Deadlight (27 page)

Returning from the mortuary, Yates had reported on Pritchard’s state of mind. Taking him to ID Coughlin had been a really bad idea. Coming away in the car, the bloke had been inconsolable. Only Jackie, back in the hotel, had been able to do anything about the tears.

Now, turning the photo upside down to get a better look at the Ordnance Survey map, Faraday felt the slightest twinge of guilt. Given his own conviction that Pritchard was telling the truth – both about Monday night, and about his feelings for Coughlin – Faraday began to wonder about the damage he might have done. Death, in his own experience, was incomprehensible.
Experts who spoke of the psychiatric benefits of viewing the deceased, of accommodation and closure, had obviously never visited a mortuary. Had he been over-hasty with Pritchard? Should he have ignored the coroner’s officer’s pleas to get the paperwork sorted? In truth, he didn’t know.

He gazed down at the map in the photo, then suddenly realised where these two men had been. Queen Elizabeth Country Park, he thought. Just up the A3.

‘Mr Faraday?’

Faraday looked up to find Scottie standing at the open door. He was carrying a B&Q plastic bag. Work on his mother-in-law’s dodgy overflow had obviously drawn blood because he had a fresh plaster wrapped round his forefinger.

‘Here.’ He took a buff file from the bag and gave it to Faraday. ‘Before we do anything else, you ought to read this.’

It was Winter’s idea to take Dawn Ellis to the supermarket. At his insistence, she drove him to the big Sainsbury’s down the road from his bungalow at Bedhampton. Saturday afternoon, the place was packed. Dawn pushed the trolley while Winter criss-crossed the aisles, plucking items from the shelves. Dawn, who had been a veggie for longer than anyone could remember, watched the pile of pre-packed meat grow and grow. Pork chops. Bacon. Sausages.

‘Is any of this for me?’ she said. ‘Only you really needn’t bother.’

Winter didn’t reply. By the time they were heading for the check-out, the big trolley was full. Winter added a litre bottle of Scotch, another of Bacardi, paid with his Switch card and lent Dawn his good hand for the push across the car park to her little Peugeot. Only when she’d packed everything away in the boot did he volunteer any kind of explanation.

‘We’re laying in supplies,’ he said. ‘Think siege.’

‘We?’

‘You’re coming to stay with me for a bit. We’ll nip back to your place and pay off the glazier. The place should be secure once you’ve locked up. You’ll need some clothes, of course, but we’ll be OK for food.’

‘Do I get a choice in any of this?’

‘Not after last night you don’t.’

‘But there’s no way Geech is coming back. Even he’s not that stupid.’

‘It’s not Geech you should be worrying about, love.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Is it?’

It took a while for Faraday to get to grips with the file. HMS
Accolade
had been a Type 21 frigate. An attached photograph showed a sleek grey warship with a flared bow. A single gun turret lay forward of the bridge and there was a small flight deck with room for a helicopter aft.

In 1982, according to the section of the file flagged by Scottie,
Accolade
had been on exercises in the Mediterranean when Galtieri invaded the Falklands. With Argentinian forces pouring into Port Stanley, she’d been ordered to join the Task Force, pausing at Gibraltar to refuel and replenish, and again at Ascension to pick up extra stores plus six Stingray anti-submarine missiles. On 12 May, she’d entered the Total Exclusion Zone. Nine days later, she’d been on picket duty in San Carlos Water when she was attacked by Argentinian Skyhawks. Three bombs registered direct hits. Within twenty minutes, irrecoverably damaged, she’d sunk with the loss of nineteen lives.

‘Coughlin’s ship,’ Scottie reminded Faraday. ‘Big-time trauma.’

Faraday nodded, still uncertain why he was reading the file. They knew already that
Accolade
had gone down in the Falklands. They knew, too, that the loss of a ship was a uniquely terrible experience, akin to nothing else. Your
home, your reputation, your pride, your belongings, your very identity, all gone. But what did any of that have to do with an overweight prison officer, killed at home twenty years later?

‘Go back a couple of pages. The yellow sticky.’ Scottie nodded at the file. ‘Fifteenth of May?’

Faraday did his best to concentrate. Any time now he was due a conference with Willard. Briefly surfacing from the swamp of
Hexham
, the Det Supt wanted an interim review on
Merriott
. Live lines of enquiry were the key to any investigation and Faraday knew there were questions he’d have to answer about Davidson. Aside from anything else, Willard was still keeper of the Policy Book.

