The Price Of Darkness (48 page)

He didn’t know, and the longer he thought about the question the more he realised he didn’t care. Faraday had never been anything but a mystery to Winter. At first, on division, he’d despised him. Here was another time-server, he’d told himself. Here was someone else who’d played the system, who’d pleased the bosses, who’d flattered their sense of self-importance, who’d been canny and able enough to weather the promotion exams and wall themselves off from the world of real crime. With his office, and his PC, and his daily ruck with the budget manager, Faraday had become a pen-pusher, just like the rest of them.

But that hadn’t been the case at all, and as Winter - through a series of largely self-inflicted accidents - had come to know the man better, he’d found himself developing something close to respect for this bearded loner, with his deaf son and his equally strange passion for watching birds. Faraday was shrewd. He never gave up. He was very much his own bloke, and deep down he had a decency and a stubborn sense of fairness for which Winter himself had reason to be grateful.

On a number of occasions, with a courage that Winter could only admire, he’d dug the wayward D/C out of the shit. The latest example, true, had led to Operation
Custer,
but Winter was sufficiently impressed by Faraday’s track record as a copper to be sure that he wouldn’t have made Willard’s mistakes. The thing would have been tighter, better organised. And never, in a million years, would he have done anything as silly as threatening Winter with permanent exile. That way, as events had shown, you simply blew the operation out of the water. Not because your lead U/C wasn’t up to the job but because he no longer saw the point. Better become one of Bazza’s boys than some shuffling has-been in an Auckland suburb.

He was still watching the woman in Faraday’s garden. She’d finished with the line of washing now, and she was standing at the front gate gazing out at the water. Maybe she can see me, Winter thought. Gladdened by the proposition, no matter how daft, he gave her a little wave then retrieved his mobile from his jacket.

Faraday’s number was on the SIM card. When he answered, he’d clearly no idea who he was talking to.

‘I’m driving,’ he said. ‘This better be quick.’

‘And I’m looking at your house. Who’s the lady in the white T-shirt?’

There was a brief moment of silence. Then Faraday got it.

‘Winter?’

‘Me, boss.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Hayling Island. Great pair of binoculars. What’s her name then?’

Faraday ignored the question. Odd that Winter should put the call in.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because we’re due a meet.’

‘Who says?’

‘Me.’

‘My pleasure, boss. Let’s say tonight. I’m buying.’

Faraday began to protest. It wasn’t that kind of meet. He was up to his eyes in an inquiry. He had limited time. Winter let him finish.

‘It’s tonight or nothing, boss. Just give me a call when you’re through.’

 

When Faraday finally got to the
Billhook
incident room, Suttle had just come off the phone. House-to-house enquiries in Westbourne Road had unearthed a young mother whose little girl attended the junior school at which Julie Greetham taught. It seemed that Julie had a lousy attendance record, so much so that the mother was getting fed up with her daughter’s education forever being in the hands of a supply teacher or even a teaching assistant. There was no continuity, she said. It was the kids who were supposed to be always bunking off. Not the teachers.

Intrigued, Suttle had phoned the school secretary. She’d been extremely guarded but time and patience on the phone had finally given Suttle the impression that Julie Greetham, from her employer’s point of view, was a bit of a liability.

‘In what way?’ Faraday was scrolling through his e-mails.

‘I’m reading between the lines here, boss, but I think she’s a bit of a drama queen. She can be difficult. Stress is a bit of an issue, too. Apparently she claims she’s got PFD.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Professional Focus Deficit. What it boils down to is early burnout. You lose your grip, find you can’t concentrate properly, then something snaps and it all gets on top of you.’

‘Join the club. Has she had time off recently? This last month or so?’

‘A couple of days, certainly. The secretary’s sending me the dates.’

‘And Freeth? O’Keefe?’

‘Nothing so far. Freeth’s in his Toyota. We’ve circulated details. It’s just a question of time.’

Faraday nodded. By now the Toyota’s registration would have been flagged to every ANPR camera controller in the country. Short of abandoning his car for the train, Freeth was a marked man.

Suttle was curious to know what Faraday wanted to do about Stephen Benskin. His phone billings had come through, and on receipt of a production order his bank were promising financial details within days.

