Deadlight (23 page)

The room, like the rest of Pritchard’s life, was in a state of some disarray. There was bedding on the floor and a pile of dirty clothes beside the door to the tiny balcony. An unzipped holdall on the dressing table held two six-packs of Guinness and the uncapped remains of a bottle of Johnnie Walker was wedged upright against the bedhead by a pillow.

‘Where have we seen these before?’

Yates had found a pile of soggy gay porn magazines on the bathroom floor, same titles as the stuff in Coughlin’s flat. Last month’s edition of
Blade
featured a full-lipped white youth playing flautist on a sizeable black erection. Yates began to leaf through, then tossed the magazine back into the bathroom with a sigh.

‘At least it makes him happy,’ he muttered.

Faraday smiled. Last night, at home, Yates had been
up late with the baby, scarcely bothering to go to bed. Faraday had got the full details on the plane.

‘You want to get a nanny. Takes the pressure off. That’s what I did with J-J. Worked a treat.’

‘Yeah, but you were on your own, weren’t you? I’ve got this marriage thing all wrong. I thought babies were down to the wife. Maybe I should have a word with Pritchard. Turn gay.’

Faraday was going through the drawer in the bedside cabinet. Pritchard had yet to get lucky in Gibraltar because the pack of Durex Gossamer was still intact but what interested him more were the postcards underneath. There were three of them. They all showed the same view – Barbary apes preening for the visitors – and two of them had already been stamped and addressed.

‘Listen.’ He turned to Yates. ‘“
Terrible fucking weather but whoever came to this shit hole to lie on the beach? Two ships in off exercise and skates everywhere. Someone’s got to fancy it sooner or later, even if I have to pay. Look after yourself. Be good. Big G
.”’ Faraday looked up. ‘Any guesses on the address?’

Yates stared at him for a moment.

‘Don’t tell me.’ He paused. ‘Coughlin?’

‘Dead right.’

‘So who’s “G”?’

‘Guzza. Has to be. That’s the name he uses in the newsgroups.’

‘Shit.’

Yates read the postcard for himself. The other one was addressed to Pritchard’s sister. Faraday had sunk on to the bed. No wonder Pritchard had been so cooperative. He didn’t even know Coughlin was dead.

‘Pritchard’s mates with the manager,’ Yates suggested. ‘The manager knows we’re interested because Melia’s told him and now he’s blown us to Pritchard. Pritchard writes the postcard and leaves it for us to find.’

Faraday gave it a moment’s thought, then shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No way.’

‘The maid, then. Same deal.’

‘Doesn’t work. Pritchard’s not that organised. You’ve seen the guy. He’s Scotch on legs.’

‘Drunks can be fucking devious.’

‘Not this one. I just don’t believe it.’ He took a final look at the postcard, then returned it to the drawer. Full length on the bed, Faraday stared up at the ceiling, giving the jigsaw yet another shake.

‘Tell me about the taxi again, the one he took to Gatwick.’

‘Tuesday morning?’ Faraday nodded. ‘He spent the entire journey asleep. He was in the back, crashed out. Car stank of booze. Driver said he had to have the window open the whole bloody way.’

‘Great.’ Faraday shut his eyes. ‘Does that sound like guilt to you?’

En route back to police headquarters, Faraday and Yates snatched a meal at a cheap seafood restaurant recommended by Frank Melia. They ate in silence, picking at plates of hake and chips, and Faraday left Yates chasing peas with his fork while he went outside to the tiny car park and put through a call to Willard.

Willard, if anything, was even more despondent. The Darren Geech inquiry was going absolutely nowhere. No one was talking, there was no CCTV, zilch leads, and someone with a twisted sense of humour had plastered most of Somerstown with dozens of trophy front pages from that day’s
News
. The headline ran alongside a big colour photo of Winter’s wrecked Skoda embedded in the Queen Street newsagent’s. ‘Neighbourhood Policing,’ went the headline, ‘Portsea Style’.

‘The kids just think it’s a laugh,’ Willard growled. ‘This fucking city’s out of control.’

Faraday gave him the bad news about Pritchard. Willard wasn’t having it.

‘You’re telling me he hasn’t got questions to answer? The footprint? All that stuff on the internet?’

‘No, sir. I’m just telling you he probably didn’t do it.’

‘That’s no way to start an interview. What if Yates is right? Anyone can plant a postcard. You don’t have to be fucking Einstein to pull a stroke like that.’

