The Price Of Darkness (46 page)

‘Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘They’d never meet outside the confines of the course?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

Faraday nodded, scribbled himself a note. He wanted Julie to go over the last couple of weeks and to think very carefully before she answered. Julie glanced at her solicitor but said nothing.

‘Does Charlie spend every night with you?’

‘Yes. Except when he’s doing residentials. Then he’s with the kids.’

‘Have there been any of these residentials since the beginning of this month?’

‘No.’

‘So he’s been home every night? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yes.’

‘All night?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

Faraday sat back, signalling to Suttle to take over.

‘Monday the fourth of September,’ he said. ‘A fortnight ago today. Can you remember what you were doing?’

‘Why that particular date?’

‘I’d be grateful if you could answer the question, Ms Greetham.’

‘Is that when he got killed? Mallinder?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you think … ?’

‘I think nothing, Ms Greetham. I’m simply asking you what you were doing on the night of the fourth. Like I say it was a Monday.’

She frowned, picked at her fingers. For the first time Faraday noticed the scarlet blotches on the backs of her hands, on her wrists. Eczema, he thought. Often a nervous complaint.

‘Mondays I go to yoga,’ she said at last. ‘I’m normally back by about nine. Charlie cooks. We eat after I get back.’

‘And that Monday?’

‘I’d have gone to yoga.’

‘And afterwards? After the meal?’

‘We’d talk a bit and then we’d go to bed.’

‘So that’s what happened?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re absolutely certain?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK.’ Suttle glanced down at his notepad. ‘So when did you find out about Mallinder?’

‘I can’t remember. I think it was the following day. It was in the
News.
’

‘And what did you feel?’

‘
Feel
?’ Her laughter failed to mask the bitterness in her voice. ‘How do you think we felt? We were delighted. We couldn’t believe it. If anyone killed my dad it was that horrible man. And when we realised that someone had done it to him it was brilliant news, absolutely brilliant. In fact I couldn’t believe it. I remember phoning Sam up, Sam Taylor. He thought it was brilliant too. Maybe you ought to arrest us all. Get it over and done with.’

‘We haven’t arrested you, Ms Greetham.’ Suttle reminded her.

‘No, but you’d like to, wouldn’t you? That what all this is about. That’s why you want to poke round the house. That’s why you’ll be talking to Charlie. He was a policeman too. Did you know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you really think a policeman, even an ex-policeman, is going to get himself involved in something like this? Knowing what he knows? Knowing the way you people work? Knowing about …’ she gestured at the bank of whirring audio cassettes, at the video camera mounted on the wall ‘… all this?’ She stared Suttle out, demanding an answer. When none came, she pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘I know I shouldn’t be saying this, I know it’s irrelevant, but you’ve really upset me. Losing dad was bad enough. Now I’m supposed to have killed the bloke who took him away from us. That’s what you’re saying. You’ll never admit it but that’s what it boils down to. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home now. Is that OK with everyone?’

Home wasn’t an option. Faraday brought the interview to a close, making a note on the tape of the time and the circumstances. The Scenes of Crime team, he told Julie, had already taken possession of number 72 Westbourne Road, and if she had nowhere else to go accommodation would be made available at the Travelodge on the seafront.

Julie stared at him. It hadn’t occurred to her that she’d be locked out of her own house.

‘You can’t do this.’

‘I’m afraid we can.’

‘But what am I supposed to wear? Wash with? Who feeds the cat?’

Faraday assured her that the cat would be fine. A WPC would accompany her back to collect whatever she’d need until the house was released.

‘And when will that be?’

‘It depends. These things take time. To be frank, it could be a while.’

‘Like how long?’

‘Three days? Maybe longer. We’re treating your house as a crime scene, Ms Greetham. If you’ve nothing to hide, it’ll simply be an inconvenience.’ He paused. ‘In the meantime there’s something you might do for us.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I expect you’ll be talking to Charlie. Tell him we’d appreciate a word or two, the sooner the better.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m sure he remembers the way these things work.’

