The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Philosophy, curriculum, uniform, the lot. Two million quid might sound like a fortune but you’d be amazed at the number of businessmen who’ve coughed up.’

  ‘So what’s in it for them?’

  ‘Honours, sir. Apparently there’s a rate card. £675k is supposed to buy you a CBE. For £750k, you might get a knighthood. Put two and a half million in the pot and you could be looking at a seat in the House of Lords.’

  ‘And Mallinder?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir. Maybe he was after a peerage.’

  ‘Through this City Academy scheme?’

  ‘That’s what it feels like. Nothing’s spelled out of course, but Downing Street are desperate to hit their target, and that means setting up over a hundred new academies.’

  ‘How many so far?’

  ‘Twenty-seven. With another nineteen opening this month.’

  ‘Ah …’ Barrie was smiling at last ‘… so Mallinder was in the driving seat? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying it’s a buyer’s market, sir. And when it came to this academy programme Mallinder certainly gave the impression he had the cash.’

  ‘We’re talking about a specific proposal?’

  ‘As far as I can gather.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here.’ It was Imber again. He’d found the line in one of Mallinder’s e-mails. A meeting with a New Labour apparatchik had evidently identified an opportunity in Portsmouth. In response, the same day Mallinder had described himself as ‘extremely excited’.

  ‘That was back in February.’ Suttle confirmed. ‘I’m not sure what’s happened since.’

  There was a brief silence around the table. Then Barrie congratulated Suttle on the speed with which he’d mastered this brief. Imber nodded in agreement and Tracy Barber shot the young D/C a smile of encouragement. Faraday was still studying the paperwork.

  ‘There may be implications here …’ he said carefully ‘… for the Tipner project.’

  ‘In what respect?’ Barrie asked.

  ‘Mallinder’s got his feet under the New Labour table. They need people like him. Whether Mallinder’s bluffing or not, they want to believe he’s got a lot of money. Now Mallinder’s a real pro in situations like these. He plays both ends against the middle. By all accounts he’s raised these kinds of negotiations to an art form. So what does he do?’

  Faraday gazed round the table. Imber shook his head. He hadn’t had a chance to study the Billhook file. He simply didn’t know. Tracy Barber, embarrassed, began to play with her pen. Barrie hid behind a frown. Only Suttle voiced any kind of conclusion.

  ‘He really was after the MoD land at Tipner.’ He grinned across the table at Faraday. ‘And he thought his New Labour friends were the ones to make that happen. ’

  Brett West, at Bazza’s insistence, offered Winter a lift back to Gunwharf. The party was beginning to break up - lots of hugs, lots of drunken kisses, lots of knackered kids. Winter stood beside Westie’s rusting Alfa Romeo, waiting for him to unlock the door. He could still smell Marie’s perfume on his clothes. He’d even had a half-civilised conversation with her daughter. All in all, much to his surprise he’d rather enjoyed the occasion.

  ‘He wants us all to be mates, yeah?’ Westie had finally let him in.

  Winter didn’t answer. He was watching Mackenzie at the kerbside doing a serious number on a pretty redhead he had noticed earlier and Winter found himself wondering about the rest of Bazza’s love life.

  ‘How’s Mist these days?’ he asked Westie.

  ‘Nicely set up in Hayling Island. Ever seen that place of hers?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘I was over there last year. They were still putting the pool in.’

  ‘Nice, eh? We all went over for the house-warming. Pissed the neighbours off big time. Baz was out of his head for once.’

  Misty Gallagher was Mackenzie’s mistress, a woman in her late forties with the face of a gypsy and the body of a goddess. A couple of years ago the relationship had run into severe turbulence after Bazza discovered competition in the shape of a local car dealer, but Mike Valentine was living abroad now and Misty was back on the payroll. Winter had always assumed that Marie knew about her husband’s other relationship but after this afternoon he wasn’t so certain. You see what you want to see, he thought. And the rest just happens.

  They’d left Craneswater now, and West slowed late for the turn into Albert Road. He drove a car the way he handled everything else in life, with total disregard for the consequences.

