The Price Of Darkness (55 page)

‘And you really think that’s enough?’

‘No. Hand on heart of course I’m not sure. But there’s another question you haven’t asked me yet.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Do I think he did it? Do I think he killed Mallinder? And do I think he drove the bike in Goldsmith Avenue? In every case, sir …’ he reached for his pen and clipped it inside his jacket. ‘… the answer is yes.’

 

Julie Greetham was arrested at the Travelodge at six thirty-five. On the point of returning home to Westbourne Road, she found herself in the back of an unmarked CID Skoda, furious at this latest assault on her liberty. At the Bridewell, after registration by the Custody Sergeant, Faraday arranged for her to be walked past Freeth, on the way to a holding cell of her own. The turnkey reported that neither party said a word to each other.

Forty minutes later she was led to the interview suite. For continuity’s sake Faraday had decided that he and D/C Suttle would be asking the questions. Suttle had done well in the previous interview and his performance since then had left Faraday deeply impressed. Not for the first time it occurred to him that this young D/C had learned most of his tradecraft from Paul Winter.

Hillary Denton, once again, was sitting beside Julie Greetham. Before he’d even finished the preliminaries, he sensed the strategy she was going to run. She’s seen what I’ve seen, he thought. She’s realised that this client of hers is liable to self-destruct.

Faraday invited Julie to go back to Monday the eleventh of September. Monday was a school day. According to the secretary, Julie had phoned in sick. How did she account for that?

‘No comment.’

‘Were you really sick?’

‘No comment.’

‘Julie … Ms Greetham, suspicion of murder is a very serious allegation. It might help you to answer these questions.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Denton shot her a warning look. There was a script here, just two words long, and this was no time to rip it up.

Faraday glanced at Suttle, gestured for him to take over.

‘Julie …’ Suttle leaned forward, lowering his voice ‘… I don’t think anyone’s blaming you here.’

‘They’re not?’

‘No. You loved your dad. That’s not a crime.’

‘I know. So why am I here?’

‘Because we need to find out what happened.’

‘What happened when?’

‘On that Monday. When you didn’t go to school.’ He paused, waiting for an answer. When nothing happened, he leaned forward again. ‘Charlie was off as well, wasn’t he?’

‘No comment.’

‘It’s a fact, Julie. We’ve checked.’

‘Then you know.’

‘Was he in the house with you?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you spend the day together?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you love your dad?’

‘That’s unfair.’

The interview hit the buffers. Hoping to lower her defences, Suttle had simply hardened her faltering resolve. She was angry now, refusing point-blank to help them in any way, and after twenty minutes Faraday called a halt to the pantomime. If these twin investigations ever ended up in court then Julie’s silence would do her no favours whatsoever, but Faraday could tell from Hillary Denton’s smile that she believed this prospect to be remote. A day’s absence from the chalk face was hardly proof of political assassination.

 

It was now ten minutes past eight. Superintendent Secretan had authorised a further twelve hours of custody as far as Charlie Freeth was concerned but the PACE extension expired at 04.07 in the morning. To make a double murder charge stick with the CPS, Faraday knew he needed some form of confession and he only had one interview session to do it. So far, despite a wobble over Frank Greetham’s stay in St James’, Freeth showed no signs of caving in.

He was readying Yates and Ellis for the coming session. Suttle had organised more coffees. They sat around the table in the bare interview room beneath the cold gaze of the video cameras, aware of the ticking of the clock.

Faraday had been in touch with D/C Phelps again. They were bringing O’Keefe back from Fishguard, arrested on suspicion of vehicle theft. With luck, they should be back at Fareham within a couple of hours. Given O’Keefe’s age, interviews would have to be handled by specialist officers from the Child Protection Unit. It was a cumbersome process and nothing in the lad’s behaviour to date had led Faraday to expect any kind of easy breakthrough. His only concession to the D/Cs in Fishguard had been an acknowledgement that he’d texted Freeth’s mobile. Beyond that, he was refusing to say anything.

‘Doesn’t matter, though.’ Faraday was still optimistic. ‘It may be enough for Freeth to realise that we’ve got the lad. The boarding-house reservation would put him on the ferry. The mobile in the boot proves he hasn’t thought of everything. The guy’s not quite as sharp as he thinks he is. That may be enough.’

