The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  Winter found the message waiting for him on the answering machine when he got back from London. He’d agreed a procedure with D/I Parsons weeks ago, before he’d accepted Bazza’s offer. If she urgently needed to get hold of him, she’d ring his home number. She’d pose as the BT operator. She’d ask if the fault on his line had been rectified. She’d quote his BT account number and ask for confirmation for her records. The last six digits would be the last six numbers of a dedicated mobile. The prefix he was to ring was 07961.

  Winter replayed the message twice. Parsons, he thought, sounded twitchy. His finger still on the replay button, he looked round for a pencil and a scrap of paper. The rules had been clear. If a message like this arrived, it was imperative he got in touch. He played it a third time, trying to imagine what might have happened. The temptation was to ignore it. It was nearly midnight. The last thing he needed were yet more complications in this crazy life for which he seemed to have volunteered. Then he paused. She may have news that Winter couldn’t afford to ignore. Not unless he fancied another conversation with Brett West.

  He dialled the number and waited for Parsons to pick up. He couldn’t remember whether they were supposed to continue the BT pantomime or not so when she finally lifted the phone he got straight to the point.

  ‘Boss?’ he said. ‘You phoned.’

  ‘I did. We need to meet.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I’m afraid. You’ll find an appointment for the Imaging Department on your laptop. Southampton General this time. Five in the afternoon. Be there, OK?’

  Fourteen

  WEDNESDAY, 13 SEPTEMBER 2006. 07.57

  Faraday was back in the Bargemaster’s House in time for the eight o’clock news bulletin on Radio Solent. A brisk walk had taken him a couple of miles up the harbourside path. It was low tide and there was a small army of waders picking at the mud but for once he didn’t spare them a second glance. Oblivious of the rain he strode on, determined to empty his mind of everything but the sweet kiss of the morning air. Just now, he told himself, life on Major Crimes was like a war. You hunkered down. You took your orders. And if those orders seriously pissed you off, then too bad. Two men were dead, for Christ’s sake. Life could be a whole lot worse.

  It didn’t work. He sat at the kitchen table, listening to the Solent newscaster offering an overnight update in the hunt for the minister’s killers. The BBC had a reporter who was practically in residence with the Polygon squad. Faraday had glimpsed her a number of times yesterday. She was young and pretty, and she knew how to play the more impressionable D/Cs. Faraday listened to her now, detecting the excitement in her voice, that special breathiness that came with the knowledge that you were at the very centre of events.

  House-to-house teams, she said, had been out since seven, trying to catch possible witnesses before they left for work, desperate for some fresh scrap of evidence. Yesterday, after the discovery of the motorbike used in the attack, the intelligence team had plotted the probable route taken by the killers, and now she tallied a list of streets, happy to add her voice to the chorus of other media appeals for information. If anyone had seen anything, she said, then here was the number to call.

  There followed a brief interview with Martin Barrie. He sounded like he’d been up for most of the night and when the young reporter asked where the inquiry was heading next, he warned her that it was still early days. These things take time, he said. The offenders had clearly been well prepared and at this stage in the investigation it would be unduly optimistic to expect them to make the kind of mistake that might lead to a breakthrough.

  This thought clearly intrigued the reporter. She tried to press him further. How personal did a manhunt like this become? Were detectives tempted to give the killers a face? A physical presence? Or did the fact that they’d remained so invisible, so anonymous, become an irritation? Barrie paused. Faraday could imagine the pale skin stretched tight over the bones of his face and the thin fingers entwined around a pencil. Then he heard the rasping cough as the Detective Superintendent cleared his throat. ‘With respect to your question, the answer’s no.’ He said at last. ‘I’m afraid we deal in evidence. Not fiction.’

