The Price Of Darkness (34 page)

‘
Eight?
’

‘They’re Irish.’

‘I see. You’ve talked to these people?’

‘Not yet, boss. I thought it was worth phoning in first. See how you wanted to play it.’

‘Of course.’

‘There’s one other thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Our witness is pointing a finger at a particular lad. She thinks he’s the eldest. And she swears he’s the one who laid hands on the Merc to begin with.’

‘Nicked it, you mean?’

‘She’s keeping her fingers crossed.’ Yates laughed. ‘I think she’s looking for payback here. When I told her we were coppers, she thought it was Christmas.’

 

Winter got Brodie to pick him up from Blake House. He’d been on the phone non-stop since Bazza’s departure and had finally nailed down an address.

‘Lee-on-Solent, love.’ He slipped into the passenger seat. ‘Bloke called Nigel Evans.’

Lee-on-the-Solent was a quiet residential suburb west of the city highly favoured by retired couples. The price of property kept the riff-raff at arm’s length, and a couple of miles of promenade offered a front-row seat when the huge ocean-going liners from Southampton slipped down the Solent towards the open sea. Winter had always associated the place with invalid buggies and lavish bring-and-buys. The sight of a Harley-Davidson outside Nigel Evans’s bungalow came as a bit of a surprise.

‘You’ve talked to this guy?’ Brodie asked.

‘No.’

‘Then how do we know … ?’

‘Because he’s the man they all go on about. Trust me, love. I used to be a copper.’

Evans turned out to be tall and skinny with shoulder-length hair and the need to listen to heavy metal at pain threshold. Once they were in the tiny living room Winter asked him to turn the music down. He’d never much liked Led Zeppelin.

‘What’s all this? Only I’ve got a living to make.’

Winter said he was interested in jet skis. He understood Evans was a bit of a force in the field.

‘Force? That’s a bit strong. I’m out on the water a lot, if that’s what you mean, and yeah, I’ve got lots of mates who do the same thing.’

‘Locally?’

‘All over. Here. Abroad. Wherever. Why?’

‘Because we might be able to help each other out.’

‘
You’re
a rider too?’

Winter didn’t much like the tone of his voice. He said he wasn’t. Then, without going into details, he outlined the plans for the Mackenzie Trophy. Mention of sponsorship and media interest at last got Evans’s attention.

‘Sit down.’ He nodded at the only armchair. ‘You want something to drink?’

Winter shook his head. He wanted to know about the Vectis Enduro.

‘Who told you about that?’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s round the Isle of Wight, right?’

‘Sure. We’ve been running it for a while now, four seasons. Get the right weather, bit of chop on the water, and it’s massive. Eight hours in the saddle and you’re lucky to move for days.’

‘Are these stand-ups or sofas?’ Winter stole a look at Brodie. This was ski-talk. Stand-ups were what they sounded like; sofas you sat down on. She didn’t look the least impressed.

‘We get both,’ Evans said. ‘Doesn’t matter which. So far it’s been open entry - bit of a laugh, an outing basically, plus a ton of moolah for charity - but all that might have to change.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the telly fancies it. Sky to be precise. Couldn’t believe our luck. A chance to be cowboys
and
TV stars? Bring it on …’

He explained that someone connected with the big Southampton Boat Show, a major backer, had a daughter who was mad for jet skis. She’d mentioned the Isle of Wight event to her dad, who’d instantly thought of tying it to the week of the Boat Show. The show already drew loads of media. If they talked up the Isle of Wight thing, turned it into a proper race, gave it a fancy name, then there’d be even more TV crews knocking on Southampton’s door.

‘The Vectis Enduro?’

‘Exactly. And you’re looking at the guy who had to dream all that up. The rest of it, to be honest, isn’t my bag, but jet skis, believe me, I can deliver. As many as you like. To whatever standard.’

‘What’s the rest of it? You mind me asking?’

‘Not at all. We’re talking profile, the media deals, sponsorship - all that shit.’

‘And that’s sorted?’

‘More or less. There’s a syndicate, Southampton businessmen mainly, rich bastards who’ve been involved a bit themselves. You know, nothing fancy, just roaring around impressing the ladies.’

