Deadlight (25 page)

‘Loathe it.’

‘Wise man.’

Hayder had a problem with the Somerstown inquiry. The job, he said, was fast turning into a nightmare. A couple of possible witnesses to the Rooke killing, both of them kids, had been on the verge of volunteering for interview but had abruptly decided to withdraw after visits from Geech’s mates. Hayder had put together background intelligence from a number of other sources only to discover that Darren’s little gang, shapeless and ever changing, seemed to reach into every corner of the estate. The real challenge, therefore, was to try and figure out just who Geech normally knocked about with. Which was where J-J might come in.

‘J-J?’ Faraday said blankly.

‘You remember last year? That drama thing he was doing with the kids before it all kicked off?’

‘Yes.’ J-J had teamed up with a local theatre producer, an ex-marine called Gordon Franks, in a bid to channel offending behaviour into cutting-edge on-stage performance. Faraday had been dubious about the enterprise but on some strange level J-J had connected with the kids at once, winning their respect as well as their affection.

‘Well,’ said Nick, ‘theory is he’ll probably know as much as anyone else about who runs with who. The
whole place is tribal. You can practically hear the tomtoms.’

Faraday found himself laughing. There’d been nothing remotely funny about the events that had led to the top of Chuzzlewit House, but when it came to kids scuffling around, giving life a good kicking, tribal was as good a description as any.

‘You want to talk to him?’

‘Please.’

‘Tomorrow OK? Only he’s not great on the phone.’

‘Sure. You’ll be there? Help me out?’

‘Pleasure.’

Faraday stole a glance at the kitchen. J-J was rummaging in the cupboard where they kept the packets of pasta and Faraday wondered just how much J-J would be prepared to say. He owed a loyalty to these kids, no matter how wayward they might be, and Faraday had seldom come across anyone to whom loyalty was so important.

Hayder was having a final grouch about the Somerstown job. Nightmare was probably too small a word because he seldom let anyone else this close to an ongoing inquiry.

‘We’ve had it all,’ he concluded. ‘Murder. Attempted kidnap. Extortion. Multiple assault. The lot. At least it can’t get any worse.’

Faraday, still watching J-J, smiled to himself.

‘If only,’ he said.

Winter was contemplating a trip to the kitchen to finish the remains of the Glenfiddich when his mobile began to ring. He rolled over on the big double bed, cursing when his plaster snagged on the rough edge of the blanket. With the bedside light on, he peered at his watch: 02.14.

‘Yeah?’

It was Dawn Ellis. She sounded hysterical. She could barely manage a sentence.

‘Where are you?’ Winter asked.

‘At home.’

‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’

‘Just come, Paul. Please … just come.’

Winter was already out of bed, hunting for his trousers, the phone clamped to his ear. His arm hurt like a bastard.

‘Is there anyone there with you? Neighbour?’

‘Just come, Paul.
Please
.’

The phone went dead. Winter gazed at it for a moment, trying to remember which cab firm was favourite this time of night. 92838888.

‘Aqua? Soon as you can, love.’ He gave her his home address, then went looking for his trousers again.

The cab seemed to take an age and Winter was out by the garden gate when it finally turned up. The driver was a young guy, hyper. He stared out at Winter’s plaster cast, half hidden by the suede car coat he’d managed to drape over his shoulders.

‘Man, you’ve had an accident.’

‘Brilliant. Portchester, son. As fast as you can.’

The main road west was virtually empty. They sped through the long ribbon of suburbs, slowing only for roundabouts and the occasional traffic light. Turning right in the centre of Portchester, Winter was already looking for clues that might explain Dawn’s phone call, but even when they rounded the corner into her road there was absolutely nothing out of place. Cars parked neatly, nose to tail. The occasional light in an upstairs window. The lurking shadow of a cat.

‘Number … ?’

‘Twenty-two, son. Up on the left-hand side. Behind the Volvo.’

They came to a halt. At first, Winter couldn’t see anything. Then he spotted curtains in the downstairs front window stirring in the breeze and he realised that the glass had been smashed. He gave the driver a twenty-pound
note and hauled himself awkwardly on to the pavement. Dawn had already opened the front door. She met him halfway down the path. She was wearing a sweater over a pair of men’s pyjamas but she was shaking with cold. Winter put his good arm round her.

‘What’s that smell?’

