Deadlight (24 page)

‘That’s right … and Croatia–Mexico,’ Yates told him. ‘One nil to the Mexicans.’

‘Crap game.’

‘Yeah? I never saw most of it.’

‘OK.’ It was Faraday again. ‘So tell us about these three blokes. You knew them? You’ve got names?’

‘Never seen them in my life. They’d had a few, mind. Ex-skates, definitely.’

‘And?’

‘They settled in. Stella and Bacardi chasers for a couple of them. Scotch and water for the other bloke.’ He looked up, pleased with himself. ‘They obviously wanted to make a night of it.’

‘So you stayed up with them? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Had to. No choice. There was only me behind the bar.’

He took a deep breath, then sat back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. After a while, it occurred to Faraday that he was crying.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you, about Sean? You’re telling me he’s really dead? Only … shit.’ The chair tipped forward and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing.

‘Mr Pritchard?’ Faraday was being as gentle as he could. ‘I know this is difficult—’

‘Difficult? Do you know how much I loved that man?’ The face came up, contorted with grief. ‘He was fucking everything to me, everything. No one else saw it, no one else knew him. Not like I did. This has to be some kind of joke. Who’d ever kill Sean?’

Yates had found a paper tissue from somewhere. He slid it across the table. Pritchard stared at it, numbed.

‘Tell me something, Mr Pritchard.’ Faraday changed the subject. ‘How come you chased Coughlin round the internet the way you did?’

At first the question seemed to baffle Pritchard. Then he reached for the tissue and blew his nose.

‘Freckler? Guzza? You know about that crap?’ Faraday nodded. ‘It was a game we played. We were at it for months, just slagging each other off in front of all those tight-arsed twats. Americans were the best. We really got to some of them. It was a laugh, the way they’d always react.’

‘So it was make-believe? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah. Freckler and Guzza. The terrible twins. The lunatics from hell. Fucking brilliant.’ His eyes were brimming with tears again but there was defiance in the stare.

Yates had produced a notebook.

‘Why Guzza?’ he enquired.

‘Guzz is Plymouth. Jackspeak. I was born there, grew up there.’

‘You were in the navy, too?’

‘Twenty-one years.’

‘You met Coughlin in the navy? Served in the same ship?’

‘No.’ He sounded regretful. ‘We met a couple of years back. Pure coincidence. He came into the Alhambra one night, wanted a quiet drink. It all kicked off from there.’

‘You were lovers?’

‘Too fucking right. Best shag on the planet.’

‘Coughlin?’

‘Me.’ He shook his head and blew his nose again. ‘Hard, this. Fucking impossible.’

Faraday took the interview back to Monday night. The three guys had arrived late. Pritchard was by himself in the bar. They were all drinking. Then what?

Pritchard was leaning forward, angry now. He hadn’t heard a word.

‘You don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it.’

‘Get what, Mr Pritchard?’

‘About Sean. He came in that Monday night. He came
in when those blokes were there. They knew him. It was fucking obvious they knew him. He was out of that bar – bang – just like that. Didn’t even stay for a drink.’

Yates had stopped writing. Faraday blinked.

‘Did they say anything, these blokes?’ Faraday was leaning forward across the table. ‘Did they talk about him at all? After he’d gone?’

‘They were in a huddle round a table in the window. I can see them now. One stood up and watched Sean walking off. Then … you know … gave him the finger.’ He lifted his hand, repeating the gesture. ‘They hated him. Ask me why, I don’t know, but they did. And after that, they really went for it.’

‘Went for what?’

‘Got really pissed, and I mean really pissed.’

‘Can you describe these guys? Young? Old?’

‘Old, two of them. Our age. Sean’s age. The other one looked slightly younger. Bigger, too. Fat bastard.’

‘Can you remember names? Did they call each other anything?’

‘I couldn’t hear. I was down one end of the lounge and like I said they were in the bay window.’

‘Would you recognise them again?’

‘Definitely.’ He nodded, making the point. ‘I was really upset, really, really upset. For Sean, not me. Fuck knows why but they really got to him, these guys. Sean’s not the kind of bloke to … you know … duck out like that.’ He sniffed again. ‘I tried to phone him after he walked out, to make sure he was OK, but he had the machine on.’