  Faraday poured himself a second cup of tea. This was like listening to an account of a party to which he was no longer invited. He could picture Perry Madison at his desk, cranking up the Polygon machine for another day in the headlines. Last night, before leaving, Faraday had cleared his drawers of everything personal, as well as removing an armful of Billhook files, but something had made him leave his bird shots on the cork board over the filing cabinet. J-J’s photos of gannets in the boiling swell off the Farne Islands were a statement of intent. They told anyone who might be interested that this leave of absence was strictly temporary. That just as soon as Billhook scored a result, he - Faraday - would return. And if Polygon was still active, then maybe he’d even get his office back.

  Gabrielle appeared at the kitchen door. Preoccupied with the radio, Faraday hadn’t heard her come downstairs. She was wearing an old T-shirt of his and not much else. She’d been asleep in bed last night when Faraday finally returned, and he’d taken care not to wake her.

  Now, she slipped onto the chair beside him. He could feel the warmth of her body through the thin cotton.

  ‘It goes OK?’ She nodded at the radio.

  Faraday got to his feet, furious at the strength of his own feelings.

  ‘Dunno.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

  Winter woke to find Bazza’s face on the videophone.

  ‘I’ve been down here for ever,’ he yelled. ‘I don’t pay you to stay in fucking bed all day.’

  Winter pressed the door release and glanced at his watch. Ten past eight. By the time he’d found his dressing gown and got to the door of the flat, Bazza was waiting in the hall.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well nothing. I might as well give you a key, Baz. Or why don’t you move in? Take the spare room? Save yourself all those trips in the lift?’ Still grumbling, Winter retreated to the kitchen.

  ‘The lady. Our friend. What did she say?’ Bazza was standing in the open doorway. His face was pinked with exercise and he seemed to be losing weight.

  ‘She said yes, Baz.’

  ‘To everything?’

  ‘In principle, yes. She checked out that website of yours. The word she used was “tasteful”.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means she’s probably blind. You want tea or what?’

  Winter made toast and jam. He’d been right about the exercise. Bazza had signed up for sessions at a local gym and been so impressed he’d just bought the place.

  ‘They’ve got a special taster deal. Two free sessions to see how you get on. Can’t fail. There’s a big plasma screen in front of each place where you do the business. They call them exercise stations. You choose what you want to watch and they sort out the pictures.’

  His neighbour, Bazza said, had fancied porn while the woman on the left had gone for a wildlife film about rockhopper penguins in Patagonia. Winter was mystified.

  ‘What kind of bloke watches porn while he’s working out?’

  ‘It wasn’t a bloke. It was a girl. Fat as you like. Told me she needed a bit of incentive. The state of her, I’m not surprised. Mess with that and you’d need a map to get out in one piece.’

  He barked with laughter and spooned more marmalade onto his toast. Winter wanted to know what he’d been watching.

  ‘Bridge on the River Kwai. As if I wasn’t sweating to death already.’

  ‘I thought you’d seen it before?’ Winter remembered the DVD on a shelf at Sandown Road.

  ‘I have, mush, every Christmas, without fail. It’s a real classic, though, isn’t it? That bit at the end when they do the bridge? I reran it three times this morning. My trainer thinks I’m weird. Blokes’ve got no fucking sense of history these days.’r />
  The image of Bazza Mackenzie watching several hundred tons of locomotive plunging into a Thai river brightened Winter’s morning. Esme was right. Her dad really was a kid.

  ‘So you think Brodie’ll be down?’ Bazza was on the balcony now, giving a passing ferry a wave. ‘Only I’ll have to sort something out.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be down, Baz. She was talking to some media people yesterday. She thinks she might have a couple of names to run past us.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning.’ Winter looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Though most people don’t lift the phone before nine.’

  Fareham was a once-sleepy market town ten miles west of Portsmouth. Good motorway and rail links had attracted a new breed of householder and the asking price for the rash of two-garage executive homes had reached dizzy heights. Nowadays, thought Faraday, Fareham was a place where you’d lay your head, raise your kids, and shop for chocolate biscotti from Sainsbury’s at weekends.