 

Winter, still shaken, locked the door. Outside the apartment, somewhere in the depths of Gunwharf, he could hear the faint wail of a car alarm. He went into the living room, sank into the chair beside the window and stared out. From this angle he could see nothing but sky. The rain had stopped at last. If he could muster the strength to stand up, there might just be the makings of a decent sunset.

He lay back and closed his eyes. By the time he left the Trafalgar, Brodie had gone. No briefcase beside her desk in the basement office. No cashmere coat hung carefully on the hook behind the door. Not a single indication that she’d ever set foot in the place except the key to the Fiat Bazza had lent her. Looking at the key, Winter was reminded yet again of the reality of undercover work. You ghost yourself in, he thought. And one way or another, successful or otherwise, you ghost yourself out again. Was that really what he wanted? A phantom retirement in some godforsaken former colony? Having to hide under a pile of new ID? Having to kid himself, as the years slipped by, that he’d triumphed over evil and departed in a blaze of glory? Having to watch himself every step of the way through whatever remained of his life?

Already, deep down, he knew the answer. That’s why he’d held off telling Brodie about the ruck with the Pole. That’s why he’d done his level best to talk Bazza out of doing anything silly. Because, thanks to Parsons and then Willard, he’d finally sussed just where his real interests lay. If he somehow managed to pot Bazza, he’d be spending the rest of his days pretending to be someone else. And that, after this brief flirtation with a double life, just wasn’t going to happen.

The phone rang within the half-hour. It was Willard. The call broke every rule in the book. He sounded extremely angry.

‘I’ve just been talking to Brodie. She thinks you blew her cover.’

‘She’s right. I did. I also saved her life. Did she tell you that as well?’

‘Don’t fuck with me, Winter.’

‘I’m not. That’s the last thing I’m doing. Ask Parsons about Saturday morning. Ask her what was so important it couldn’t wait until later. And ask her whether she saw a black guy with a long telephoto when she went shopping. Fucked is a good phrase. And just now I’ve had enough of it.’

‘Do you know what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah. Brodie blew it. So did Parsons. And so, sir, have you.’

Winter put the phone down, surprised at how simple the truth could sometimes be. He’d made a decision. Taken a stand. He felt wonderful.

He picked up the phone again. Mackenzie answered in seconds.

‘Baz? It’s Paul. I owe you a bevvy. My pleasure.’

 

Faraday had rarely seen Willard so angry. He’d turned up at Kingston Crescent, nine o’clock in the evening, walking into Martin Barrie’s office with barely a knock, hauling Faraday outside into the empty corridor, demanding to know what kind of sense, if any, he’d got out of Winter.

‘I haven’t, sir. We’ve been a bit preoccupied.’

‘You haven’t seen him? At
all
?’

‘No.’

‘Shit, Joe. I told you, I made a point of it -
talk
to the bloody man. What do I have to do? Send you a fucking
memo
?’

Faraday began to protest, then broke off. Barrie had appeared at his office door. He and Faraday had been having an important conversation. It might be nice to finish it.

‘No problem, boss.’ Faraday glanced at Willard. ‘This might interest you, sir, as well.’

Willard, with a visible effort, pulled himself together. They reassembled around the conference table in the Detective Superintendent’s office. For Willard’s benefit Faraday described once again the progress they’d made on the Mallinder killing. The prime suspects, he said, had to be Freeth and the lad O’Keefe.

‘Freeth was a copper.’ Willard pointed out. ‘We’re talking about the same bloke?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

‘Evidence?’

Faraday went through it again. The CCTV. The faultless MO at the scene. The irresistible urge to avenge Frank Greetham’s suicide. Not Stephen Benskin at all but an ex-cop with a great deal to get off his chest.

‘Evidence?’ Willard repeated.

‘Scenes of Crime have been in the house since this afternoon, sir. They’re taking the place apart. So far they’ve found nothing but it’s early days.’

‘And Freeth?’

‘He’s due back tomorrow. She’ll be phoning him though. That might alter his plans.’