‘You used your mobile for that call?’ Yates again, pencil poised.

‘Yeah. I phoned him from the hall. I didn’t want those bastards listening.’

Faraday was trying to get a fix on the exact sequence of events. Three strangers had driven Coughlin back into the night. Afterwards they’d got very pissed. What time did they leave?

‘I dunno. I got them a cab in the end. And that was a performance, too, because I couldn’t find my mobile. Had to use the proper phone.’

‘So where was your mobile?’

‘I must have left it behind the bar.’

Yates wanted more details on the cab. ‘Which company?’

‘Aqua.’

‘In whose name?’

‘Mine. It was easier. These blokes didn’t really want to go but I called it anyway.’

‘And they all got in?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Fuck knows. Late. Way past midnight. Aqua would have it.’

Yates glanced at Faraday, and grinned. Flying to Gibraltar hadn’t, in the end, been such a bad idea.

Pritchard reached out across the table. He wanted to finish the story, tell them everything he knew. His touch was clammy on the back of Faraday’s hand.

‘After they’d gone I had a bit of a sort out, cash from the till for my spending money, I remember that. Then I went up to bed but there was no way I could sleep, not leaving Sean like that, so I got dressed again and went round to his place.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Haven’t a clue. Three in the morning? Dunno. Anyway, I knocked at the door, our special knock, rap-rap-rap, but I couldn’t raise him. Then I went round the back, thinking he must be in bed. I hammered on the window, really hard, but nothing happened. Then I went round the front again, tried the front door, knocked on the front window, but …’ He shook his head, not wanting to go on, overwhelmed by the thought of what he might have found inside.

There was a long silence. Yates was about to ask
another question but Faraday stilled him with a tiny shake of the head. Finally, Pritchard’s hand strayed to the patch of reddened skin on his cheek and he looked away, the tears streaming down his face.

‘You’re seriously telling me he was dead by then?’ He swallowed. ‘I can’t believe it.’

FRIDAY
, 7
JUNE
, 2002,
20.40

It was Bev Yates who volunteered to drive Pritchard home from the airport. They’d managed to book three seats on the early evening flight from Gibraltar, hanging grimly on to their supper trays as the plane bucketed through a vicious thunderstorm over the Bay of Biscay. Pritchard, who had gulped three hasty pints of Harp lager in the departure lounge, ignored the Fasten Seat Belt signs to stagger to the loo. When he returned, he was pale and sweating, and Yates thought he could smell vomit on his breath.

Accompanying them back to the UK had been Pritchard’s idea. The thought of staying on holiday when his mate was lying in a mortuary fridge was, he’d said, totally out of order and he’d insisted on a lift to the Panorama and five minutes up in his room to throw his kit together. Yates had gone with him, not because he thought Pritchard might do a runner, but because he was genuinely concerned. The man was inconsolable. He’d shuffled around like a sleep-walker, slow, dream-like movements, absolutely no idea what he was doing, and watching him trying to repack his life into the grubby old holdall, Yates had come to the conclusion that Coughlin had been blessed with at least one solid relationship. No one, no matter how talented, could put on a performance like this.

Now, with Pritchard asleep in the aisle seat, it occurred to Faraday that Coughlin’s body still hadn’t been formally ID’d. There’d been no relatives to attend the morgue and a conspicuous lack of volunteers from his
fellow screws at Gosport prison. With the coroner’s officer eager to get the paperwork squared away, maybe Pritchard could do the honours.

Yates wanted to know about the Family Liaison Officer.

‘There isn’t one. We never got round to it.’

‘So who goes along with him?’

Faraday glanced sideways at Yates and smiled. Once the plane stopped shaking itself to pieces, the drinks trolley might appear again.

‘Small gin?’ he suggested. ‘Lots of tonic?’

An hour and a half later, with Yates off hunting for his Golf, Faraday and Pritchard stood in the orange loom of one of the long-term car parks, watching the incoming queue of aircraft swaying down the glidepath into Gatwick. In the morning, once Pritchard had caught up on his sleep, Faraday would send someone round to the Alhambra to take a formal statement. He wanted an account of exactly what had happened that last Monday night. Maybe there was stuff – little points of detail – that might have slipped his mind. He must have spent at least an hour with the three guys in the bar. Physical descriptions would be important and maybe a nickname might come back to him. Anything, he repeated, anything that would make the hunt for Coughlin’s killers just that little bit easier.

