Deadlight (19 page)

‘You know this other man?’

For the first time, Pritchard’s sister hesitated. Yates saw it, too, trying to catch Faraday’s eye. At length, she nodded.

‘Sean,’ she said briefly.

‘A friend of your brother’s?’

‘He comes in here a lot, yes.’

‘But friends, are they?’

She bit her lip. There were things here she didn’t want to say. Not without being pushed.

‘Do you like him, this Sean?’

This time there was no hesitation. She shook her head.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t like him at all, and that’s God’s truth.’

‘Why don’t you like him?’

‘Because … because … he takes advantage.’

‘Of you?’

‘Of Kevin. Kevin doesn’t know it. That’s Kevin’s problem. He’s stupid that way and I’ve told him, too. That man only wants one thing out of Kevin and poor Kevin just goes along with it. I’ve got nothing against
them, mind, if that’s what they prefer. But not with someone like that Sean. Ugh …’ She shuddered.

There was a silence. Then Faraday told her that Sean Coughlin had been found dead several streets away first thing Tuesday morning. Any possible link with her brother seemed to pass her by. She was genuinely astonished.

Yates leaned forward.

‘You didn’t know? Didn’t read it in the papers?’

‘I never read the papers.’

‘Television? The radio?’ He gestured round. ‘Someone in here?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re sure it was him? Sean?’

Faraday heard footsteps down the hall and then the bang of the front door as one of the SOC team went out to the van. The gate to the hotel had been taped off now, a PC keeping guard beyond it.

‘I know this is hard, Jackie.’ Yates could be surprisingly gentle when it mattered. ‘I was wondering about what you said just then. About your brother.’

‘What about him?’

‘I take it you’re suggesting he’s gay.’

‘Of course he is. And it’s not a suggestion, either. He
is
gay. He’s always been gay. Not that he doesn’t like women. He does. But he just doesn’t like them … you know … in that way.’

‘Whereas … with men … ?’

‘Yes, dear. Definitely.’

‘And with Sean Coughlin?’

‘Yes, my love. Even him. In fact, especially him.’

She bit her lip. Faraday took up the running. There were things he didn’t understand here. If Kevin Pritchard had been making life so tough for Coughlin on the internet, how come they’d ended up as lovers?

‘This Coughlin and your Kevin,’ he began, ‘have they known each other a while?’

‘A few years.’ She nodded.

‘You’re sure about that? Seen it for yourself?’

‘Only too often. All the times I’ve been here.’ She nodded at the photo. ‘I knew from the first time I saw him he was horrible. But you can’t tell Kevin anything. Never could.’

Faraday looked at the photo one last time, then left it on the table between them. There were dozens of other questions he wanted to put – about Monday night, about Gibraltar, about the man Coughlin – but his mobile had started to ring.

It was one of the SOC team from upstairs in Pritchard’s flat. Jerry Proctor had come and gone, leaving Faraday’s number with instructions to get in touch should they find something of major importance.

‘And?’

Yates glanced towards him, sensing the excitement in Faraday’s voice. Faraday listened intently, then muttered his thanks and brought the conversation to an end.

‘You remember that shoeprint under Coughlin’s bedroom window?’ He was looking at Yates. ‘The lad upstairs thinks they’ve got an exact match.’

THURSDAY
, 6
JUNE
, 2002,
14.30

It was Ellis who saw the Audi first. Paul Winter, busy trying to open a new packet of Werther’s Originals, felt her hand on his arm. After three hours without any kind of result, he’d been on the point of packing the ambush in.

‘Coming round the corner,’ she said. ‘Now.’

Winter’s eyes went to the mirror. She was right. The squat red saloon was coasting slowly past the pub. W reg. Two up. Winter dropped the Werther’s in his lap and reached for the ignition key. Parked on the right-hand side of the road, it was Ellis who’d be exposed to any chance sighting as the Audi drew level.

She picked up the paper and ducked her head, letting the fall of black hair mask her face. The Audi, clear of the speed bumps, was still dawdling along. It was barely yards away now and a single glance in the mirror told Winter that it was definitely Darren Geech at the wheel. He had another youth beside him – baseball cap, gangster shades – and they were both wearing blue Pompey tops.

