Deadlight (6 page)

Faraday knew of SIOs and their deputies who’d let their concentration wander in the early stages of an inquiry only to realise – months later in court – that they’d surrendered the verdict to the defence team with the body still warm. Pressure like that, he supposed, was the charm of the job. Major inquiries put you to the ultimate investigative test, chucking up lead after lead, thousands of words on hundreds of forms, daring you to flag a pathway forward, daring you to eliminate a line of enquiry that just might – despite every indication to the contrary – be productive.

What to make of Andy Corbett’s little hunch? In truth, Faraday didn’t know. The DC was new to Portsmouth. A couple of months on the CID strength at Kingston Crescent hardly qualified him for in-depth local knowledge, yet that wasn’t the point. What they were dealing with here, what they always dealt with, were the fathomless mysteries of human interaction. What made one man take against another? What turned impatience, or irritation, or anger into hatred? And what kind of special demons possessed a man to batter someone else to death?

On the face of it, Ainsley Davidson was a strong lead and Faraday would be crazy not to pursue it. Prison was a pressure cooker and if Davidson’s belief in his innocence was genuine, then he’d have been putty in the hands of someone like Coughlin. There were individuals on this earth – mainly men – who got their kicks from situations they could control. Prison was an obvious example. Marriage, oddly enough, was another. Bang someone up, make them deeply unhappy, and your pleasures were there for the taking.

But was that sufficient motivation to justify murder? Would you really spend seven miserable years in a six by ten cell and then risk the same nightmare all over again? Faraday rather doubted it, but knew that his own instincts were irrelevant. He’d come across men who’d killed on far less provocation than this. Indeed, the longer he did the job the more mundane the act of murder became. In books and movies, homicide still attracted an aura, an unsettling glamour, an apartness that spoke of something deeply special. In real life, it wasn’t like that at all. You lost your rag. You pulled the trigger or raised a fist or reached for the kitchen knife. And that – all too finally – was that.

The Policy Book lay on his desk. This held the record of every decision the SIO made, hour after hour, as the inquiry developed. In days and maybe months to come it would be invaluable as a retrospective source, charting and justifying every tiny investigative shift, and bosses like Willard understood its value. In complex inquiries it was impossible not to make mistakes but this painstaking process of adding a rationale for every decision provided a comforting degree of protection. The Policy Book was the body armour that lay between the SIO and the small army of career assassins who lay in wait down the investigative road. Take care of the Policy Book, and the Policy Book would take care of you.

Faraday uncapped his pen and began to write. He’d authorised Corbett and Yates to drive to London first thing and interview Ainsley Davidson. Corbett had his mother’s address from the prison file and an assurance from one of the screws that he’d probably be there. The address was in Balham, well known to Corbett from his previous life in the Met. Three years in the Streatham CID office, he’d assured Faraday, had taught him everything he needed to know about South London criminals.

There was something in Corbett’s manner that
sounded an alarm with Faraday. It wasn’t simply the arrogance of the man, and his obvious impatience to get a result. Confidence and an appetite for hard work were prized qualities in young detectives. No, it was something else, and Faraday knew that Bev Yates had sensed it too. Yates was far too canny and experienced to discuss these thoughts with Faraday but there’d been a moment in the office after Corbett had gone when they’d looked at each other, and raised an eyebrow.

‘Talks a good war, doesn’t he?’ Yates had muttered, reaching for his jacket.

TUESDAY
, 4
JUNE
, 2002,
22.15

The Pembroke lay in Old Portsmouth, just round the corner from the Anglican cathedral. Recently, it had become a favourite pub of Winter’s. He liked the clientele – an unusual mix of traders, lawyers, churchmen and retired navy matelots – and he enjoyed the beery cheerfulness that came with them. This was a pub for serious drinkers, free from trash music and fourteen-year-old slappers out of their heads on Vodka Ice. Most evenings you could tuck yourself away in a quiet corner and never attract a second glance.

Rooke was waiting for him, sitting bolt upright on a padded bench beneath a tankful of tropical fish. Winter had never quite got over the look of the man – bony face, yellowing skin, wild eyes, scary haircut – but put the damage down to an unusually heavy dose of inbreeding. Rooke was a terrible warning for anyone who spent too much time in Pompey. Stay a generation too long, and you’d end up looking like this.