‘Petrol. Thank God you’ve come.’

He followed her into the house. The smell was overpowering now, thickened by the aftermath of what seemed to have been a sizeable fire. Dawn pushed at the door into the lounge-diner and then stepped back to let Winter through.

‘Christ.’

There was a big, black hole in the carpet, a pace or two in from the window. The pile had burned through to the backing underneath. Some bedding nearby, heavily charred, was still smouldering.

‘How did—?’

‘Someone threw a bottle of the stuff through the window. Look, I haven’t touched it.’

She pointed to shards of glass beside the coffee table. Winter bent to inspect them. Milk bottle, he thought, two thirds full of petrol, stuffed with old rags. Put a match to the rags, chuck it as hard as you can, and the chemistry of four-star would do the rest. He straightened up and looked around. The curtains were still intact, no sign of burning, and there wasn’t a mark on the furniture.

‘You were bloody lucky, love. How come—?’

‘I put it out myself,’ she said quickly.

‘Just like that?’

‘Yeah.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I was still downstairs, still in here. I heard a car stop outside and thought nothing of it. Then …’ She looked at the window and shuddered. ‘You know that wooof sound? It’s true. It’s just like that. The window came in and then … wooof. I couldn’t believe it.’

Winter was still interested in the bedding.

‘You were kipping down here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got guests, then?’

‘No.’

‘Redecorating the bedroom?’

She shook her head, offering no other explanation. Winter stepped over to the window, produced a pen and poked at the broken glass. The hole was surprisingly small. Best to leave it till the morning. He turned back into the room. Dawn had wedged herself into a corner of the sofa, hugging her knees. She looked about twelve. Winter perched himself beside her and did his best to give her a cuddle. His efforts to shield the plastered arm at last brought a tiny smile to her face.

‘This is getting beyond a joke,’ she muttered. ‘First we nearly get killed and now this.’ She shook her head, staring down at the carpet, still not quite able to believe it.

‘Any ideas? About the car?’

‘None. I never saw it. I can’t imagine …’ She shook her head again. ‘These calls I’ve been getting. Maybe it’s to do with them. I just don’t know, Paul. One minute you think you’ve got a grip. The next, this happens. What are they trying to do? Frighten me? See me off? Why would anyone want to do that?’

‘Good question.’

Dawn’s hand was icy cold. Winter began to massage it, trying to restore the circulation, but stopped when he felt her flinch.

‘That hurts?’

She nodded, fighting back tears. Winter folded back the sleeve of her sweater. Her wrist and forearm were circled with angry red welts. He’d seen them earlier, in the garden.

‘Was this from the accident?’

‘Yeah.’ She nodded. ‘Your fault.’ She looked away. She was a terrible liar.

As gently as he could, Winter took her other hand. He felt her resisting and told her to relax. The sleeve rolled back, he found more marks, the same pattern, the flesh inflamed and scarlet.

‘Matching set,’ he murmured. ‘How come?’

‘Dunno. Just happened. Can you stay? Please?’

‘Of course, love. Have you rung anyone? Fire brigade? Our lot?’

‘Just you.’

‘Andy Corbett?’

‘Just you,’ she repeated.

Winter wondered whether to press it, whether to try and get to the bottom of whatever was really troubling her, but knew from the expression on her face that this wasn’t the time to ask.

He found the Bacardi on a shelf in the kitchen. There was Coke in the fridge. He half filled two tumblers, tucked the Coke bottle under his arm, and returned to the living room. The smell, sour and acrid, brought him to a halt.

‘Upstairs, then?’

Without waiting for an answer, he began to climb the stairs. Near the top, where the stairs turned right before the landing, he paused. Dawn was staring up at him.

‘Don’t go up there,’ she said.

‘Why not? You think I’m going to sleep in the kitchen?’

‘No. It’s just—’ She bit her lip, then shrugged. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Door at the end.’

Still juggling the tumblers and the Coke, Winter made his way along the landing and pushed at the door with his foot. Inside was a tiny bedroom largely occupied by a double mattress on the floor. Dawn must have used it as a dumping spot for stuff she couldn’t find a home for. Amongst the assorted debris on the mattress was an open suitcase. Beside it, a pile of new-looking clothes, mainly beachwear.

Winter was trying to find somewhere for the glasses and the Coke.