‘He still needs positive elimination. If you spot anything obvious, shout.’

‘What about Mallinder’s wife? She’s due any day now. Are we still interested in a paternity test?’

Faraday gave the question a moment’s thought. Before he had time to make a decision, there came a knock at the door. It was Glen Thatcher, the D/S in charge of Outside Enquiries. He’d just got a call from a Duty Inspector with Gwent Constabulary. Charlie Freeth had been hauled over on the M4, travelling west. He was now in the back of a traffic car on the hard shoulder of the westbound carriageway eight miles from Newport. He was extremely pissed off at being stopped and was demanding to be allowed to continue his journey. What did
Billhook
want them to do with him?

‘Newport?
West
bound?’ Faraday was frowning. ‘He’s supposed to be up north. He’s supposed to be coming home.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the answer they’re after, boss.’

‘Tell them to arrest him, Glen. And he ought to be searched. The car as well. PACE-wise, what’s best? We go up there or we ship him back here?’

‘It makes little difference. Here would be best. The clock only starts when we put him in an interview suite.’ He paused, still waiting at the door. ‘I hate to be technical, boss, but what do we want him nicked for? Only they’ll need to know.’

‘Good point.’ Faraday was grinning now, an increasingly rare event. ‘Suspicion of murder.’

Thatcher backed out of the room. Suttle still wanted a decision about Mallinder’s wife and the imminent DNA test.

‘Send her some flowers, Jimmy.’ Faraday extracted a twenty-pound note from his wallet and passed it across. ‘Give her our love.’

 

Winter reported for duty at the Trafalgar in time for lunch. Mackenzie was in his office, demolishing a plate of sandwiches. The office occupied a sunny corner on the first floor with extensive views across Southsea Common to the startling blue of the Solent. Bazza, in a sentimental moment, had christened this room the Fratton End, and had added some trophy souvenirs to give it a bit of atmosphere.

A huge blow-up photo of fans celebrating last year’s 4-1 thrashing of Southampton dominated one wall while a smaller framed shot of Alan Ball, Bazza’s all-time favourite manager, had been positioned over his desk. Ballie, according to Bazza, could do no wrong. Forget the World Cup medal. Forget hundreds of appearances for Everton and Arsenal. Ballie was the man, in the dog days of the ’97/’98 season, who had somehow engineered the greatest escape of all, clawing the club out of relegation with the miracle 3-1 away defeat of Bradford City. Bazza had been there that day, roaring for the Blues, half in love with one of the last teams not to be stuffed full of bloody foreigners. Steve Claridge, he’d often told Winter, was the real face of English football.

Bazza nodded Winter into the empty chair beside the desk. The sandwiches were corned beef with beetroot and French mustard. Winter helped himself. Mackenzie wanted to know about last night.

‘How was it?’

‘Crap, Baz. I went to sleep. No offence.’

‘Shame. Maybe you needed a helping hand, mush. She’s good that way, Mist. Heart of gold.’

He held Winter’s gaze a moment longer than strictly necessary. He knows, Winter thought. She’s been on to him since this morning, maybe even seen him. More to the point, he wants me to be aware of that.

‘I’m blaming the bubbly, Baz.’

‘You would, mush. But that’s because you’re getting too fucking old. Listen, we need to sort out our friend the Pole.’

‘Why?’ Winter’s heart sank. He’d somehow assumed that talk of war was history. He was right. It was.

‘We’re gonna make a new start, Paul. It’s silly, falling out … so there’s something else I should be thanking you for. Last night was a loan, mind. So don’t get ideas above your fucking station.’

‘About what, Baz?’

‘Mist. She’s a lovely woman but absolutely no judgement when it comes to people she fancies. I told her you’d be useless but you know something? She wouldn’t have it, not until she’d tried it out for herself. Nothing personal, mush, but from where I sit you’re better off sticking to conversation. At least you make her bloody laugh, which is more than I do these days. OK, mush?’ He extended a hand. ‘Deal?’

Winter nodded, amused that Mackenzie needed to spell it out this way. Maybe he’d got it wrong about the paperwork. Maybe Bazza had a special form for situations like these. Sign on the dotted line. I promise not to shag Misty Gallagher.

‘The Pole,’ Winter reminded him.