Winter ordered two Stellas at the bar. Rooke’s glass was already empty.

‘Awright, Rookie?’ Winter slid on to the bench and gave him a nudge. Lager from the glasses slopped on to the table.

‘Listen.’ Rooke beckoned Winter closer. ‘You want to know about the boy Geech, I’ve got be fucking careful.’

Winter grinned at him. Most of his touts enjoyed the foreplay when they met, the preliminary gossip about mutual associates, the chance to slag the local football team, but not Rooke. Rookie kept the conversational
frills to an absolute minimum, partly because he had no small talk and partly because being with Winter made him very nervous indeed. He was here to make a point or two. And then he’d go.

‘You know what he looks like, this Darren?’

Winter nodded. He’d seen Darren Geech on countless occasions, mainly around Somerstown. The boy had always been a problem – thin, pasty-faced, vicious – and watching someone like that grow up offered new insights into the crime statistics.

‘So what’s he up to now, young Darren?’

‘Every fucking thing. You want my opinion, it’s all down to his brother, Billy. Billy is a couple of years older than Darren and he’s been at it for ever. The latest thing is computer games. Billy got a re-writer off of a market geezer and he burns game CDs by the fucking thousand and flogs them round the estates, twenty quid apiece. Only problem is, he ain’t got no inserts for the boxes. Don’t stop Billy, though. He just goes to that games shop down Commercial Road with his mates and lifts them empty boxes off the shelf. Mob-handed, no one stops them. But then you wouldn’t, would you?’

Rooke had a point. Even CCTV didn’t seem to deter the likes of Billy Geech. Face a situation like that across the counter, and the loss of a couple of dozen empty CD boxes would seem a small price to pay for staying intact.

‘You’re telling me Darren learned the trade off his brother?’

‘Doing them corner shops? Definitely. Pull a stroke like that once, the rest comes easy. You’d be amazed what a load of blokes can get away with.’

‘Fifteen-year-olds?’

‘They’re the worst. They just don’t care. They do it for the laugh more than anything else. It’s pathetic really. Totally disorganised.’

Winter smiled, then reached for his glass. Rookie might have been talking about maths or French. The fact
that Darren Geech didn’t concentrate hard enough really pissed him off.

‘Fuck all profit, then?’

‘That’s right.’ Rooke frowned. ‘What’s the point in nicking crisps and biscuits? Just makes you fat.’

‘What about booze?’

‘Goes straight down their throats. These kids are off the fucking planet most of the time.’

‘OK.’ Winter leaned forward. ‘So what does all this tell me about Darren Geech?’

For the first time, Rooke ground to a halt. He had the strangest eyes, almost jet black, and Winter – sensing his reluctance to go much further – decided to give him a prod. In these situations, it often paid to bluff your way to the truth.

‘He’s muscling in, isn’t he, young Darren? He wants a slice of that nice pie of yours.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Geech knows what you’re up to. He’s watched you for months, years. He knows who you flog the stuff to, how much it’s worth, and he’s worked out a way of cutting you out. Maybe he’s into special offers. And maybe he knows more people than you.’

‘No chance.’

‘More young people? More fifteen-year-olds? Fourteen-year-olds? Kids still in primary school? You’d have a problem with them, Rookie. No offence, mate, but the paedo register was made for people like you. Just imagine. It’s bad enough having your kids skagging up at night. Think what it would be like if their mums sussed they were renting their arses out as well. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, does it? It’s a hard world, mate. Just the thought’s enough. Plus a word or two from the likes of Darren.’

Winter beamed up at the girl behind the bar. Time for
another pint. By the time he got back, Rooke was looking madder than ever.

‘That’s crap,’ he said. ‘I’m no paedo.’

‘I never said you were. I’m just wondering what other people might think.’

‘Well fuck knows why. You’re talking bollocks. Where does all this paedo drivel come from?’

‘Doesn’t matter, my friend. Just let me tell you about Bazza.’

Just the name was enough. Rooke tried to struggle to his feet. Winter laughed, then pulled him back.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Bazza’s a businessman, right? Businessmen look for bigger and bigger markets and just now you’re way off the fucking pace. Especially when young Darren’s whispering in his ear.’