  The police station lay close to the busy main road south of the town centre. D/C Jimmy Suttle was already at the coffee machine by the time Faraday had negotiated a parking space and hauled an armful of paperwork out of the Mondeo’s boot.

  ‘Where, son?’

  ‘Upstairs, boss. The Duty Inspector’s got us a nice office.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘You and me.’

  Faraday followed Suttle up two flights of stairs and along a corridor at the top. A largish office at the end served as a major incident room and a team of techies had just finished tweaking the computers. Faraday left the paperwork on the nearest desk and opened a window. The working space, though more modest than the MIR at Kingston Crescent, was perfectly adequate for Billhook.

  ‘And we are … ?’

  ‘Over here, boss.’

  A door at the end accessed a small, windowless room reeking of new paint. Two desks had been installed, one against the back wall, the other at right angles. Phones and computers, said Suttle, would be up and running by midday.

  Faraday was eyeing the desks. At last, he was feeling better.

  ‘What do you think, boss?’

  ‘Put them face to face. Think you can cope with looking at me all day?’

  ‘No problem.’ Suttle began to haul one of the desks into position. ‘My pleasure.’

  For the time being, pending the arrival of a new team of civvy indexers, they moved next door to the Incident Room. At Faraday’s request, Suttle was trying to get in touch with Stephen Benskin. Up early, the young D/C had been through the rest of the bank statements and was convinced it was time to press Benskin for a full account of his recent dealings with his dead partner. There was stuff here he simply didn’t understand. Only Benskin himself would have the answers.

  ‘He’s en route to Southampton, boss.’ Suttle was on the line to Benskin’s secretary. ‘Apparently he’s got some meetings at a hotel over there.’

  ‘Bell him on the mobile, then. Pin him down to a time and place.’

  Suttle redialled. Within seconds he was talking again, his back turned to Faraday, his hand reaching for a pen.

  ‘The Park Hotel.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘He says he’s got half an hour to spare at twelve.’

  ‘Twelve’s fine. We’ll meet him at the nick in the Civic Centre. Tell him to go to the front desk. And tell him he’ll need more than half an hour.’

  Mackenzie had gone by the time Katherine Brodie phoned. Winter was sitting in front of BBC News 24 with a bowl of porridge. The death of the minister was sinking steadily down the news order, kicked into touch by the return of the bodies of 14 dead RAF personnel from Afghanistan.

  Winter steadied the bowl on his lap. Brodie had indeed been talking to some media people and one of them was extremely keen on a meeting.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name’s Michael Lander. He’s a freelance producer, good track record. He’s made a bit of a name for himself with events afloat. Talk to anyone at Cowes. They all know him.’

  Mention of Cowes unsettled Winter. What little he knew of the yachting fraternity told him that Bazza Mackenzie might come as a bit of a shock to someone of Michael Lander’s pedigree.

  ‘So what’s he after, this bloke? A bit of rough?’

  ‘Money.’ Brodie was laughing. ‘Like they all are.’

  ‘And you’re serious? He’s kosher?’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘He does what it says on the label? You’re not trying to bullshit me again?’

  ‘Would I?’ She was laughing again. ‘He says he’s got the inside track at Sky Sports. He does deals with them all the time and he thinks they’d really be up for something like this. What he needs now are proper costings. I’ve done some rough sums which might help. I’ll bring them down.’

  ‘Down?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve invited him to lunch. Maybe you could run it past Mackenzie. Royal Trafalgar? Half one? Something tells me it’s Bazza’s shout.’

  Stephen Benskin was already waiting at the police station attached to Southampton’s Civic Centre by the time Faraday and D/C Suttle arrived. An accident on the motorway had delayed them but Benskin wasn’t interested in excuses.

  ‘This is my solicitor.’ He grunted. ‘And her time’s as expensive as mine.’

  Wendy Pallister was a small, wiry, thin-faced woman with a slightly damp handshake. Busy on her mobile, she spared Faraday barely a glance.