Bazza bit into another sandwich. The time had definitely come to kiss and make up, he said. He’d be fucking useless in this situation, absolutely no self-control, so the task was to fall to Winter. He was to get the man’s attention and negotiate a new deal.

‘Like what?’

‘Like we amalgamate. Like we join forces. I’ve worked it all out. I’ve even run it past Esme. She thinks it’s a winner. In fact she thinks it’s gold-plated. Can’t fail.’

First we choose a key weekend in the summer, he said. Then we do the Trophy on the Saturday, with the Enduro to follow on the Sunday. Or maybe vice versa. Depends on the tides, on the logistics, on the small print. Either way it needs Dobroslaw’s name on the dotted line with no more old bollocks about Scummers.

‘That was your old bollocks, Baz.’

‘I know. I was wrong. Again. But thinking about it, he’s not a Scummer at all, is he? He’s a fucking Pole. Something else, mush. That bloke we talked to about Sky Sports. The bloke who does the yachting at Cowes.’

‘Michael Lander.’

‘Yeah. Check him out. Properly. I wouldn’t put it past these bastards to try and smuggle another slimeball into the camp. What do you think?’

‘I’ve no idea, Baz. I quite liked Brodie.’

‘So did I, mush, so did I, but you know the way these things work. One arsehole introduces another and before you know where you are you’ve got the Filth all over you. That’s another thing. You’ll remember fuck all about last night, the state you were in, but I asked you to come up with something …’ he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, ‘…
fitting
for our friends in blue. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m beyond all that. In fact if you want the truth I’m quite flattered by all the attention. But it’s getting beyond a joke. It’s also boring the shit out of me. So something to make their eyes water. Know what I mean?’

‘Not really, Baz, but I’ll try. Listen … this Lander. Assuming he’s kosher, what then?’

‘Use him. Wind him in on the deal. He was an amusing bloke, made me laugh. That stuff he played for us next door …’ He nodded towards the restaurant, ‘… “Jerusalem
”
all dressed up. Fucking classic.’

‘It was “Rule Britannia
”
, Baz.’ Winter reached for the last sandwich. ‘There’s a difference.’

 

Charlie Freeth was booked into the Bridewell at 16.04. The Custody Sergeant, who’d served on division with him in Aldershot, reminisced briefly about old times before starting the registration procedures on his PC.

‘You’ll be wanting a brief?’

‘Duty’ll be fine’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yeah.’ Freeth yawned, losing interest. ‘Whatever.’

Faraday arrived nearly an hour later, with Bev Yates and Dawn Ellis. Both D/Cs had been on the
Billhook
squad from the start and Faraday had enormous faith in the rapport they’d developed in the interview room over countless previous inquiries. They’d agreed a shape for the next few hours with the Tactical Interview Adviser, and Faraday had made time to run the strategy past Martin Barrie.

In essence, they were looking at a minimum of three four-hour sessions, with extensions beyond the twenty-four-hour PACE limit if they could stand it up. All they had to date in terms of evidence were the CCTV pictures, and these were far from conclusive, and the two big unknowns were Westbourne Road and Dermott O’Keefe. Forensic evidence from the house, or news that O’Keefe had resurfaced, would give Yates and Ellis a possibly decisive advantage in interview.

To this degree, as Martin Barrie had been the first to point out, Freeth’s arrest might have been somewhat premature, but Faraday had strongly disagreed. At the time of his interception on the M4 Freeth had been going in the wrong direction, in the wrong part of the country. He might have been heading for an airport or a ferry. Alerted by his partner, he might have decided on flight rather than fight. A bird in the hand, he’d told the Detective Superintendent, was worth a great deal more than the chore of trying to trace a suspect who might, within a couple of days, have been anywhere.

D/C Yates had already conferenced briefly with the duty solicitor. Hartley Crewdson had built a successful practice from premises in the north of the city. A sharp legal brain married to a taste for impeccable suits had won him a degree of respect in the custody suite and he’d lost no time in reminding Yates that his client was due back at work in a couple of days’ time. Vulnerable kids might well be put at risk if the integrity of the Positivo programme was jeopardised. Yates parried this move with ease. If it turned out that Mr Freeth had a charge to answer, then the first to benefit would surely be those same kids.