‘So who are they? These rich bastards?’

‘You want names?’

‘Yeah. And a couple of phone numbers if you’re offering. ’

‘Why?’

‘Because we might all end up in bed together - pool resources, get something really special going. There’s a fancy word for it …’ Winter frowned. ‘Kath?’

Brodie had been studying the framed colour shots on the wall. One of them featured Evans aboard a jet ski in mid-air. Upside down.

‘Synergy,’ she said drily. ‘It’s a business term.’

 

Faraday drove to Southampton. A detour to the CCTV control room in Port Solent had given him a black and white print from the surveillance camera in the car park, and before he talked to the owners of the lock-up on the Thornhill Park estate he wanted to show the shot to Yates’s witness.

‘That’s him. Little squirt.’ Her finger hovered over the youth in the grey hoodie. ‘I’d recognise him anywhere.’

She was a severe-looking woman not far short of sixty. She wore a small gold crucifix round her neck and there was a fading picture of St Francis of Assisi on the wall above a fish tank. Half a lifetime living in Thornhill Park had done nothing for her sense of charity.

Faraday wanted to know more about the youth she’d ID’d from the picture. Did he have a name, for instance?

‘Of course he has a name. Everyone has a name.’

‘Do you know what it is?’

‘No.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘There.’ She jabbed a finger at the photo again. ‘Him. That one.’

‘And what makes you think the car was stolen?’

‘Your colleague asked me that earlier and you know what I told him? I said that everything is possible in God’s kingdom, absolutely everything. But how in heaven’s name would a hooligan like that end up with a Mercedes? Unless he’d helped himself? There’s no other explanation, Inspector. Miracles, I’m afraid, have to serve a higher purpose.’

‘Has he stolen before? To your knowledge?’

‘Not from me, no. But you people are round all the time.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I’ve got eyes in my head. Because I’ve seen your cars outside their house. They’re a disgrace, the whole lot of them, the whole
tribe
. They breed like rabbits. They have absolutely no sense of
responsibility
. There. I’ve said it. I’m sorry. But it’s true.’

 

Bev Yates was waiting in an unmarked car across the road. He and another D/C had been checking nearby addresses, looking for corroboration of the woman’s story. Two other witnesses had confirmed the presence of the Mercedes in the lock-up. One of them, a retired postman, had also seen the car leave.

‘When?’

‘A couple of nights ago. He was walking the dog.’

‘Did he see who was at the wheel?’

‘Yeah, the same kid. The description matches.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘No, boss, but I do.’

Yates had phoned Jimmy Suttle for an electoral roll check on the address. Number 147 Tennyson Drive was occupied by a Mr and Mrs O’Keefe. Further PNC checks established that young Dermott, from the same address, had made two recent court appearances for shoplifting. In both cases the articles involved had been either food or household goods. Suttle, intrigued, had probed further. Household goods evidently included bleach, loo roll and tins of dog food. Listening to Yates, Faraday began to wonder who had drawn up the shopping list.

They walked round the corner. Number 147 was one half of a council semi. There was an abandoned cement mixer and a rusting bike in the tiny oblong of front garden, and closer inspection of the hedge revealed a couple of car tyres, both bald. At the back of the property a patch of beaten earth was scabbed with flattened curls of dogshit. Amongst them stood a line of sandcastles, each topped with a tiny flag. Might the Stars and Stripes be significant? Faraday didn’t know.

Yates knocked at the door. A dog began to bark. It sounded like a big dog. Then came a woman’s voice and a yelp. Finally, the door opened.

‘Mrs O’Keefe?’ Yates showed her his warrant card.

‘That’s me.’

She was enormous, with a plump, contented face and a fringe of black curls escaping from a pink shower cap. She had milky white skin and a flawless complexion but her ample forearms were criss-crossed with crimson scars.

‘Burns, love.’ She knew they’d caught Faraday’s attention. ‘The amount of cooking I get through, you wouldn’t be surprised now, would you?’

She had a strong Irish accent. Sight of the warrant card didn’t appear to upset her in the slightest. She invited them in, filled the kettle and indicated the one intact chair in the chaos of the steamy kitchen.