‘Enough for what, boss?’ Ellis was never less than sceptical. ‘You really think he’s going to cough the lot? This is a guy who knows what we’re up against, understands the hoops we have to jump through. We might have shaken him a bit over the hospital but he knows it doesn’t take us anywhere really dangerous. The bloke goes for a walk in the grounds of a psychiatric hospital. So what are we doing him for?
Trespass
?’

‘Dawn’s right.’ Yates threw his pen onto the table. ‘We’re a million miles from court. You’ve got to hand it to the guy. If he was sitting here now he’d be creaming himself.’

‘Maybe arresting him was a bit premature.’ Ellis stole a glance at Faraday. ‘No offence, boss.’

‘You’re wrong.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘If Gwent hadn’t nicked him, he’d be away by now. Ireland for starters. Then wherever they fancied.’

‘
They?
We’re sure about
they
?’

‘I am. I don’t think it’s anything dodgy. But yes, these two are a team. Freeth trusts the boy, rates him. It was probably O’Keefe who nicked the Escort in the first place. That’s why Freeth needed him at Port Solent. They could happily torch the car afterwards and no one would be any the wiser.’

‘Except we clocked them on CCTV.’

‘Sure.’ Faraday nodded. ‘But even then they were aware. The hoodie? The sun visors down in the middle of the night? I keep telling you. This guy’s walked the course. He’s been there. He’s done our job. He
knows.’

‘What about the Kawasaki?’ It was Suttle. ‘You’re thinking the kid nicked that as well?’

‘I think he knew where to find it. The bike belonged to a uni student doing bar work in the evening. The pub is just down the road from Townhill Park, O’Keefe’s place. He’d have seen it there most nights. Funnily enough, it was nicked the night before the lad pushed off to France.’

‘It was locked up?’ Suttle was trying to recall the details.

‘Chained.’

‘Bolt cutters?’

‘Had to be.’

Faraday caught the expression on his face.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘The guy who owned it.’ Suttle had produced a pen. ‘Can you remember his name?’

‘No.’

‘But he put a claim in for the bike?’

‘Must have done. He definitely reported it because that’s how we got to know in the first place. He’d have been after a crime number. Presumably for the insurance people.’

‘And this was when?’

‘The Friday before the hit.’ Faraday frowned, counting backwards. ‘That makes it the eighth.’

‘And the pub?’

‘It’s in Sholing.’

‘I meant the name, boss.’

‘Christ, now you’re asking.’ He shut his eyes a moment. ‘The Wheatsheaf? Something like that …’

Suttle glanced at his watch then got to his feet. Faraday stared up at him.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I need to make a couple of calls, boss.’ He was already at the door. ‘Talk amongst yourselves, guys.’

WEDNESDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER 2006.
19.47

 

Winter wasn’t at all sure about letting Westie in. A day on the sofa watching World War Two DVDs had left him feeling remarkably pain-free and he’d been toying with a re-run of
The Cruel Sea
when he’d heard a buzz from the videophone. Getting himself to the front door was still a bit of a test and one look at the big black face peering up at the camera made him wonder whether it had been worth the effort.

‘What do you want, Westie?’

Grinning, West held up a bunch of flowers, then a big bag of Werther’s Originals, before stripping the tissue paper from a bottle of what looked like Black Label.

‘It’s a litre, mate,’ he said. ‘In case you were wondering. ’

Winter, with some reluctance, let him in. By the time Westie closed the door to the flat behind him, Winter was back on the sofa.

‘Man …’ Westie was looking at Winter’s face. ‘The Pole did that?’

‘Him and his oppo, yeah. It’s worse than it looks. And you should see the state of them.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘I am. If you want the full story, they kicked the shit out of me. And you know why? Because you, my friend, didn’t—’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah …’ Westie put the flowers down and wandered into the kitchen in search of a glass. He hadn’t come here for a lecture. Winter, up on one elbow, told him to look in the cupboard over the sink.

‘Nice pad.’ Westie was back, bending to charge Winter’s glass. ‘Man, I’ve come to apologise.’