Pritchard turned to him, his eyes wide.

‘You think they did it, those blokes?’

‘I think they’ve got some questions to answer.’

‘But you really think they might have done it?’

‘It’s possible, certainly, but in my line of work, Kevin, it doesn’t always pay to draw the obvious conclusions.’

It was the first time Faraday had used Pritchard’s Christian name and the smile that lit his face was a reminder of just how vulnerable this man was. Coughlin would have loved that, Faraday thought. He’d have
scented the weakness, the almost childlike hunger for affection, and turned it into a relationship. That Pritchard had come to depend on Coughlin was no longer in doubt. With Coughlin gone, this strange, gauche, awkward figure was utterly lost.

Yates arrived with the Golf and made room for Pritchard in the front. Faraday could see his own Mondeo several rows away. He dumped his bag in the boot and sent a text message to J-J, announcing his imminent return. Within seconds, still in the car park, he had a reply.
One hotel on Old Kent Road
, went the message.
And loads of houses on the blue streets
.

Driving home, Faraday waited for updates. By Chi-chester, J-J had won the first game and started another. Half an hour later, Faraday found him sprawled across the carpet, deep in negotiations over a Get Out Of Jail Free card. Cross-legged on the other side of the Monopoly board was Eadie.

‘Sykes.’ Faraday realised he was pleased to see her. ‘This is becoming a habit.’

‘Yep. Just a shame I’m not winning.’

She nodded down at the board. J-J had built himself a small estate around the Old Kent Road and secured an equally substantial presence around nearby Islington. Throw virtually any number in the vicinity of Go, and the boy would clean you out.

‘You good at this too?’ Sykes was still looking up.

‘Used to be. How come he conned you into playing?’

‘I dropped by with the rough cut. Right bloody cassette this time.’

‘You showed J-J?’

‘Yep.’

‘And?’

She reached across and gave J-J a nudge, touching her own eye, nodding at the television, and then making a tiny inquisitorial movement with her hand. Learns fast, thought Faraday, as J-J glanced up at his father.

‘Not bad,’ he signed. ‘Needs more pictures, though.’

Faraday began to laugh. A weekend at sea, and J-J was unforgiving.

‘You understand what he’s saying?’

‘Yeah. He thinks bits of it are OK but the rest is crap. We’ve had the conversation.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘You needn’t be. He wasn’t.’

J-J, who realised he might have gone a bit too far, was trying to repair the damage. The soundtrack, of course, was a mystery to him and to be fair he probably put too much emphasis on the visuals. He got this thought across to Faraday in a blur of sign, and Faraday began to offer a translation.

‘I know what he’s saying,’ Sykes interrupted. ‘That’s exactly what he told me earlier and you know the real problem? He’s right. People like me get waylaid by what these old guys say, the stuff they come up with. Movies should be about pictures.’

‘Exclusively?’

‘Of course not. But look at it through Joe’s eyes and you’ve got nothing else to go on. That’s why he takes a good photo. He
sees
the world. We’re cursed with these.’ She plucked at her own ear and then tossed the jail card on to the board. ‘I have to go. There’s a message for you by the phone. I wrote it down.’

Faraday was still trying to get over someone calling his son Joe. He couldn’t remember when anyone had last done that. It sounded so different, so grown-up.

‘You want to stay for something to eat? I’m starving.’

‘No, thanks.’ She tapped her watch. ‘Early start.’

Faraday shrugged, then retrieved the message, trying to decipher Sykes’ boisterous scrawl. He was to phone someone called Nick. There was a mobile number and a time: eight thirty.

‘It sounded important.’ Sykes was halfway up the hall. ‘Give me a call. You owe me a beer.’

There was the sound of the door opening and closing, and then she was gone. J-J was still on the floor, counting his money. Faraday gave him a poke with his shoe.

‘You eaten yet?’ he signed.

‘No.’

‘Want to get something together?’

J-J nodded and disappeared into the kitchen with a handful of Monopoly notes. Faraday dialled the mobile number. Nick Hayder was still up.

‘How did it go?’ he asked at once. ‘Gibraltar?’

‘It rained a bit but it was OK in the end. You into football at all?’