  Faraday had already phoned ahead to make arrangements with the duty Inspector. A civilian unlocked the access door to the main body of the police station and led the party past a series of offices to the interview suite. Suttle’s one attempt at small talk with Benskin had come to nothing. Pallister was still on the phone.

  The interview room had recently been redecorated. The carpet tiles on the floor looked new and the smell of emulsion lingered in the stale air. Faraday gestured at the chairs around the single table. Benskin sat down first. At the very latest, he had to be away by a quarter to one.

  Faraday said he’d do his best, then began to read the caution. Pallister cut short her phone call.

  ‘My client has volunteered himself for interview. Are we to understand you suspect him of involvement in an offence?’

  A heavy cold did nothing for her voice. Faraday glanced up.

  ‘As you’ll know, we’ve interviewed Mr Benskin before. Certain elements in that interview have caused us some concern. Mr Benskin is not under arrest. He can leave at any time.’

  Pallister was about to protest but Benskin forestalled her. He wanted to get this thing over. He was perfectly happy to answer any of Faraday’s questions. The last thing he needed was a third bite out of his working week.

  ‘That OK with you, guys?’ The coal-black eyes travelled from one face to another. ‘You get this one for free. At 12.45, I’m out of here. Next time, you’ll have to arrest me.’

  Faraday read the caution again. By now, Suttle had unpacked his brief case. Back at Fareham, he’d spent an hour or so amalgamating downloads from Mallinder’s laptop and financial data from his bank accounts into a detailed timeline. At a nod from Faraday, his finger found a specific date. 16th February 2006. His head came up.

  ‘How much did you know about Mr Mallinder’s political views?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re driving at.’

  ‘I’m driving at nothing, Mr Benskin. I’m simply asking whether you ever, the pair of you, had any discussions about politics.’

  ‘You mean how Jonno voted? Is that what you’re after?’ Suttle nodded. ‘He voted New Labour. Does that make him a leftie these days? Christ knows.’

  ‘But would you talk about it? Would you discuss the issues?’

  ‘Not that I can remember, no.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because we had better things to do with our time. Or I did, anyway.’

  ‘Does politics interest you?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. In my view, most of these people are on th
e make. Either it’s money or … you know … advancement, their precious careers. How many of the New Labour lot have done anything practical with their lives? Very few. That’s why most of them are so clueless. ’

  Suttle, poker-faced, returned to the file. The date again.

  ‘On the 16th February, this year, Mr Mallinder raised a sum of money in the form of a bank loan. Did you know about that?’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘It was a big loan.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘You really can’t remember?’

  ‘I asked you how much.’

  ‘Two and a half million pounds.’ Suttle extracted a sheet of paper from the pile at his elbow and slipped it across the desk. ‘You were a co-signatory to that loan.’

  ‘That’s right. HSBC.’ Benskin had barely glanced at the letter of agreement.

  ‘Was this something you and Mallinder had discussed before?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘So you knew what the loan was for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was it for?’

  For the first time, Benskin hesitated. He was irritated already and the solicitor’s cautionary touch on his arm seemed to sour his mood even further. His eyes returned briefly to the letter, then he leaned forward across the desk, his weight on his elbows. Watching him, Faraday understood only too well why Mallinder had handled most of the negotiations. For Benskin, intimidation had become a habit.

  ‘Listen …’, he began. ‘… you’re lucky I’m here. You’re lucky I agreed to come. I don’t have to go through all this shit.’

  ‘You haven’t answered the question, Mr Benskin. You’re free to go, of course you are, but it might be simpler and quicker if we just established the facts of the matter.’

  ‘The facts?’ Benskin’s laugh was savage. ‘OK, son, here are the facts. No, I didn’t know about the loan. Or about the collateral. Or about the reasons Jonno wanted to lay hands on two and a half mill. And why didn’t I know? Because he faked my signature. Easily done. More easily done than you might imagine.’