‘I’m sorry it’s such a mess.’

Dawn was standing behind him in the open doorway, gazing in. She took one of the Bacardis and there was a moment of near candour as their eyes met. Winter raised his glass.

‘Big bathroom, is it? Only anywhere’s better than here.’

‘Paul, don’t—’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Be difficult.’

‘Is he still here, then?’ He nodded beyond her. ‘Gone back to bed?’

‘No. He went this morning.’

‘Hasn’t been back since?’

‘No.’

‘Quite sure about that? Doesn’t fancy his chances with half a pint of four-star?’

‘He’s a policeman, Paul. One of us.’

‘Sure, but that doesn’t make him sane, does it?’ He swallowed half the Bacardi without bothering with the Coke, then peered down at the suitcase through swimming eyes. Tucked neatly into the folds of an aubergine sarong was a bottle of factor 10 sunblock. ‘Anywhere nice?’ he inquired.

‘Seychelles.’

‘Kept that quiet, didn’t you?’

‘It was meant to be a surprise.’

‘Lucky old us.’

‘Me, actually. Not that I’ll be going.’

She was quieter now, Winter thought, definitely getting a grip.

‘We’ve got a choice here,’ he said affably. ‘Either we find somewhere a bit cosier or we start sorting the serious business.’

‘What are you saying, Paul?’

‘I’m suggesting we have a little drink in your bedroom, one because it’s probably the only decent room in the house, and two because I’m bloody uncomfortable standing here. The alternative is a phone call.’

‘To?’

‘Jerry Proctor. Someone’s tried to firebomb your house. You need Scenes of Crime. You’re a serving CID officer. It’s not just you, love. It’s all of us. And in case you think it’s me saying this, it’s not. It’s Willard. I can hear him now. He’ll go ballistic.’

‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

‘Sure. And that would give us time to have that little drink.’

‘You’ll sleep in here?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘But we still need to talk? Is that what you mean?’

Winter nodded but said nothing. Dawn eyed the open suitcase a moment then did her best to summon a smile.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

SATURDAY
, 8
JUNE
, 2002,
07.00

Faraday was dressed and out of the house early next morning. He’d woken at six, slipping into his study and stealing a precious ten minutes or so to sit behind his Coastguard binos and follow a single turnstone, rust-coloured in his summer plumage as he scampered busily across the mudflats, poking at little mounds of bladderwrack. Just the sight of this little bird hunting for food brought a smile to Faraday’s face. For the first time since
Merriott
got down to business, he felt that the investigative log jam was beginning to shift. Not, after all, a vengeful ex-con with a debt of blood to settle. Nor a drunken lover confusing sex with homicide. But three strangers, nameless shadows ghosting into the HOLMES files, a new lead that seemed – to Faraday at least – to promise a great deal.

The Major Crimes suite was already busy by the time Faraday arrived. Saturdays, the offices were usually deserted, but it was Nick Hayder who happened across Faraday in the tiny kitchen and told him the news.

It seemed that Winter had woken Willard at six and told him of an incident at Dawn Ellis’s place, over in Portchester. What Winter was doing there was by no means clear but someone had chucked a petrol bomb through Ellis’s window in the middle of the night and now Willard was demanding even more bodies to find out why. One of the SOCO blokes from Fareham had started work on the scene only minutes ago but already he’d retrieved a good lift from the broken bottle and was waiting on a van to despatch the lot to Netley for a
possible hit on the NAAFIS database. On Willard’s insistence, they’d called someone in specially to process the print, and with luck they’d be looking at a result before the nine-thirty squad meet on the Somerstown job.

‘You’re thinking there’s a connection?’ Faraday couldn’t find any sugar for his coffee.

‘Has to be. Ellis and Winter were the ones who gave Geech a hard time at his mum’s flat. They’re also the ones who went back after Rooke got battered and found the stuff that puts Geech at the scene. We haven’t seen Geech since, of course, but these kids watch too many movies. This one’s called revenge.’

‘How would they know where Dawn lived?’

‘No idea. There’d be a way.’

‘There’s a time on this incident?’

‘Two in the morning. Give or take.’

‘CCTV? Number plate recognition?’

‘We’ll be checking as soon as we’re cranked up.’ He spotted a cupful of sugar and slid it across to Faraday. ‘Do Audis show up well in the dark?’