Deadlight (13 page)

Winter got to his feet and went to the window. In the street outside, a bunch of kids was standing around Dawn’s Peugeot, peering in. He opened the window and shouted at them to push off but they just laughed at him. There wasn’t a kid round that car older than ten, he thought, but they’d all long ago sussed the odds. No one could touch them. Not their teachers. Not their parents. Not even the police. Put a finger on kids like these, and they’d be running to Pompey’s small army of social workers with some wank story about paedos.

He stepped back into the room, thinking about Rookie. It wasn’t that he’d ever liked the man. In fact he couldn’t remember giving that aspect of their relationship a moment’s thought. It was just that there was a protocol here, stuff you could and couldn’t do, and one of the definite no-nos was attacking a man three times your age and turning him into a vegetable. Winter had very little time for mission statements from the likes of Hartigan but on occasions like these even he had to admit that the man had a point. Let the Darren Geeches of this world get away with it, and you were looking at anarchy.

Ellis wanted to show him something. They went into Darren’s bedroom this time. She’d been through the wardrobe again. Propped at the back, behind the handful of hanging clothes, was a baseball bat. Winter squinted at it in the gloom. Even an hour later, the blood looked fresh.

‘I haven’t touched it,’ Ellis said.

Winter nodded. Scenes of Crime could handle this. He struggled to his feet. Then, struck by a sudden thought,
he asked about Dawn’s new Peugeot. Did it, by any chance, come with a first aid kit?

‘Yeah,’ Dawn said.

‘And does the kit include smelling salts?’

‘I don’t know. Shall I have a look?’

She was away less than a couple of minutes. When she returned, she handed Winter a small, white tube.

‘I had a go.’ She pulled a face. ‘Makes your eyes water.’

Winter took the tube into the living room. Shelley Geech hadn’t moved. He propped her head up, uncapped the tube, and waved the open end under her nose. For a couple of moments, nothing happened. Then her eyes shot open and she grabbed Winter’s arm.

‘What’s going on … ?’

‘That dog of Darren’s. The one we found on his bed. Remember?’

She was fighting to make sense of the question. At length, she muttered, ‘Charlie?’

‘Yeah, Charlie. Attached to Charlie, is he, Darren? Fond of the dog?’

For a second or two, Winter thought he’d lost her again. Then she gave an involuntary little shudder and the grip on Winter’s arm tightened even further.

‘Loves him.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Loves him to death.’

Faraday looked up to find a figure at his open office door. Black trousers and a crisp white short-sleeved shirt. Hand raised, about to knock, and a big, round face that Faraday was sure he’d seen before.

‘Mark Scott. Nick Hayder said you wanted a word.’ He paused. ‘Scottie ring a bell?’

Faraday had it now. Scottie was Nick Hayder’s navy contact, the chisel he’d been using to prise open various bits of the RN bureaucracy. Nick had mentioned him in the bar when they’d talked earlier. Scottie had been appearing in the Major Crimes suite for months, slipping
into Hayder’s office and closing the door behind him. If Faraday really wanted a peek at Coughlin’s service file, then Scottie was the man to ask.

Faraday got up. Scottie had a firm handshake. He settled himself in the spare chair and looked up at Faraday’s wall board. Beside the RSPB calendar were a couple of photographs. One, taken at ground level, was an upward shot of an enormous tower block, twenty-three floors climbing into the bluest of skies. Beside it, Faraday’s favourite, was a big colour blow-up showing a seabird plunging into an angry sea.

Scottie wanted to know about the flats.

‘Chuzzlewit House, isn’t it? Big block over by the station?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why … ?’ Scottie nodded at the photo.

Faraday hesitated a moment, wrongfooted. This brand of candour – cheerful nosiness – obviously came with the job. According to Hayder, Scottie was a Reggie, a member of the navy’s Regulating Branch. As a seagoing policeman, he understood the thrust and demand of major CID investigations and had won himself an official attachment to Nick’s stranger rape inquiry. More to the point, with barely a year to serve, he had his eye on a second career in the civvy police.

Scottie still wanted to know about the flats.

‘Job I was on last year.’ Faraday was looking at the photo. ‘I ended up on top of that lot with a kid of ten. There’s a little parapet runs round the edge of the roof. The rest you wouldn’t want to know.’

‘This wasn’t the kid who torched the house in Stamshaw?’

