Deadlight

‘Hurley’s decent, persistent cop is cementing his reputation as one of Britain’s most credible official sleuths, crisscrossing the mean streets of a city that is a brilliantly depicted microcosm of contemporary Britain … The unfolding panorama of Blair’s England is both edifying and shameful, and a sterling demonstration of the way crime writing can target society’s woes’

‘There is no doubt that his series of police-procedural novels is one of the best since the genre was invented more than half a century ago’

‘The book has everything required of a first-rate police procedural and Hurley is now firmly at the top, with few rivals in this genre’

‘Hurley is one of my favourite Brit crime writers of the last few years, and long may he continue to chronicle Portsmouth’s seedier side’

‘This series gets stronger and stronger, and there is obviously space for more’

‘I officially declare myself a fan of Graham Hurley. His attention to detail (without slowing the pace of the novel) and realistic display of police work mark him as a most accomplished purveyor of the British police procedural’

‘Graham Hurley’s
Deadlight
is excellent modern British crime writing. Hurley demonstrates great attention to detail in regard to police procedure, as well as highlighting the conflicts of ideology that exist within the police force’

Deadlight
– Hinged metal flap which can be lowered and clamped over a scuttle in order to darken a ship.

Jackspeak – a Guide to British Naval Slang and Usage

Cover

Title

Copyright

Dedication

About the Author

By Graham Hurley

Praise for Graham Hurley

Acknowledgements

Prelude

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Beyond Reach

Prologue

Chapter One

My thanks to the following for their time and patience:

Jim Allaway, John Ashworth, Ralph Barber, Mark Davenport, Lee Dinnell, Roly Dumont, Alan Estcourt, Diana and Bob Franklin, Alastair Gregory, Barry Hornby, Bob Lamburne, Pete Langdown, Howard Lazenby, Steve McLinn, Clive Morgan, Mary and John Mortimer, Joe Morton, Laurie Mullen, John Roberts, Alfie Saye, Colin Smith, Ray Taylor, Mark Tinker, David Watts, Steve Watts, Tony West, Dave Wilson, Dave Wright and Charles Wylie.

Mark Higgitt’s fine book,
Through Fire and Water
, was an indispensable source of reference, and should be compulsory reading for anyone interested in naval aspects of the Falklands War. As ever, I owe an enormous debt to my editor, Simon Spanton, while Lin, my wife, was an unflagging source of comfort and inspiration throughout a long campaign.

SAN CARLOS WATER, 21 MAY
, 1982

All the training, all the waiting, all the unvoiced speculation: what it might feel like, how you might cope. And now, all too suddenly, this.

The first bomb fell aft. His face an inch from the mess deckplates, he could feel the ship lift, shudder, and then settle again. Helo deck, he thought. He’d been out there only hours ago, marshalling Lynx ops in the bright, cold winter sunshine. Now, in the neon-lit harshness of the Delta Two mess he raised his head a little, adjusting his anti-flash, trying to picture the scene above.

‘
Second aircraft. Red two zero
.’ The PWO’s voice on the main broadcast Tannoy.

The Argie Skyhawks normally came in pairs. Concentrating on a single ship was favourite because it narrowed the odds on a sinking. Nice one.

‘
Brace! Brace! Brace!
’

The ship heeled savagely as the Captain tried to throw the Argie pilot’s aim. Then came the fairground boom-boom-boom of the 20mm Oerliken and a sudden whoosh as a Seacat engaged. Even with target lock at three miles, Seacats were famously crap. Loosing one at six hundred metres, you’d give its little electronic brain a seizure. Even the PWO admitted it.

The sudden roar of the Skyhawk overhead ground his face into the deck. He shut his eyes and began to count, but he hadn’t got past one before the mess erupted around him. Thrown upwards by the blast, he had a moment of absolute clarity before the world closed in around him. Small things. The long-overdue bluey he’d
started this morning, finished except for a couple of lines at the end. The bet he’d taken a couple of days back with the XO, the date they’d all be home again. And the boy Warren, adrift in the South Atlantic, so much gash.

Smoke, everywhere. And the roar of water blasting out of a ruptured main. Voices yelling, and the clang of metal on metal as men took a Samson bar to the heavy secured doors. All that, plus a licking flame from the yawning gap below.

For a second or two, pure instinct, he checked himself over. His ears were still ringing from the explosion and when his hand came down from his face it was sticky with blood, but he could get up, no problem, and his mind was clear enough to latch itself on to the emergency drills.

According to the book, he was to return to the flight deck to assess the situation. His instincts, though, told him that the ship was finished. Already she’d taken a heavy list. Port? Starboard? He couldn’t work it out but the smoke was getting thicker by the second, and judging by the thunder below the fire was spreading towards the Seacat magazine. Situation like this, any sailor with half a brain would be binning the Damage Control Manual and thinking about an orderly evacuation.

On his hands and knees, hunting for clean air, he began to move. Already the deckplates were uncomfortably hot and the upward blast of the fire below drove him to the edges of what remained of the Two Delta mess. Seconds earlier, he dimly remembered three other guys with him in this cramped little space. Where were they now?

He found one of them sprawled beside a yawning locker. Surrounded by packets of crisps, bits and pieces of civvy kit, plus assorted copies of
Mayfair
, the man was rigid with shock but still alive. He slapped his face hard, hauled him into a half crouch, and pushed him towards
the jagged hole where the door had once been. A final shove took the man through.

‘Out!’ he shouted. ‘Get out!’

Back inside the mess, the smoke coiled into his lungs. It had a foul, greasy, chemical taste. He could feel his throat burning, his airways beginning to tighten. This is how you die, he thought. This is what the Fire School instructors at Matapan Road meant by suffocation.

He found the next body beside the fridge. Jones. Definitely. He tried for a pulse, spared a breath or two for mouth-to-mouth, all he could muster, then gave up. Taff was very dead.

Two down. One to go.

‘Anyone there?’ he yelled.

There was a movement in the half-darkness. Someone staggering uncertainly to his feet, shocked but still mobile. He moved towards the man, meaning to help him out, then stopped. Away to his left, beyond a gaping hole in the forward bulkhead, he could just make out the shape of another body.

He ducked low again, sucking in the last of the good air, picking his way through the debris. The casualty was face up. His anti-flash gloves were charred where he’d tried to protect himself, and one of his legs was bent out at a strange angle, but his eyes were open and he blinked in response to the upraised thumb. Yes, I’m still alive. And yes, for Christ’s sake get me out of here.

The body weighed a ton. Every time he tried to heave the deadweight towards the mess, towards the passageway and the ladder beyond, the man screamed in agony. Getting him through the tangle of debris would be a joke unless he could find another pair of hands.