  ‘You owe me,’ he grunted. ‘That was fucking out of order.’

  ‘The knuckleduster?’ Winter laughed. ‘Serves you bloody right.’

  ‘I’m serious. That cost me a hundred quid. Say fifty in notes and we’ll call it quits.’

  ‘You have to be joking.’

  ‘I’m not. You want to play games like that, maybe you should have stuck to the day job. Where I come from, man, you have to earn a little respect. Bazza might love you. Marie might be up your arse. But me? I still think you’re fucking lucky not to be on crutches.’

  They were in traffic, stuck behind a queue of cars at the lights. Winter nodded peaceably, smothered a yawn, then leaned over and pulled the keys from the ignition. His mouth was inches away from West’s left ear.

  ‘Listen, my friend,’ he whispered. ‘Fucking out of order is about right. Don’t you ever, ever, pull a stroke like last night again. Not unless I deserve it. You understand me? You want to pass the message on?’

  He waited a second longer for the traffic ahead to move, then he tossed the keys over his shoulder, opened the door, and stepped out. Minutes later, hunting for a cab, he could still hear the angry parp-parp of car horns in Albert Road.

  Faraday was home by seven. Expecting to find J-J still in residence, he was surprised to learn that his son had decamped and gone to London.

  ‘He has some friends there?’ Gabrielle was peeling potatoes.

  ‘That’s right. Quite a lot of friends.’

  ‘OK. Then he’s gone to see them. I took him to the station. Maybe he comes back next week. He’s not sure.’

  Faraday raised an eyebrow. Nothing J-J did surprised him any more but a tiny voice deep in his head prompted him to ask a question or two.

  ‘You think I pissed him off?’

  ‘Comment?’

  ‘You think …’ he frowned, ‘… him and me? You know? Father and son? Ils ne s’entendent pas bien?’

  ‘Oh, no, pas du tout. He has to see some people. He told me it was very important. He had to see them this afternoon.’

  ‘What sort of people?’

  ‘Financial people. Money people.’

  ‘Why?’ Faraday couldn’t help himself.

  ‘I don’t know. I think it’s about …’ she smiled at him then shrugged ‘… money.’

  ‘The money from Russia?’

  ‘Yes, maybe. He says he wants to go somewhere else too. I think he’s going to fly there. Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘Fly where?’

  ‘This place. He wrote it down for me. He said I could come too. They speak French there. I think maybe he needs, how do you say it … ?’ She was still looking for the scrap of paper.

  ‘An interpreter?’

  ‘Oui. And maybe a voice. I said I’d ask you but he didn’t want that. He’s nice, your son. He’s unusual. Il m’a beaucoup plu.’

  She gave up on the search and said J-J had been on the computer before he’d left. Maybe he’d made some notes. Maybe he’d left a clue.

  Faraday followed her upstairs. The PC in his study was still on. The Google entry page hung on the screen and Faraday scrolled quickly through this morning’s tally of hits. J-J had found his way to a number of banking sites, all of them advertising services in the Channel Islands. His final visit had been to the British Airways site, where he’d accessed information on flights to Jersey.

  ‘C’est celui-là.’ Gabrielle was pointing at the screen. ‘He said the banks
were in the main town.’

  ‘St Helier?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘And you think that’s where he’s going tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘And I think there’s more money. Regarde—’

  She lifted a sheet of paper anchored by the binoculars Faraday kept beside the PC. Looking at it, Faraday recognised J-J’s trademark scrawl. At the top of the page, he’d pencilled a figure, £35,000. Below it, another £28,000. Then, on the third line, £502,000. At the bottom he’d worked out the total - £565,000.

  ‘And this is his money?’ Faraday felt the first prickles of apprehension.

  ‘Je ne sais pas, chéri.’ Gabrielle kissed his temple. ‘But he said not to worry.’