‘I just think—’

‘Yes, Joe. I know what you think. Just keep an open mind, OK?’

Willard rang off moments later without bothering to say goodbye. Operational Support were denying him more bodies and he’d spotted a 140-hour overspend in the overtime budget. One day he might knock some sense into this job of his but just now Faraday got the impression that he wished he was back at Centrex, exploring the possibilities of a new career in kidnapping and extortion.

Yates had been watching Faraday’s face through the restaurant window.

‘We could always nip into Spain,’ he suggested when Faraday walked back in. ‘Lie on the beach for a week or two.’

Winter took a taxi to see Dawn Ellis. Portchester was a fifteen-minute drive west along the coast. Neat post-war semis wound up the lower slopes of Portsdown Hill, and there was a big, thick-walled Roman castle on the foreshore that drew visitors by the thousands. Portchester was the kind of place that seemed to offer a refuge from the street crime and social anarchy that had had engulfed so much of the city itself. In reality, as Winter well knew, the crime stats were as alarming as anywhere else in the suburban sprawl that Hartigan liked to call Greater Portsmouth, but pull up your drawbridge and tend your
roses, and you could kid yourself that life really was a breeze.

Dawn took for ever to answer the door. Winter knew she was in because he’d taken the precaution of phoning ahead. Ignoring her pleas to be left alone, he told her to get the kettle on. The notion of the Skoda Preservation Society had rather taken his fancy. They were, he announced with a chuckle, founder members.

‘You think that’s funny?’

They were sitting in the garden, waiting for the next patch of blue to drift across. Dawn was sporting a pair of Ray-Bans a size too big for her face. She’d done her best to mask the bruise on her cheek with a dusting of Boots No. 7 but Winter couldn’t help wondering what else lay behind the sun shades.

‘How are you, love?’ He touched his own face.

‘Fine.’ Her voice was a mumble, not the usual Dawn at all.

‘Seriously.’

‘I’m fine.’ She turned her head away. ‘Seriously.’

For a moment, Winter wondered whether to apologise. Taking the odd physical risk or two was, in his view, all part of the job but he could quite understand that a full-scale RTA might seem a bit extreme. Ending up in a Queen Street shop window wasn’t an experience for the faint-hearted.

‘What did the medics say?’

‘Not much. Bit of bruising. Bit shaken up, you know, inside. Nothing that a couple of aspirin can’t sort out. Just as well I had the seat belt on, really …’

Dawn’s head was still turned away, her voice even lower. She hadn’t offered tea, or anything else for that matter.

‘And you?’ she said.

‘Bored stiff, love. I was wondering whether you might be up for a bit of convalescence. Saga do some nice coach trips.’

The joke fell flat. Dawn sat in the deckchair, her arms crossed, plainly waiting for him to go. Winter adjusted his weight, making himself comfortable. In these situations, it was silence that would do the trick.

‘Anyone been round to see you?’ she enquired at last. It was an innocent enough question. Winter shook his head.

‘No, love.’

‘No one at all?’

‘No. I’ve been expecting a Traffic skipper but nothing so far.’ He raised his plastered arm. ‘Not that I can sign any confessions at the moment.’

The quip at last raised a smile. She turned on him.

‘What on earth were you doing?’ she said hotly. ‘I know you’re not keen on the rules and stuff but there were two of us in there, Paul, not just you.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘But you don’t, do you? You come round here like nothing’s happened. We could have been killed. Easily. Hasn’t that crossed your mind at all?’

Winter considered the proposition for a moment, then shook his head. Immortality, he’d long concluded, came with the job.

‘We had a little accident,’ he said mildly. ‘You ever want to buy me a present, don’t make it a Skoda.’

‘You’re blaming the
car
?’

‘I’m blaming nothing. I’m not even thinking about it. What’s done is done.’

‘Great. So what do we say when they come asking questions?’

Winter smiled. He liked the ‘we’ a great deal. Corbett, as he’d suspected, had been making it up.

‘We tell them the truth. We tell them we had the place staked out. We tell them Geech clocked us and drove off. Naturally, we followed.’

‘Chased.’

‘Followed. This is Pompey, love. The traffic’s awful. You don’t chase, you dawdle.’

Dawn said nothing for a moment. Miles above them, the whine of a jet.

‘What about witnesses? You nearly put a bus on the pavement for starters.’

‘I don’t remember any of that.’