‘Because Bazza insisted?’

‘Because I got you wrong. No one insists. Not with me. Not even Mr M.’

‘Wrong?’ In spite of himself, Winter was intrigued. He’d never associated Brett West with contrition. ‘Wrong how?’

‘Wrong because I still had you down as Filth. I didn’t buy all the bitterness shit for a second. What does it take to put yourself a couple of times over the limit and then get nicked? Fuck all. The drink-drive charge was a stunt. It was a fairy tale. It was Mr Paul fucking Winter blowing smoke up our arse. I don’t know who dreamed all that up but I told Mr M he was crazy even giving you the time of day. The guy’s still Filth, I told him. He talks a good war. He’s coming on as your best fucking mate. But give it a month or two and you’ll wake one morning and find his mates all over you. That’s how these cunts work. And Mr W’s the biggest cunt of all. Suck you in and spit you out. Good fucking luck.’ He grinned, patted Winter on the arm. ‘Turns out I was wrong.’

Winter was trying to look relieved. It wasn’t hard.

‘Good of you to say so, Westie.’ He raised his glass. ‘So why did it take so long?’

‘Because it turns out you’ve got a very good friend. And if she says you’re kosher even I’m going to sit up and take notice.’

‘Mist?’

‘The one and only.’ He touched his glass to Winter’s. ‘And in my book that makes you the luckiest cunt on God’s earth. Am I jealous? Yeah, too right. Am I sorry about the Pole? No, not really. Do I still think you’re Filth? No, I don’t. And you know why? Because you stuck it to that woman Brodie. I was watching, man. I was watching
really
hard. That was your test, man. If you’d flunked it in that hotel room, Mr M was going to give me a free hand. But you didn’t hesitate. Not a flicker. You blew it for her and you did it without a clue about what was coming next. Cool as you like. I admired that, man. And I admired you standing up to Mr M. That was quality. That was
real
class. No way were you still Filth. So, Mr W …’ he drained his own glass and picked up the Black Label ‘… are we doing this bottle, or what?’

 

The interview with Charlie Freeth began at 20.47, delayed while Faraday took a phone call from Suttle and then conferenced with Yates and Ellis. Settling himself in front of the video screens, Faraday was glad to see that Yates still had a smile on his face.

The preliminaries over, Yates gestured to Ellis. Ladies first. Help yourself.

‘Dermott O’Keefe, Mr Freeth. You told us that you have no dealings with the lad outside Positivo.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You never see him?’

‘No.’

‘You have no contact with him?’

‘None.’

‘You never talk to him on the phone?’

‘Never.’

Ellis glanced at Yates. Yates leaned across the desk.

‘How many mobiles do you have, Mr Freeth?’

‘One. You seized it.’

‘Do you own a red Toyota Avensis? Registration LB17 GHD?’

‘You know I do.’

‘That’s a yes, then.’

Freeth nodded, said nothing. He’d hunched a little in his chair. Yates read out the phone number retrieved from the scrap of paper in the Toyota.

‘Do you recognise that number, Mr Freeth?’

‘No. Should I?’

‘It’s a boarding house in Fishguard. It’s called Harbour View. It’s where you might stay if you were thinking of taking a ferry to Ireland.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Are you telling me you didn’t know that?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because we think you booked a room there. In the name of Smith. As you do.’

‘Nice one.’ He seemed to relax a little. ‘And you think I’ve got plans to leave the country? You think that’s why I was carrying my passport? Maybe you should check the ferry bookings.’

‘Good idea. Except this time of year you wouldn’t need a booking. Six sailings a day from Fishguard? You’d just turn up and drive on.’

‘Yeah …’ Freeth smiled. ‘Except I didn’t, did I?’

‘No. Because you got a pull on the motorway.’ Yates paused, studied his notepad. ‘We had a good look at your car, Mr Freeth, and guess what we found in the boot?’

‘No idea.’

‘A mobile. And guess who texted you this morning?’

‘Pass.’

‘Dermott O’Keefe. Young Dermott. The lad you never talk to out of hours. He wanted to make sure you were there. He wanted to make sure you were waiting. Just the way you’d planned it.’