‘Afraid so. Some people know no fear and he was one of them. The trick with a drop like that is never to look down.’

‘And you?’

‘Looked down.’ Faraday shook his head. Even now,
more than a year later, he could feel the swirl and tug of the wind as he fought for balance on top of the parapet. J-J had been up there, too, at the mercy of the ten-year-old, and there’d only been Faraday to come between them. That was the night he’d first understood that fear was something you could physically taste.

Scottie, impressed, wanted more details but Faraday passed over the rest of the case. Infinitely more interesting was the other photo. Scottie got up and inspected the bird at close quarters.

‘Gannet, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Wings folded back, the bird’s dive was near vertical. J-J had snapped it years back on a birding trip they’d shared to the Bempton Cliffs in Yorkshire, getting lucky with an 80–200 zoom. Maybe that moment was a portent of all the other shots to come, thought Faraday. An even better reason for posting it on his office board.

‘Nick told me you were a bird freak.’ Scottie had sat down again. ‘I used to do a bit myself when I was down in Plymouth. Strictly dude.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Up the river there, Tamar Valley, little place called Bere Ferrers. Low water, right time of year, you’d get to see all kinds of stuff.’

Faraday, who’d never visited the Tamar Valley, guessed at curlew, mallard, widgeon and teal, with maybe avocets in the winter. Mention of avocets drew a frown from Scottie.

‘Black and white jobbies? Long legs? Funny upturned beak? Yeah, copped them by the shedload. Listen, about this bloke of yours, Coughlin. It’s his service file you want, yeah?’

Nick had been right. Official channels, you might wait days for a result but Scottie had talked to a mate in HMS
Centurion
, over in Gosport, and with luck he’d have a photocopy by first thing tomorrow.
Centurion
was where
they kept personnel records. Coughlin’s was bound to be there.

‘Do I need to talk to anyone else?’

‘Not now you don’t. If you get really stuck in I’ll give you a number, my boss in the dockyard. Any luck, and he’ll just sign me off on it.’ Abruptly, he stood up and pumped Faraday’s hand. Then his eyes returned to the soaring tower block. ‘Nick said you did brilliant on that job. Must have been scary, though, eh?’

Scottie gone, Faraday returned to the paperwork on his desk. Amongst the dozens of messages was a call one of the management assistants had fielded. It had come from an Eadie Sykes. She’d left a number and wanted Faraday to call back. First time he’d seen the message, the name had meant nothing but now he realised who she was. Just why was J-J’s new employer going to the trouble of tracking Faraday down? He picked up the phone, glad of a moment’s respite from stroppy bosses and pain-in-the-arse DCs.

She picked up the phone on the first ring.

‘Sykes.’

Faraday smiled. He didn’t know too many women who introduced themselves so bluntly. She might have been Willard.

‘It’s Joe Faraday. J-J’s dad. You rang.’

‘I did. You’re a hard man to find. I just wanted to say what a clever son you’ve got. Deserves a drink.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted.’

‘I meant you, Joe.’

‘Me?’ Faraday began to laugh. ‘How come?’

‘Just some things it might be good to discuss.’

‘About J-J?’

‘Maybe. Listen, tonight would be best. You name it. I’m buying.’

Faraday paused, trying not to think too hard about the million and one boxes he still had to tick.

‘I’m not sure …’

‘You gotta scheduling problem? Don’t even talk about it. Come round when you’re ready. You know those flat conversions on the seafront? Next to South Parade Pier? Mine’s number thirty-three, top floor. There’s a squawk box on the front door. Hit the button marked Sykes and we’ll take it from there. Be good to talk, eh?’ She laughed and then hung up, leaving Faraday gazing at the phone.

Seconds later, he turned to find Brian Imber at the door.

‘Just had the computer unit on from Netley,’ he said. ‘They’ve got something they think might interest us.’

Winter was still at the city’s Central police station with Dawn Ellis when Cathy Lamb caught up with them. Winter and Ellis had arrested Mrs Geech and driven her down to Central. The Custody Sergeant had booked her in and phoned the police surgeon for formal medical checks. In her state, there’d be no question of interview until the heroin had left her system. With Mrs Geech locked up for the night, and the police surgeon yet to appear, Winter and Ellis were about to head back to Highland Road.

‘See you there,’ Cathy said.