Winter’s fingers tightened on the ignition key. He could hear the Audi now, the low burble of the exhaust. They must have fitted special mufflers, he thought. No way would Mrs Czinski go in for boy-racer extras. He ducked his head as the Audi drew level, aware of the shape of the car slowing even more. Beside the unmarked Skoda, it paused.

‘Shit.’ It was Ellis. ‘He’s seen us.’

Winter looked across at the Audi. Geech was leaning forward, the thin, pale face contorted in a manic grin. A
couple of derisory flips of his wrist, a middle finger raised in salute, and then he was gone. Through the inch or two of open window, Ellis could smell the burning rubber.

‘Fuck.’ Winter hit the ignition and stirred the Skoda into life. Already the Audi was halfway down the road, still accelerating towards the T-junction at the end. ‘Get on to control. Ask for a marked car. He’s going left. St George’s Road.’

Ellis reached for the radio. The Skoda’s call sign was Kilo Sierra Nine Two. Control took a moment or two to respond.

‘What now?’ She was looking at Winter as the car began to move.

‘We go after him.’

‘You’re joking.’

At last, an acknowledgement from control. Ellis gave them the facts. Red Audi. W reg. Two white males. Heading west on St George’s Road.

‘We need a marked car,’ she added.

There was a brief pause at the other end and Ellis tried to picture the scene in the control room as the Skoda slid sideways on to St George’s Road. Hot pursuit had become a big policing issue recently, especially in urban areas. Far too many pedestrians had died for the sake of keeping tabs on some sus vehicle and there were strict rules about what you could and couldn’t do. Chasing anyone in an unmarked Skoda was very definitely off-limits, not least because the target driver could – with some justification – plead harassment. Not that Winter seemed to care.

‘Traffic lights at Gunwharf.’ He was sweating now. ‘Little bastard’s jumped them.’

The Skoda was still travelling at speed but the Audi was way ahead. Beyond the traffic lights, where the road went left under the railway bridge, it disappeared completely. The lights turned green. As the waiting traffic began to move, Winter thumped the horn and barged
past, accelerating hard again. Ellis grabbed for the dashboard as a bus swung towards them under the railway bridge, filling the windscreen.

‘Paul,’ she muttered. ‘This is not a good idea.’

Winter ignored her. As the bus swerved to avoid a collision he darted back into the traffic queue. Ahead lay the big coach park beside the harbour station.

‘Kilo Sierra Nine Two.’ It was the control room, a different voice this time. ‘State your position. Repeat, state your position.’

‘Portsea Hard. Travelling west.’

‘Target?’

‘Out of sight.’

‘Tell them Queen Street.’ Winter had spotted another break in the traffic. ‘He’ll be going for the motorway.’

Ellis relayed the message, pressing herself back against the seat as Winter took the onrushing mini-roundabout at speed. A taxi driver coming at them from the left hit the brakes, then gave them the finger.

‘Paul. Please.’

Winter ignored her. To the left, the long black hull of HMS
Warrior
. Ahead, the ten-foot brick wall that curtained the dockyard. The road swung abruptly to the right here, and Winter changed down to second, reaching for the handbrake. The force of the turn threw Ellis against the passenger door, the side of her head smacking the window. She gasped with pain, then the car was accelerating again, back in a straight line.

‘Got him.’ Winter nodded at the radio. ‘Traffic lights, Edinburgh Road junction. Definitely the motorway.’

Ellis passed on the message. The Audi was no more than a scarlet dot in the distance, hundreds of yards down the road. No way would they ever get anywhere near it.

‘Paul,’ she shouted. ‘Jack it in!’

Winter, crouched behind the wheel, was back in top
gear. Seconds away from the pedestrian crossing, he was nudging fifty again.

‘Paul … for God’s sake.’

The bent old figure on the crossing seemed oblivious of the Skoda. Winter, his hand on the horn, pulled hard right to take the central refuge on the wrong side. An oncoming lorry was a blur of flashing headlights. The Skoda started to slide sideways again, then Winter overcorrected and they were over the crossing and heading for the nearside pavement. There was a huge bang as they mounted the curve – both front tyres gone – then Ellis’s world slipped into slow motion as a shopfront raced towards them. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the impact, aware of Winter still fighting the wheel beside her.

‘Fuck,’ he said again.

Willard was in his office at Kingston Crescent, the Centrex course abandoned. He’d baled out after his mid-morning phone conversation with Faraday, pleading pressure of work. To Faraday’s surprise, he didn’t seem the least bit upset.