‘Halfway down. Look.’ Scottie was on his feet beside Faraday, his bandaged finger indicating two paragraphs towards the foot of the page. The rating’s name was Matthew Warren. He’d been a steward. Between 23.30 on the fourteenth and 06.00 on the fifteenth, he’d unaccountably gone missing. A search had been ordered of the entire ship. His absence confirmed, the Captain had ordered
Accolade
turned around. For five hours, the frigate had backtracked, making allowances for wind and current. At noon, with no sign of a body or even a lifejacket, Warren had been declared lost at sea.

Faraday looked up.

‘And?’

‘Warren was a youngster, a kid, just eighteen. He served as a steward in the wardroom. Coughlin was a killick chef, cock of the walk. They’d have worked together, messed together.’

‘But what’s your point?’

Scottie wouldn’t sit down. He went to the window, looked out, glanced back, looked out again, and watching him Faraday realised he’d probably been rehearsing this moment for days. For a naval regulator with one eye on a subsequent career in the CID, this was the answer to Scottie’s dreams.

‘You think any of that’s a coincidence?’ he said at last. ‘Coughlin? A bloke with his reputation? Young kid? Baby of the mess? Still in nappies?’

‘I’m not with you. Blokes go missing at sea all the time, don’t they?’

‘No way. Guy goes over the side, it’s a major drama. Ship’s Investigation. Board of Inquiry. The lot. The only reason this one never made the headlines was the war. Six days later nineteen blokes were dead, Christ knows how many were injured, and they’d lost the ship as well. No wonder no one spared a thought for Matthew Warren.’

‘But Coughlin … ?’ Faraday left the rest of the question unvoiced.

‘Coughlin was a bad bastard, you know that. Listen.’ Scottie sat down again, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘I had a little ring round last night, trying to find blokes who were in
Accolade
. I’ve left messages and someone’s bound to get back to me but one of the blokes I did talk to had been on Coughlin’s last ship. He was the Joss.’

‘Joss?’

‘Master-at-Arms. Sheriff. Seagoing police chief. And he told me that Coughlin was at it all the time. Give him half a chance, he’d screw anyone.’

‘Literally?’

‘Yeah. Bloke was a real shagnasty. It’s funny on a ship, especially on something like a 21. They’re small, two hundred blokes, maybe less, and in a ship that size there’s no way you’ll ever keep a secret. There are buzzes everywhere, all the time, it’s what keeps the blokes going, and the buzz on Coughlin was always the same.’ He nodded. ‘Shagnasty. A hundred per cent. Fuck anything on legs. Women, blokes, donkeys, never mattered. Take a run ashore with him and apparently you got to see it first hand, just couldn’t wait to stick it in.’ He paused a
moment. ‘You take a look at his personal file? The one I gave you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, that’s the authorised version. When blokes are transferred from ship to ship, a discharge note goes with them. Their Divisional Officer gets to see it – and so does the Joss. There’s a little code we have, pencil, strictly eyes only. When you see WTF on the top right-hand corner of the discharge note, you know you’ve got a problem.’

This time Faraday simply raised an eyebrow.

‘WTF?’

‘Watch This Fucker.’ Scottie was grinning.

‘And Coughlin?’

‘WTF in spades. Bloke like that can make life aboard a misery. Believe me, I’ve been there. We used to have a Coughlin aboard a Type 42 I was on, big bastard, really nasty, drank like a fish. He used to go off his head at the slightest provocation, totally violent. Blokes were terrified of him. The strokes he used to pull he should have been straight in the rattle, but you do your job, try and troop him, and you’ve suddenly got a very big problem with evidence. He’s decked someone, maybe even seriously hurt them, but you know what? The moment you want to sort the man out, the bloke he’s assaulted doesn’t want to know. He wasn’t decked after all. He fell off a ladder or walked into a stanchion, or some other fucking nonsense, just to avoid standing witness when it comes to trial at the Captain’s table. At the hearing. Don’t get me wrong. Blokes like Coughlin are rare now. The navy’s done a bloody good job. But back in ’eighty-two it certainly happened. Which is why we should be looking hard at Warren.’

Faraday was thinking about ship’s procedures. This was a new world and it took time to get your bearings. Surely there’d have been
some
form of inquiry after the boy went missing?