She’d already pulled a squad together and the meeting had begun by the time Winter and Ellis walked into the CID office. Winter counted nine bodies perched on desks and chairs, a mix of uniforms and CID. It was a decent turn-out for a force stretched to breaking point, ample proof that the bosses had decided to draw a line in the sand.

Cathy Lamb confirmed as much.

‘Hartigan’s had enough,’ she was saying. ‘And frankly I don’t blame him. I’ve had the
News
on twice already. We’re talking broad daylight with a middle-aged man beaten half to death. They’ve got a couple of quotes off some of the locals. It’s going to look like Beirut in the paper.’

‘It
is
Beirut.’ It was Rick Stapleton, called in on a leave-day. Judging by the state of his hands, he’d been working on his Kawasaki again.

‘Thanks for that.’ Lamb sounded knackered. ‘The problem’s going to be witnesses. We’ll have to crack that somehow but at least there’s a name in the frame. Paul?’

Winter settled himself on the table beside the electric kettle. He and Dawn Ellis had paid two visits to a flat in Somerstown. The boy’s name was Geech. He was well suss for the corner shops and also had his fingers in Bazza Mackenzie’s pie, much to the irritation of one of the older dealers.

‘Who’s now in neuro?’ Stapleton again. ‘Surprise, surprise.’

A ripple of laughter went round the room, stilled by Cathy Lamb. She wanted Winter to explain about the first search and the surprising absence of heroin wraps in the boy’s wardrobe. Stapleton followed him word for word.

‘So you knew where to look?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Because Rooke had told you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And the kid was watching when you looked in the wardrobe?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Don’t you like this Rooke bloke? Or were you sending a message?’

Winter looked pained. He’d trusted Rookie implicitly. He’d expected a decent stash of smack, enough to lift the boy from the streets for a while. Without Geech, the rest of the kids who were doing the corner shops would go off the boil. Wasn’t that the whole point of the exercise?

‘Sure.’ Stapleton nodded. ‘But you know the score with kids and the law. A word from some social worker, and Geech’d be out on bail and back to give this Rooke a
smacking. As it is, the bloke just got it early. Great result.’

Winter feigned outrage. He didn’t see it that way at all.

‘One street dealer off the plot? One fifteen-year-old lunatic on the run? That’s double top, isn’t it? Brilliant darts.’

Cathy Lamb intervened. She wasn’t interested in family rows. Hartigan was right. They had to get out in Somerstown in substantial numbers and start sending a message. First priority was the boy, Geech. The forensic haul from his mum’s flat would, fingers crossed, be more than enough to put him away. First, though, they had to find him.

There were murmured suggestions from the assembled squad – putting the word round the usual places, issuing mug shots to units city wide, staking out his top mates – but it was Winter who came up with an alternative. He had ground to make up and on these occasions he liked nothing better than an audience.

He signalled to Cathy, then pointed down the office. The cairn terrier was still curled under Winter’s desk, cocooned in Police No Entry tape.

‘Young Darren’s got a real thing about his bloody dog. Can’t live without him.’ Winter smiled. ‘Why don’t I work something out?’

WEDNESDAY
, 5
JUNE
, 2002,
18.30

In the end it was the DS who drove over to Kingston Crescent from the Computer Crime Unit at Netley. Faraday convened a small impromptu meeting in Willard’s office – just Brian Imber and Dave Michaels – and let the DS have first shout.

Frank Stockley was a short, broad-shouldered forty-five-year-old with a greying crew cut and an impressive tan. He and his wife had just come back from three weeks in Florida and couldn’t wait to put down a deposit on a house out there. Gulf Coast was favourite. Ten miles inland from Tampa and property was still a steal. Who needed another wet winter in Fareham when your biggest problem was buying a fridge big enough for all those ice-cold lagers?

He spread his papers out on the conference table. The analysis of Coughlin’s hard disks was in its early stages, he said, and there were a lot of problems still to be cracked, but a pattern was beginning to sort itself out and he only thought it right to flag up one or two preliminary leads.

‘First off, we’ve got a confirmed on the man’s handle. That’s the name he used, his alias if you like. It was definitely Freckler. Second, we had a dip into the hard disk during the cloning process, just to see what came up, and he’s definitely been using newsgroups. We’re still burning stuff from the cloned disk on to CDs but in the meantime we thought we’d check out the archive. This is techie stuff, I know, but there’s a site called DejaVu,
holds the records for every newsgroup conversation ever, and we’ve been into that, searching under Freckler.’