‘Help yourself, love,’ she said to no one in particular.

Faraday had become aware of watching faces at the door. There were three of them, all toddlers. One, the boy, was wearing a red spotted pirate’s scarf knotted round his tiny head. Faraday was trying to identify the smell. Cabbage, he decided.

Yates had his notebook out. He wanted to confirm the names of the people who lived here. Mrs O’Keefe obliged, spelling them out. Dermott, she said, had been the first of her brood.

‘How old is he now?’

‘Sixteen next birthday.’

‘And where is he at the moment?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. The boy’s a mystery to me.’

‘He’s not at school?’

‘He doesn’t like school.’

‘Isn’t that a problem?’

‘Not to Dermott.’

‘But don’t the education people come looking for him?’

‘All the time. Nice, they are. Helpful.’

‘But you’re telling me he lives here?’

‘Sure he does. When it suits him.’

‘But not at the moment? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No, not since …’ She frowned, hunting in a cupboard. Faraday glimpsed a whole shelf of Tesco Own Choice beans and wondered whether they were spoils from one of Dermott’s expeditions. Maybe he’d started life as a pirate too. ‘Monday night,’ she said at last.

Yates asked about the lock-up round the corner. Did that belong to her?

‘Not me, love. My husband.’

‘What does he use it for?’

‘I’ve no idea. Ask him. He’s upstairs.’

‘Does he have a car at all?’

‘God, no. On my money? You have to be joking.’

She was a dinner lady, she said. As if there weren’t enough saucepans in her life.

‘So the lock-up’s empty most of the time?’

‘I don’t know. My husband’s the one. Give him a shake. Save me the stairs. This time in the afternoon he ought to be getting up.’

Yates scribbled himself a note and then checked his watch. Nearly half past three.

‘Does Dermott have access to a car?’ It was Faraday this time.

‘Of his own, do you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘He doesn’t, no, not that I’m aware.’

‘Does he drive at all?’

‘He does.’

‘But he can’t have a licence. He can’t have passed the test. He’s too young.’

‘That I don’t know.’

‘But you’re saying he still drives cars? Other people’s cars?’

‘Lord, yes. As often as he can. Loves it too. Just
loves
it.’

‘And these cars, does he ever store them in the lock-up? ’

‘Well I suppose he might now, yes.’ She passed the tea. ‘Sugar?’

Faraday shook his head. He said he was interested in a particular car, a Mercedes.

‘White thing? Flash? New-looking?’

‘That’s it.’ Yates produced the photo. Mrs O’Keefe studied it a moment.

‘Dermott’s,’ she said. ‘Proud as you like of it.’

‘And you say you’ve seen this car?’

‘I have. Sure I have.’

‘When?’

‘When he brought it back. Last week? The week before?’ She beamed at them both. ‘Beautiful it was.’

‘Do you know where he got it?’

‘Not the faintest idea.’

‘Did you ask?’

‘Never.’

‘It didn’t bother you at all? Dermott having a car like that?’

‘Not at all. Dermott leads the life he leads. Always has done, always will. But you know something? He’s a good boy - a sweet nature, a heart of gold. He’ll share anything that boy. I sometimes tell Father Joseph, he’s not made for this world at all, not Dermott.’

‘The car was reported stolen, Mrs O’Keefe. We think there might be grounds for suspecting Dermott did that.’

‘Really? That would be a shocking thing now, wouldn’t it?’

Her surprise seemed completely unfeigned and Faraday had the feeling that it was she, not Dermott, who lived in a world of her own. These days it was probably enough to put food on the table, give the dog an occasional belt and answer the door to a succession of concerned professionals, beginning with the educational welfare officer and ending with a string of coppers. The rest of it - the aggravation, the whispers, the anguished hand-wringing - was for the likes of the vengeful Christian round the corner.

Yates wanted an address for Dermott. She said she hadn’t got one.

‘He has friends? A job? You must have
some
idea.’

‘He’s never mentioned a job. As for friends …’ she poked a wisp of hair back inside the shower cap ‘… I just wouldn’t have the first notion. Who knows anything about Dermott? Not me, I’m afraid.’