‘Ship’s Investigation Board.’ Scottie nodded. ‘The
Captain organises two officers and maybe a senior rate. The Joss gathers the evidence, puts the facts together, and the Ship’s Investigation Board do the rest. They interview various people and try and work out what happened. Then they put their conclusions into a formal letter for the Captain.’

‘And in Warren’s case?’

‘Definitely happened,
had
to happen, even with a war on.’

‘So what did the report say?’

‘Ah!’ Scottie at last sat back. ‘Now there’s the mystery. I went looking for it yesterday. It should have been at
Centurion
, along with that.’ He indicated the ship’s file. ‘But you know what?’

‘What?’

‘It seems to have gone missing.’

Half an hour later, Willard couldn’t see the point.

‘You’re telling me we should be looking at a twenty-year-old suspicious death?’

‘That’s the general drift.’

‘Because some sailor falls off the back of a ship?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And that’s somehow down to Coughlin? Is that the allegation?’

Faraday said nothing. Willard rarely made a move without the comfort of solid evidence. All Faraday could offer was an excited naval Reggie with his eyes on a second career.

Willard was brooding.

‘How old was this kid?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And he was off down to the Falklands?’ Faraday nodded. ‘So who says he wasn’t cacking himself? Who says he didn’t get pissed one night and think too hard about the Argies? Who says he wasn’t homesick? Missing his mum and dad? Missing the girl he’d been shagging?’

‘No one, sir, but that’s the point. There’s an inquiry procedure the navy go through, and a report at the end of it.’

‘So what does it say?’

‘It doesn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because no one can find it.’

It took a moment for the implications of this to register. Then Willard visibly brightened. Nothing on the job gave him more pleasure than the prospect of a turf battle. In this respect, as in many others, Willard was programmed for a fight.

‘You’re telling me we can’t see it?’

‘I’m telling you it’s gone missing.’

Faraday explained about Scottie’s search at HMS
Centurion
. Most naval records were held there. Except, it seemed, this one.

‘Put in a formal request, then,’ Willard grunted. ‘And if they give you grief let me know. We’re supposed to be on the same bloody side, aren’t we?’

Without waiting for an answer, Willard changed the subject. Nick Hayder had mentioned the possibility of Faraday’s son lending
Hexham
a hand. The way things were going just now, he’d take help from any bloody where.

‘That’s nicely put, sir, if I may say so.’

‘I didn’t mean it that way, Joe. Don’t be so bloody touchy. Get the boy in, you’ll be doing us a favour. You think he might know this Geech?’

‘He may do. I’ve no idea.’

‘You hear about that Audi Geech stole?’ Faraday shook his head. ‘Recovered on a trading estate in Hilsea first thing this morning. Burned out. We’ve been through the CCTV tapes for late last night and the timings are a dream. Portchester, A27, at one fifty-seven. Bottle through Ellis’s front window soon afterwards. Back down on the main road at two ten. Into the city eight
minutes later. Then someone puts a match to it up at Hilsea. Beats me why Geech bothered. His prints are all over the bottle. Had to be him.’

‘Bored, I expect. Arson’s fun but kids like that always want to go one better. Ironic really, his teachers would probably call it ambition.’

‘Yeah. If the little fuckers ever went to school. Where are we with Davidson?’

Faraday had seen the question coming for the last ten minutes and ignored it. Just now, thanks to Darren Geech, he had an acute manpower problem. With his squad down to four DCs, he needed every pair of hands he could muster to develop the Pritchard interview.

‘You’re happy with that statement of Pritchard’s?’

‘Perfectly. Remember I was there in Gib when we first talked to him. He wasn’t trying it on.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘No, sir. In his own way, he loved the man. That’s why Coughlin’s death has hit him so hard.’

‘I’m not questioning his passion, Joe. I’m just asking you whether he might have killed Coughlin. With these guys, the one goes with the other. Straights, too, for that matter. You love someone enough, you’re capable of anything.’

‘I know. I just don’t think it works. Not here. Not with Pritchard.’

‘You’re sure, Joe? He goes round to Coughlin’s late? Leaves a footprint in the flower bed? Maybe has his own key? Lets himself in? Gives Coughlin a whack or two? All that stuff on the internet? I know juries that would put him away for a lot less than that.’

‘Of course. But we have to make decisions, too. And I just don’t think he did it.’