  Ten

  SATURDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER 2006. 07.43

  Faraday had been up since dawn, sitting in his study behind the big tripod, hunting for early-autumn visitors to the gleaming expanse of water beyond his study window. Recently he’d treated himself to a new scope, a Leica Televid. Eleven hundred pounds was a fortune in anyone’s money but the optics were breathtaking and he’d cashed in an insurance policy, tucking away the balance to fund a decent trip abroad. A birding colleague at headquarters had recently returned from an expedition to the Florida Everglades, and his e-mailed descriptions of crested caracaras, together with a stack of photos of these awesome birds picking over alligator roadkill, had whetted Faraday’s appetite.

  Early autumn normally offered decent pickings from his perch up in the study. Swallows and house martins were readying themselves for the long flight south while the first arrivals from Siberia - flocks of Brent geese - would be splashing down to feed on the soupy waters of the harbour. Recently, though, the seasons seemed to have got themselves into a muddle. Summers were lasting longer and longer, and if Faraday wanted evidence for global warming then all he had to do was look out of his window.

  He settled the scope on a pair of turnstones pecking at a tangle of bladderwrack on the long brown flank of mud exposed by the falling tide, then tilted slowly up until he found the shag that sunned itself on a red buoy out in the harbour. This handsome little bird, smaller and blacker than Langstone’s cormorants, roosted on the crumbling sea forts out in the Solent, and Faraday couldn’t resist the thought that only the slow decay of Pompey’s fortifications had brought it here in the first place. Maybe the shag should become the city’s symbol, he thought. More apt, by far, than the current flagship.

  Faraday’s study was connected to his bedroom, and through the open door he could hear Gabrielle beginning to stir. Whatever the circumstances, she seemed to have an inner clock that woke her at this time in the morning. He checked his watch and smiled to himself. Quarter to eight. Spot on.

  He padded downstairs to the kitchen and filled the kettle. By the time the tea was ready, he could hear her moving around overhead. Back in the bedroom with a tray of tea, he found her naked at the window with a pair of binoculars that had once belonged to his son. The blaze of morning sunshine threw her shadow across the polished floorboards. Faraday put the tray on the chest of drawers, stepped out of his jeans and slipped into bed. The sheets were still warm. He could smell the scent of mimosa she’d brought into this solitary life of his, and when she turned from the window he gestured at the space beside him.

  They made love. Afterwards, the tea cold, Gabrielle curled her small, hard body round his. When something worried her, she had a habit of biting her lip. Just now she was close to drawing blood. Faraday gently lifted her head from his chest.

  ‘What is it?’

  She said she didn’t know. He asked the question again, tried to put it a different way, tried to coax out whatever it was that had so suddenly come between them. But each time she shook her head, said she was being silly, bête, that he was to pay no attention, that she’d made fresh tea, maybe some toast, that they could make love again or go for a walk while the day was so young, anything.

  Faraday shook his head. The last thing he wanted just now was tea.

  ‘Is it us?’ A tiny movement of his hand bridged the gap between them. ‘This?’

  ‘No.’ She frowned then changed her mind. ‘Oui.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because …’ The frown had deepened. She shook her head.

  ‘Tell me …’ Faraday drew her closer. ‘Please.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because …’ She suddenly struggled free, then propped herself on one elbow, gazing down at him. ‘He went because of me. I know he did.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your son. J-J.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘Pas du tout. He hasn’t seen you for so long. He wants you to himself. I shouldn’t be here. I should go.’

  Faraday tried to calm her down. He told her that J-J was a man now. She’d seen it. She’d said so herself. He was independent. He’d fled the nest. Did his own thing. A free spirit.

  ‘Vraiment?’ She wanted to believe it. He could see it in her face.

  ‘Oui.’ He gave her a hug, feeling her pressing into him.

  ‘And you don’t mind?’ Her voice was muffled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me being here?’

  ‘I love it.’ He raised her face again and kissed her eyelids. ‘Vraiment.’

