The Price Of Darkness (6 page)

That was the afternoon, Faraday had often told himself, when he’d realised that this relationship of theirs might just survive the fate of others that had come and gone over the last few years. They’d spent a week or so in the Languedoc in her old VW camper van and the decision to detour west, on the long trek back to Chartres, had been hers. Not because the rumour of extraordinary bird life might have pleased her new friend. But because she was genuinely interested.

He tidied the last of the pasta onto his fork and drained his glass. Tonight Gabrielle was wearing a pair of khaki jungle shorts and an old T-shirt of his she must have found in the chest of drawers upstairs. The T-shirt was several sizes too big and the shorts were patched to death, but nothing could mask her vitality, a constant sense that every conversation was simply another unlocked door in her life, just waiting for a gentle push.

Gabrielle masked this nosiness of hers with a deftness that was itself a rare talent but Faraday had spotted her insatiable appetite for finding out, for
knowledge
, very early on. He’d met her on a bus in Thailand and fallen into conversation. The journey had gone on for hours, up and down the lush green hills near the Burmese border, and he’d recognised at once the sheer force of her curiosity.

She needed to understand the way things were. She needed to figure out how they’d ended up that way, and how they might relate to everything else. Then she revelled in making the necessary connections, some of them obvious, some of them not. In another life, Faraday thought, she’d have made a great detective. As it was, with her mass of auburn curls, her slim, hard body and the brilliance of her sudden grin, he was rather glad she’d stuck to anthropology.

‘Et demain
?
’
Faraday was curious to know what she had planned for tomorrow.

‘I go to Heathrow.’

‘Why?’

‘To meet someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Your son.’ That softness again. ‘J-J.’

WEDNESDAY, 6 SEPTEMBER 2006.
08.13

 

The train was late. Winter joined the press of commuters streaming off the platform, glad he didn’t have to endure this pantomime every working day. How perfectly sane people ever put up with it was beyond him. Even the younger ones, if they managed to find a seat, were asleep within seconds, slack-mouthed, dead-looking, dribbling peacefully onto their laps as the train clattered towards Waterloo.

He found Bazza occupying a corner table in the Costa Coffee shop. With him was a fit-looking youth in motorcycle leathers. He’d unzipped the jacket to reveal a tiger tattoo on his pale chest and he had a red bandanna knotted around his throat. Beside him, on the spare chair, was a full-face helmet.

‘This is Deano.’ Bazza was evidently on his second cappuccino. ‘He’s big into jet skis. Semi-pro, so he says.’

The youth nodded. For the time being, he said, he was still doing shifts as a motorcycle courier. It was good money but the way things were going he’d be full-time on the circuit within months. He had a soft West Country accent and savagely bitten nails. Winter wondered what had brought him to Bazza’s attention. Bazza had anticipated the question.

‘I got Deano’s name from the QHM before we all went out to Spain. This bloke will mark your card, he said. What Deano doesn’t know isn’t worth ratshit.’

‘QHM?’ Winter was lost.

‘Queen’s Harbour Master. Bosses the Pompey water. The Harbour, Spithead, the lot. Nothing moves without his say-so.’

Winter was eyeing the ever-lengthening queue at the counter. At this rate, coffee would be a prelude to lunch.

‘Know him socially do you, Baz? This QHM?’ He asked dryly.

‘Yeah. And that’s how I know he copped it big time over all those jet skiers. You know something, son?’ He was talking to Deano now. ‘QHM hates bloody jet skiers. Or used to, anyway. Just a bunch of blokes who fancied something big between their legs. That was his description, not mine, but he’s right as it happens. Some afternoons you can go down to the beach at Hot Walls, bang by the Harbour mouth, and this monster ferry comes in, P&O job, and you know what these arseholes are doing? Only riding the bow wave, the
bow
wave, right there, right under the fucking nose of the boat.’ His hand chopped across the table. ‘Can you believe that?’

Deano said he could. Stuff like that happened everywhere. Gave the sport a bad name.

‘Too right. And you know something else? QHM could do bugger all about it. Except it got serious, really serious.’

‘How?’ Even Winter was interested.

‘Can’t say.’

‘Why not?’

Bazza looked coy for a moment, shook his head, touched the side of his nose with his finger.