‘You think he might not show?’

‘I don’t know. From what I can remember, Freeth was an arrogant sod, a real loner, a hard man to have on a team. Something tells me he thinks he’s got this thing weighed up. He might even be looking forward to taking us on. Maybe we’re another debt he’s got to settle.’

‘And what about the young lad? O’Keefe?’

‘The way I see it, sir, he’s the key. I think he was there for the hit on Mallinder, I think he nicked the key to the Mercedes without telling Freeth, and I suspect he always intended to go back for the car later. Laying hands on it would be good from our point of view but finding O’Keefe would be much better. Once we’ve done that we can start taking this thing apart.’

A new photograph of the boy, he said, had gone to the Force Intelligence Bureau for circulation nationwide. By tomorrow, with luck, there wouldn’t be a copper in the country unaware of his importance to Operation
Billhook.

‘Press? TV?’

‘I left a message with Media Services this evening, sir. They’ve been copied on everything and the photo’s also gone to them.’

Willard seemed placated. He even had the good grace to offer Barrie a mumbled apology. Barrie said times were difficult. They were all under pressure. He needed to know the latest from MI5.

‘They’ve got a bunch of names and faces. Apparently we’re talking a cell of four blokes, Provo-style. They seem pretty confident of the intelligence.’

‘But why take out this particular minister?’

‘For one thing he’s defence-related. For another, it seems he’s been taking a hard line in his constituency over the war. He refuses to apologise, refuses to entertain the idea of any kind of inquiry. Five say it takes fuck all to get these people going. If you can blow up a busload of total strangers, I suppose a head job on a government minister sounds almost rational.’

‘And you think we should be running with this?’

‘I’ve asked for sight of the evidence. You’re SIO, Martin. It’s your call.’

‘But they’re keen?’

‘Very.’

‘And the politicians?’

‘They’re irrelevant but since you ask then the answer is yes, they’re keen too. Between you and me, the whole terrorist thing is getting out of hand. This government have been blowing smoke up our arses for years. Terrorism, Provo cells, state red alerts, liquid explosives on planes, it’s just more of the same. There’s nothing these people would like more than a bunch of al-Qaeda at the end of a strike that goes wrong. If we’re left with nothing but bodies, who’ll be counting?’

Faraday and Barrie exchanged looks. This was vintage Willard, patrolling his turf with a growl at anyone who dared trespass.

‘So we do nothing premature, sir?’

‘Absolutely not, Martin. It’s boring, I know, but evidence is a word we should all regard as a friend. Especially now.’

 

Bazza and Paul Winter ended up in a small drinking club in the depths of Southsea. Winter had known of the place for years. It had once belonged to a pornographer with a mild drink problem. His stack of Scandinavian videos had been overtaken by hard core on the Internet and he’d wound up finding it easier to make a living with a late-night licence. His liver had exploded a couple of years later, and the last time Winter had seen him he was drifting towards a peaceful end in a hospice on the mainland. His wife used to arrive every Friday with a new copy of
Hustler.
It was, she’d told Winter, the least the poor man deserved.

Bazza had known him too.

‘Top bloke,’ he said. ‘He sponsored us for shirts one season.’

‘When he was still flogging porn?’

‘Yeah. We had the name all over us.
Private View
the shop was called. One game a bloke called us all wankers. Didn’t see the joke until afterwards.’

‘After what, Baz?’

‘After they got him out of hospital. Listen, Paul. That Brodie. I’ve been thinking.’ He beckoned Winter closer. ‘You were bang-on this afternoon, what you said, but there has to be some way, doesn’t there?’

‘Some way what?’

‘Some way of sending these cunts a message. You know what
really
winds me up? The way they take us all for twats. As if we wouldn’t spot her. As if we’re
that
fucking blind.’

‘So what do we do about it?’

‘I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking. You’re the one, Paul. You know the way these tossers think. What would really make their eyes water? Only it’s a liberty, isn’t it? Sending in a piece of fanny like that? Assuming none of us look further than the end of our dicks?’