‘I’ve been talking to the Gibraltar boys,’ Faraday said. ‘They sound bloody helpful.’

‘What are they offering?’

‘More or less anything. I gave them the name of the hotel and they’re sending someone round to make sure Pritchard’s there.’

‘They’ll keep an eye on him?’

‘So they say.’

‘Good.’ Willard was still studying the booking details recovered from Pritchard’s flat. ‘Best if they don’t arrest him, eh?’

Faraday agreed. He’d talked at length to Nick Hayder. He’d had months of dealings with the Gibraltar police over a series of potentially linked incidents and had given Faraday a couple of contacts to phone. Gib, he’d said,
was Pompey with palm trees. Everyone knew everyone else and most of them seemed to be interrelated.

Willard, with two murders on his hands, was clearly relishing the resource battles to come. In these situations, he was at his best, the marauding robber-baron with a talent for grabbing the lion’s share of whatever was going spare. Budget, bodies, it made no difference. At his command level, a man was measured not simply by results but by the size of the investigatory army he could put into the field. Two squads servicing separate major inquiries was the stuff of dreams.

He reached for the
Merriott
Policy Book and began to leaf through it.

‘You’ll be on reduced rations for a while,’ he said. ‘But if Pritchard is as strong as it looks then we might be home and dry. You’ll have to build the case afterwards, of course, but then you can take your time.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Have you talked to Ludgate Hill?’

Faraday nodded. Ludgate Hill was home for the branch of the Crown Prosecution Service specialising in foreign jurisdictions. Pursuing inquiries abroad could frequently turn into a nightmare, especially if you got ensnared in extradition proceedings. According to the CPS, if Pritchard dug himself in at Gibraltar then extradition might be the only way of getting him back.

‘Extradite the guy, and we’re buggered,’ Willard warned. ‘We’d have to make the case against him in Gibraltar and once we’d done that, and they’d agreed extradition, then we wouldn’t be allowed to interview him. You with me?’

‘Yeah.’ Faraday nodded again. ‘The way I see it, the key is talking to him. We go for first account there and see where it takes us. Fingers crossed, we avoid extradition.’

‘Good.’ Willard looked up. ‘Who’s going with you?’

‘Bev Yates.’

‘I thought he was up to his knees in shit and nappies?’

‘He is, sir. Can’t wait.’

The phone began to ring. Willard picked it up and then slowly revolved in his chair until the conversation was shielded from Faraday. A couple of grunts later, he hung up.

‘Bloody Winter’s just demolished a newsagent’s in Queen Street.’ He glanced at Faraday. ‘Can you believe that?’

In his office, Faraday summoned a conference. Willard had been in the building less than an hour but already he’d taken the Rooke job by the scruff of the neck, reallocating ten of the
Merriott
squad on to Nick Hayder’s blitz on the Somerstown murder, an inquiry now codenamed
Hexham
. To Faraday’s immense satisfaction, one of the first DCs to be transferred had been Andy Corbett, an executive decision that Faraday interpreted as a small but important vote of confidence on Willard’s part. Corbett, it turned out, had done himself no favours by turning up in the Major Incident room an hour and a half late. Quizzed by Paul Ingham, he’d pleaded overnight vomiting and diarrhoea, implying that he could have swung himself a couple of days off had he bothered acquiring a sick note from his GP.

‘Aren’t we the lucky ones,’ Ingham had grunted, allocating him a particularly scrotey block of flats for house-to-house in deepest Somerstown.

Now, Faraday made room in his office for Brian Imber and Dave Michaels. Both men would be helping out with the Rooke job but their prime allegiance was still to
Merriott
.

Faraday summarised developments at the Alhambra Hotel. Kevin Pritchard, according to his sister’s statement, had been on duty at the hotel throughout the evening on Monday night. She’d checked the bookings, and he’d served two dinners for guests between half six and eight. The rest of the time, he’d been behind the bar
in the front lounge. Monday nights, she’d said, were usually quiet. There was a handful of regulars who drifted in and out, many of them retired navy, but these were the kind of people who liked to be in bed by ten. After that, the bar was generally dead.

Brian Imber was sitting by the window, jotting down the odd note.

He looked up. ‘And last Monday night?’