  Later, mid-morning, they drove west. Barrie had declared a weekend break for the Billhook team and Faraday was determined to make the most of it. As the road swooped down towards Weymouth Bay, Gabrielle caught her first glimpse of the long grey hump that was the Isle of Portland. At the toe of the promontory, Faraday had explained, they’d find a lighthouse, and a perch on the rocky clifftop, and a perfect view of the boiling surf below. There’d be razorbills, and guillemots, and with luck they might even catch a glimpse of a distant gannet or two. Come back here in a month’s time, he said, and the migration would have started, the sky full of meadow pipits and siskins on passage heading south.

  They parked within sight of the lighthouse. Gabrielle had prepared a modest picnic and they picked their way along the maze of clifftop paths until they found a sheltered corner. The wind was billowing up the cliff, carrying with it the scent of wild garlic, and Faraday indicated the line of distant breakers stitching across the tidal race that swept around the rocky headland. Gabrielle shielded her eyes against the sun, following his pointing finger, and when Faraday caught sight of a cormorant, low over the water, she laughed.

  ‘It’s hungry,’ she said. ‘It wants a good meal. It’s going to France.’

  She’d made a salad of couscous with raisins and olives and a dice of tomatoes and shallots. She’d bought a fresh baguette from a baker en route and she poured generous mugfuls of a Spanish crianza she knew Faraday adored. Afterwards they lay on the spread of plaid blanket, eyes closed, listening to the grumble of surf on the rocks below.

  ‘You never tell me about your work,’ she murmured. ‘Never.’

  Faraday smiled to himself. It was true.

  ‘Why would you want to know?’

  ‘Because work makes people what they are. Tu n’crois pas?’

  Faraday nodded. Of course he believed it. That was why he enjoyed days like this, turning his back on a world he found more and more incomprehensible.

  He tried to put this into words and thought from her silence that she didn’t understand. He was wrong.

  ‘You’re very … sensible … for a policeman.’ Her hand found his. ‘I’ve always thought that.’

  Sensible, in French, meant sensitive. Another woman, long ago, had said something very similar. Except she’d used the word ‘vulnerable’.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should be doing something else with my life.’

  ‘Not at all. Sensible makes you a good policeman.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Absolument. You take the time to look, to listen. Nobody does that any more. Not policemen. Not anybody. Everyone talks. Tout le monde. But nobody listens.�
�

  Faraday nodded. She was right. He lay back, the sun hot on his face, his eyes closed, thinking about the clamour of voices in his working world, the snatched half-conversations, the desperate ongoing struggle to reduce the chaos of a crime scene to a motive and a name.

  Lately, for whatever reason, the drumbeat of serious incidents on the Major Crimes beat seemed to have quickened. People were hurting each other more, taking advantage more, and there seemed no end to days when he’d find himself in conference round a table trying to think himself into the heads of total strangers, trying to understand why they inflicted such damage on each other and why they occasionally ended up dead. Mallinder was one example but there were dozens of other individuals whose broken bodies he’d first glimpse on the mortuary slab, and whose broken lives would take weeks to piece together.

  In this sense, he thought glumly, he’d become a kind of social pathologist. His real job was gathering evidence and making cases stick. That’s what detectives did. But in the process it was impossible not to peer a little deeper, not to ask yourself exactly why society itself was dying the slowest and ugliest of deaths. The symptoms were everywhere. The selfishness. The greed. The short cuts. The constant trashing of family ties, of responsibility, of anything that smacked of a steady life decently lived.

  This sense of disintegration, of things falling to pieces, had begun to preoccupy him, and as the jobs piled up he found himself more and more alarmed at the wider implications. Life, in his view, was becoming unreasoningly brutal. Much of it revolved around violence, and violence was like a hot wind, scorching everything in its path. People seemed to be tearing themselves and each other apart for no good reason. Often not for money. Often not for gain. But because the sheer act of violence had become as good an answer as any. But to what question? And for what purpose? For someone like himself, someone wedded to the comforting laws of cause and effect, to analysis, to the sweetness of reason, this was the stuff of madness. Look at life too hard through the prism of Major Crimes, he’d concluded, and you’d probably end up on the psychiatrist’s couch.