‘The taxi driver at the Hard?’

‘Gone.’

‘You mean it? You really can’t remember?’

Winter looked back towards the house. He could murder a drink.

‘I’ve got amnesia, love,’ he said at last. ‘I find it helps no end.’

‘I bet. And what about me? Am I supposed to have amnesia too?’

‘Pass. For all I know you might have been busy on the radio. Or maybe you’d dropped something and you were trying to find it in the footwell.’ He smiled at her. ‘Does that sound likely?’

Dawn stared at him. Moments later, her mobile began to ring. She picked it up and bent forward in the deckchair. As the conversation developed, she began to tug nervously at the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

‘No,’ she kept saying. ‘Really, I’d prefer not. Leave it a couple of days … please.’

Winter was looking at her forearm, trying to work out how she’d got the marks around her wrist. The skin was angry and roughened, a series of scarlet welts. Maybe seat belts weren’t as effective as people claimed.

At last she brought the conversation to a close. The pallor in her face only emphasised the bruising. She struggled to her feet, then gestured at the phone.

‘Cathy. Wanted to come out for a little chat but I’ve managed to put her off.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘Lager be OK?’

At police headquarters in Gibraltar, Pritchard appeared to have made a temporary peace with his bubbling gut. One of the duty sergeants had given him tea and biscuits and assured him once again that he wasn’t under arrest. By the time Faraday and Yates stepped into the interview room, he’d even had a wash.

Pritchard watched as Yates stripped the cellophane from a packet of audio cassettes and slipped one into each of the recording machines. He said he was sorry about the state of his hotel room but taking holidays alone turned you into a slut.

‘Know what I mean?’

Faraday smiled at him, noncommittal, then explained the official caution. Pritchard waved away his right to free legal advice. What concerned him more was exactly what Faraday was after.

‘We’re here on a murder investigation,’ Faraday said slowly. ‘And we think you may be able to help us.’

‘Help you how?’

‘There’s someone we think you might know,’ Faraday began. ‘He was killed late Monday night, early Tuesday morning.’

‘Where?’

‘In Portsmouth.’

‘
Pompey?
’

‘Yes.’

‘And who was he?’

‘Sean Coughlin.’

Pritchard rocked back in the chair. The big, flabby mouth fell open, then closed again. He reached for the table, steadying himself. Not for a second did he take his eyes off Faraday’s face.

‘You’re joking,’ he said. ‘Tell me you’re joking. Sean? You can’t mean it.’

‘I’m afraid it’s true, Mr Pritchard.’ Faraday nodded at the audio machines. ‘It would help us if we could record this interview. Do you mind?’

‘God, no. Anything. I’ll do anything. You go ahead. Sean dead? Christ … that’s unbelievable.’

Faraday glanced at Yates. The machines began to roll and Pritchard watched the tiny sprockets going round, seemingly mesmerised, as Faraday announced the date, time, location and names of those present. From time to time, Pritchard’s hand would stray to that same patch of skin on his cheek, the little nervous tic Faraday remembered from the Nelson Bar.

‘What do you want to know?’ he said at length.

‘Tell us about Monday evening. Where were you?’

Faraday waited while Pritchard hauled himself backwards through the week. Finally, he got to Monday.

‘I was at home.’ He frowned. ‘I run a hotel. The Alhambra. Granada Road. I was there.’

‘You don’t sound that sure.’

‘No, I was, I was.’ The frown deepened. ‘Monday was the night before I flew out, yeah … ?’ Faraday looked at him, saying nothing. ‘We were quiet. In fact we’re always fucking quiet. There were a couple of overnights—’ He broke off. ‘You want me to check all this? Only I can always phone my sister. She’s looking after the place while I’m away. Jackie her name is. She’d know.’

‘We’ve talked to your sister already. She says she was in bed by ten but you were still downstairs in the bar. You’d had a few drinks, right?’

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘So what happened then?’

Pritchard was deep in thought again, trying to work it all out, and as far as Faraday could judge this confusion of his was real. Neck a bottle of Johnnie Walker a day, he thought, and your brain would turn to sponge.

‘Three blokes,’ Pritchard said at last. ‘There were three of them.’ He counted them on his fingers. ‘Yeah, definitely three.’

‘Three blokes what?’

‘Came into the bar. Late it was. Past eleven. The
highlights were on.’ He shifted slightly and stared at Yates. ‘Brazil–Turkey?’