‘State secret, Baz?’ Mackenzie didn’t do coy.

‘Yeah.’

‘OK, so tell us.’

‘All right, then.’ He leaned forward, gesturing the two heads closer. ‘They call it asymmetrical warfare. Out in the Gulf the Navy guys are bricking it. Aircraft carrier, battleship, it doesn’t matter what you’re sitting on. A couple of dozen blokes on jet skis can see you off. Rocket launchers, kamikaze attacks, it doesn’t matter how they do it.
Dagger-dagger … boof …
and you’re history. A million quid’s worth of guided missiles and there’s still fuck all you can do about it. Sweet, eh?’

Winter began to wonder where this conversation was leading. Bazza never did anything without writing the script beforehand. What part did he have in mind for Deano?

Deano was equally curious.

‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

‘Of course you don’t, son. All I’m trying to say is the QHM, my mate, he’s got a very big problem with blokes on jet skis. Leave out all the macho bollocks about the ferries and bow waves and there’s the real stuff underneath. Week one the ragheads are blowing themselves up on Tube trains. Next thing you know they’re strapping themselves to a load of Semtex and hopping on a jet ski.
Comprende?
’

‘No.’ At least this youth was honest.

‘OK. Here’s how it works. The QHM has got himself in a bit of a state. He thinks he’s staring disaster in the face. Fuckwits on jet skis. Everywhere. Plus something much worse down the road. So what does he do? He does the clever thing. He makes some phone calls. He sorts out the blokes who take jet skis seriously. He gets them onside. He asks them to put on a little show, out there in the harbour. And you know what? They do it. They plan it. It all happens. Sixty-odd blokes on jet skis back around May time. All day. Off the naval dockyard. And you know something else? The punters turn up in droves and they just love it. Fancy displays from blokes like you. Free rides if they’re lucky. Brilliant. But you know the best thing of all? The QHM thinks it’s Christmas. From now on, he
loves
jet skis, can’t get enough of them, and pretty soon someone’s on the phone to Yamaha, and you know what they do? Give him three free ones, three kosher jet skis, so he can add them to the Harbour Patrol. And you know what happens then? The bloke he’s talked to first, the bloke who’s organised the gala day out, all those jollies for the punters, he volunteers to organise a rota for weekends, guys from the club he’s in, so suddenly the QHM finds himself with full cover at weekends, all year round. Sweet, eh? Problem solved.’

Deano was still having trouble with the small print.

‘These blokes are taking on the terrorists?’

‘No, son. They’re sorting out the dickheads who’ve been making life on the Harbour a misery. The ragheads are something else. But that’s the whole point, see. It’s the same whatever game you’re in. You set a thief to catch a thief.’ He leant back, shooting a grin at Winter. ‘Ain’t that right, Paul?’

Winter ignored the dig. He’d spotted a break in the queue but when he got to his feet Mackenzie told him to sit down again.

‘The boy’s up against the clock.’ He nodded at Deano. ‘You need to hear this next bit.’

He turned back to the youth, explained about his brother. Mark had fallen in love with jet-skiing out in Spain. He was no great shakes at it, would never hold a candle to blokes in Deano’s class, but it was a good buzz and a bit of a laugh, plus Mark had ended up on a knockout stretch of coast. The best way of seeing that coast was on a jet ski and Mark had been out on the water whenever he got the chance.

‘So what happened?’

‘He hit a rock. Submerged, it was. Not his fault.’

‘And?’

‘He died. The doctor I talked to said he was knocked unconscious, swallowed a lungful of water, ended up drowning. Bloke said he wouldn’t have known a thing about it but he was probably being kind. Either way, it’s the same result. We buried him a couple of days ago.’

‘Bummer.’

‘You’re right.’ Bazza nodded, looked away for a second or two. Winter was watching his eyes carefully but there was no sign of emotion. Bazza, typically, had moved on. ‘So, son …’ he turned back ‘… question is, what do we do about it?’

‘Do about what?’

‘My brother. Mark. We need some kind of memorial. There’s no way we’re going to forget him.’

Deano frowned. Dimly, like Winter, he was beginning to fathom what Bazza had in mind.

‘Are we talking jet skis?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘I dunno. That’s why I belled you. That’s why you’re here.’

