once, years of damp and neglect anointed with gallons of the cheapest spray deodoriser. Stay here for more than an hour or two, Faraday thought, and you’d live with that smell for ever.

The woman took them into a small lounge. The patterned nylon carpet felt greasy underfoot and most of the tables were cratered with cigarette burns. The net curtains were yellow with nicotine and there was a gust of stale beer from the tiny bar at the far end as the woman closed the door behind them.

Faraday’s eyes strayed to the framed photographs hanging on the wall. Most of them were sepia or black and white and all of them featured warships. HMS
Hood
nosing out through the harbour narrows. HMS
Repulse
nudging the quayside in some faraway port, officers in tropical gear peering down from the bridge, sweating matelots making fast below.

‘And you are?’

‘Jackie Pritchard.’

‘Mr Pritchard’s wife?’

‘Sister. He doesn’t have a wife.’

While Yates made a note in his pocketbook, Faraday eyed one of the chairs but decided not to risk it.

‘How long has Mr Pritchard been gone?’ he enquired.

‘Since’ … she frowned … ‘Tuesday morning. Went early. Took a taxi to the airport. Knows one of the firms, like, but still a terrible price. Seventy quid there and back? You have to be joking.’

Faraday and Yates exchanged glances. By Tuesday morning, Coughlin had been dead for barely hours.

‘You live here too?’

‘On and off I do, yes. Not permanent, like, not for ever, but I help out when I can.’

‘Were you here on Monday night?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I was.’

‘And your brother? He was here, as well?’

‘He was serving in the bar down here. I was upstairs in my little room.’

‘Was the hotel busy that night? Booked out?’

‘Booked out?’ Just the thought of it made her laugh. ‘We’re never booked out. Couple of guests a night, maybe. Never more.’

Faraday wandered over to the bar. There was room for three stools and maybe an extra body standing. He peered into the gloom beneath the line of optics, making out a display of photos pinned to some kind of board. The tiny sink beneath the bar was blocked with sodden cigarette ends.

‘The switch is on the wall, my love. Over to the right.’

Faraday found the switch. Two of the spotlights were blown but there was enough illumination to make out a trophy collection of parking tickets nesting amongst the snaps on the board.

‘D’you mind?’ He gestured at the photos.

‘Go ahead. Help yourself.’

Faraday stepped behind the bar and took a closer look at the photos. Big, beery, cheesecake grins, arms around shoulders, faces bloated with drink. Guests might not kip at the Alhambra but they certainly liked a pint or two. He was still wondering which of these faces might belong
to Pritchard, when a photo tucked between two others caught his attention. He reached forward and pulled it out. Two men in make-up were locked in a big pantomime embrace. Both were clearly pissed. One of them had the strangest face: receding hair, huge forehead, wet eyes. The other one, beyond doubt, was Coughlin.

Faraday called the woman over. Yates came, too.

‘Who’s that?’ Faraday pointed to the man with the lips pressed to Coughlin’s cheek.

The woman took her time, taking the photo over towards the window then shading her eyes against the light.

‘That’s my brother,’ she said at last. ‘Kevin.’

Scenes of Crime started upstairs. Kevin Pritchard had a three-room bachelor flat on the top floor, and Proctor’s team sorted methodically through the chaos while Yates and Faraday remained downstairs, questioning Pritchard’s sister.

Kevin, she admitted at once, lived like an animal, totally disorganised, world of his own. He’d barely packed a thing for Gibraltar and most nights he was so drunk she’d had to remember to put the alarm on to get him up in time for the taxi Tuesday morning. Asked about where he might be staying in Gibraltar, she said she hadn’t a clue but she thought he’d made the booking a while or so back through the internet so maybe there’d be something on his computer. Either way, she’d come over from Plymouth to keep an eye on things. She’d certainly be staying for a bit because Kevin didn’t seem to be quite sure when he was coming back. He’d mentioned a couple of weeks on one occasion, a month on another. Faraday’s guess was as good as hers.

‘What about Tuesday morning? When the taxi came? Did he say anything then?’

‘No fit state, I’m afraid. Still pissed as a rat. Must have been drinking all night, poor love.’

‘So you’ve really no idea when he’ll be back?’

‘None.’

‘Does he have a mobile? Can you call him?’

‘That was another thing. He forgot to take it with him. I found it behind the bar Tuesday morning after he’d gone.’

‘And you’ve still got it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Used it since?’

‘Wouldn’t know how to.’

Faraday began to relax. Better and better, he thought. First a prime suspect who does a runner within hours. And now an abandoned mobile phone, potentially priceless in terms of evidence. He showed her the photograph again.