‘Darren’s a kid. Bazza doesn’t deal through kids.’

‘What makes you think that? Bazza would deal through babies if there was money in it.’

‘That’s bollocks, too. You don’t know the bloke.’

‘No?’ Winter extended a hand. ‘Twenty quid says Darren Geech is trying to deal off Bazza. Another twenty says Bazza’s definitely interested. And a tenner on top says you’re trying to stop him. That’s fifty. Shake on it?’

Rooke ignored the proffered hand. He’d come to mark Winter’s card about Darren Geech. That was what they’d agreed and in his view the evening had come to an end. Time to go, pal. Bet or no bet.

‘But you’ve told me fuck all,’ Winter protested.

‘I’ve told you he’s doing them corner shops. And I’ve told you he’s the little cunt that organises it all.’

‘I knew that already. I even know his address. Just like you do.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, my friend. Except his mother’s been scoring off you for years. Is it cash in hand? Or some other arrangement? I know she’s a dog, Shelley Geech, but better than nothing, eh?’

This time Rooke was serious about leaving. Only Winter’s iron grasp kept him seated. He leaned towards Rooke’s ear, two old friends sharing a mutual confidence.

‘I’m going to turn over young Darren’s place tomorrow,’ Winter murmured. ‘And I need to know where to look. Charlie would be good. Or even smack.’

There was a long silence. Slowly, Winter released his grip. Over in the far corner of the bar, a punch line raised a laugh. Rooke glanced at Winter, then looked quickly away.

‘There’s a wardrobe in his bedroom.’ He swallowed hard. ‘That’s all you’re getting off of me.’

Faraday was exhausted by the time he got home. His precious day off had disappeared under a mountain of paperwork and even now, close to midnight, he wasn’t certain he’d planted a tick in every box. Slowing at the end of the harbourside cul-de-sac that led to the Bargemaster’s House, the Mondeo’s headlights settled on a four-wheel-drive parked outside. Faraday frowned. Did he know anyone who drove a battered Suzuki Vitara?

The lights were still on in the house downstairs, and letting himself in Faraday heard a bark of laughter coming from the living room. He shut the front door. There was a day sack on the table in the hall and a pair of car keys beside it. He looked up to find himself looking at a woman. She was tall and freckled with a mop of curly blonde hair. She was wearing a pink T-shirt with a map of Antigua on the front and a pair of salt-bleached jeans. Barefoot on the carpet, she stepped forward and grinned.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You must be Joe’s dad.’

For a moment, the name threw Faraday. Joe, he thought. Joe-Junior. My son.

‘That’s right.’ He shook the offered hand. ‘And you are … ?’

‘Eadie. Eadie Sykes.’

The accent was unmistakable, broad Australian, and at
last Faraday made the connection. Eadie Sykes was the video producer who had commissioned J-J over the weekend. She was making a documentary film to celebrate the Little Ships, the armada of tiny craft which had gathered to mark the sixty-second anniversary of the Dunkirk evacuation, and the photos he’d been summoned to see this morning were to accompany the advance publicity.

Faraday found J-J in the living room. The black and white prints were now spread in a wide semi-circle on the carpet around the sofa, and for a split second Faraday saw Coughlin’s body again, garnished with photos of a different sort.

J-J was hanging off the sofa. There were three empty cans of Kronenbourg on the table beside him. Faraday wanted to ask him about London, about meeting Janna’s friend, but J-J had other ideas.

‘She likes them,’ he signed up at Faraday, then nodded at the prints on the floor.

Eadie caught the raised thumb.

‘They’re great,’ she said at once. ‘Your boy’s done well. Exactly what I was after.’

‘For God’s sake don’t tell him.’

‘How can I?’

‘Good point.’

Faraday stepped into the kitchen. J-J had obviously been cooking because the place reeked of bacon and burned toast. There were two plates in the sink, both smeared with ketchup. Faraday poured himself a large Scotch and returned to the living room.

‘J-J cook for you?’

‘Yep.’

‘You’re insured?’

‘All risks. Two billion bucks.’ The laugh again. ‘Your boy says you’re a cop.’

‘It’s true.’

‘What kind of cop?’

‘A knackered cop.’ Faraday glanced at his watch. ‘Twelve hours straight. Not bad for a day off, eh?’