He bent into the conversation again, mulling over the possibilities. At first, he said, he’d thought about some kind of parade of jet skis, like a waterborne funeral procession,
loads
of blokes, loads of people watching, pictures in the paper, flags at half mast, maybe even coverage on TV.

‘Where?’ It was Winter this time.

‘Pompey.’

‘But no one knows Mark there. Not amongst the jet skiers.’

‘Exactly. Wank idea. The QHM would stop shipping for a bit while the blokes did the business, I know he would, but you’re right - it doesn’t cut it, we’d be pissing in the wind.’

‘So what else do you fancy?’

‘Well, then I thought about some kind of statue, Mark in his skiing suit. There’s a launching ramp over at Lee-on-Solent. You could put it there.’

‘Same problem, Baz.’ Winter shook his head. ‘No one would have a clue who he was.’

‘You’re right. So then I came up with something else. Listen. The Mackenzie
Trophy
. How does that sound?’

‘Trophy?’ Deano had just looked at his watch. ‘Like in Cup?’

‘Yeah. A race. A Grand Prix race. The biggest jet-ski race in the country. In Europe. In any-fucking-where. Mega prize money. Sponsorship. Telly. Lots of fanny in little bikinis. Loads of celebs. Huge crowds. Plus people like
you
, Deano, the top blokes, the cream of the fucking cream, all fighting for the Mackenzie Trophy.’

‘Where?’

‘Pompey. Spithead. Every year.’ Bazza spread his hands wide, the sorcerer, the showman, the guy who makes things happen. ‘Genius, eh? And you know something else?’

‘What?’

‘The QHM loves it.’

 

It was nearly half past nine before the officer at the front desk rang to say that Stephen Benskin had arrived. Faraday grunted an acknowledgement and went next door to fetch an extra chair. D/C Tracy Barber was on standby to join him for the interview. When she put her head round his office door he asked her to sort out some coffees while he fetched the property developer from downstairs.

Benskin was a squat, powerfully built man in his early forties. His closely razored hair had left a blueish shadow on his pale skull and he wore his lightly striped grey suit with the restless impatience of a nightclub bouncer.

‘Mr Benskin?’

Benskin turned to face Faraday, tossing the copy of the Force news-sheet he’d been reading onto the counter. His eyes were hard, more black than brown, and the lines on his face, deeply etched, spoke of a sense of almost permanent irritation. Here was a man unused to being kept waiting.

‘And you are … ?’

‘D/I Faraday. You’ll have talked to my colleague, D/C Suttle.’

Benskin’s handshake was firm. He looked Faraday in the eye a second or two longer than was necessary, watched him punch the numbers into the door lock, then followed him upstairs.

Tracy Barber was already unloading the coffees onto Faraday’s desk. Benskin caught her eye before Faraday had a chance to do the introductions.

‘You do tea as well?’

‘Whatever.’

‘If you don’t mind, love. Earl Grey if you’ve got it.’

The word ‘love’ brought Barber to a halt beside the door. She might have been a year or two younger than this man but she always stood her ground.

‘The name’s D/C Barber,’ she said, ‘next time you want to ask a favour.’

Benskin watched her leave, his thin mouth curled in what might have been a smile.

‘Stroppy,’ he said softly. ‘We like that.’

Faraday ignored the comment. By the time Barber returned with the tea, he’d established that Benskin had been in his apartment in Limehouse on Monday night. He’d spent the evening working on his laptop in preparation for yesterday’s meeting in Barcelona. This morning he’d driven across to Wimbledon to pick up Sally and bring her down to Portsmouth. To be frank, he said, he thought she was still in shock.

‘She’s a strong woman, Sally.’ Benskin was watching Barber. ‘But no one can really handle something like this.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. How well did you know them? As a couple?’

‘As well as I know anyone. Better probably. People say there’s no sentiment in my game. That’s a lie.’ He threw the phrase out like a challenge.

‘You’ve been together how long? You and Mr Mallinder?’

‘Eight years. Give or take.’

‘You knew him before?’

‘Before when?’

‘Before you went into business together.’

‘Yeah, by reputation I did. He was with another firm, much bigger. He put together some bits of land in Slough. I liked the way he did it. Land assembly in a place like that can easily turn into a nightmare. He did it brilliantly. No drama. Everyone still mates at the end.’