The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘And if Benskin’s already tucked up with her?’

  ‘Then it starts to sound halfway reasonable. The baby’s due in a couple of weeks. A DNA test might help sort it.’

  Faraday nodded. Something very similar had occurred to him and even now he was still undecided about Benskin’s real status in the enquiry. Mallinder’s recklessness had certainly given the partnership a very big problem. The relationship between the two men had certainly soured. But was that enough to justify a killing? The prospect of losing half your business was one thing. Spending the rest of your life dreading the knock on the door, quite another.

  At the end of the interview, with barely minutes left before Benskin’s deadline expired, Faraday had raised the issue of Mallinder’s private life. His wife was pregnant. There was evidence that Mallinder might have been contemplating some kind of bachelor apartment existence on the south coast. Had Benskin been aware of tensions in the marriage?

  Once again, Benskin had sensed immediately the real thrust of the question. On his feet, reaching for his briefcase, he’d looked down at the faces across the table. In these situations, as Faraday had come to recognise, he was rarely less than blunt.

  ‘If you’re asking me whether I was shagging Sally Mallinder, the answer’s no. You get my drift, guys? You OK with that?’

  Now, gazing at street after street of crumbling council-built semis, Faraday tallied the actions he’d pass on to the incident room. He wanted warrants for both Benskin’s Canary Wharf apartment and the partnership offices in Croydon. He wanted his PC and laptop seized, and he wanted sight of every last piece of paperwork on the Tipner project. He also told Suttle to sort out a production order on Benskin’s bank accounts and a bid through TIU for billings on his various telephones.

  These were obvious steps to take, and questions would doubtless be asked if he hadn’t positively eliminated Benskin from the enquiry, but deep down he shared Suttle’s doubts. After discovering the loan, Benskin had effectively washed his hands of Mallinder. He wanted him out of the partnership and out of his life. But that didn’t make him a murderer. In the meantime, given the fact that the missing Mercedes remained a live lead, it made sense to take a hard look at Thornhill Park.

  Suttle nodded in agreement. The estate was bigger than he’d thought. How wide did Faraday want to draw the search parameters? Just how many man-hours did he want to punt on the missing car? Faraday, in his mind, had already settled on a couple of days, enough to put the word around and maybe raise a cough or two. He was about to voice this thought when Suttle forestalled him.

  ‘There’s something else we need to look at, boss.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Gullifant’s.’

  Fifteen

  WEDNESDAY, 13 SEPTEMBER, 2006. 15.07

  Winter had never met Paul Shreve. He was a big man in grease-stained jeans and a baggy leather jacket, not much given to conversation. He was standing at the foot of the hotel steps with a motorcycle helmet in one hand and a grubby Army surplus holdall in the other. When Bazza retrieved his Range Rover from the hotel car park, he clambered at once into the back. There was an obedience about him that reminded Winter of the family dog. In Bazza’s empire, here was a foot soldier who definitely knew his place.

  ‘Paulie? Best mechanic in town, bar none. Trust him with my life.’

  They were heading north, towards the motorway. It had begun to rain, and Bazza slipped the Range Rover into the fast lane as they hit the dual carriageway out of town. Bazza was still bubbling after the lunch with Lander, demanding Winter’s thoughts on exactly how many jet skis would give them the pictures they wanted, but Winter’s mind was elsewhere. His hospital appointment was for 5 o’clock. Why were they setting off so early?

  ‘We’ve got a call to make first. That’s why I need Paulie. Bit of business to sort out.’

  Mark, it turned out, had a sixteen-year-old son, also called Mark. Bazza’s brother had abandoned the family years ago, decamping first to the Caribbean and then to Gibraltar before settling in Cambados. He’d never seen the kid, never kept up with him, and it had fallen to Bazza to try and help out as best he could.

  Until very recently, he said, Chrissie and Mark Two had been living in an evil block of flats in Millbrook, an arsehole suburb near the docks. Mark Two had got himself in all kinds of shit with the Old Bill, and Bazza, who’d given this situation a great deal of thought, had decided on two solutions. First off, Chrissie and Mark Two deserved somewhere half-decent to live. Secondly, the little tearaway needed something else in his life beyond shoplifting, Paki-bashing, and occasional car theft.

  A new address had been easy. For a couple of hundred grand, Bazza had bought them a bungalow in a village on the edge of the New Forest. The place was a bit of a wreck but Chrissie was brilliant at schmoozing deals out of decent tradesmen and there was even a patch of garden at the back if she ever fancied keeping chickens. Mark Two, on the other hand, was a tougher nut to crack. This was a kid who was never going to handle school or college. He could barely read or write and his social skills were limited to street-level drug dealing. Bazza had asked around, getting nowhere, and in the end it was Marie, bless her, who’d come up with the answer.

  Friends of her sister had a difficult sixteen-year-old who’d turned to be mad about motorbike scrambling. He’d saved up for a machine and now competed every weekend. Bike scrambling, they said, was every parent’s nightmare. It was noisy, muddy, and often extremely dangerous. Their errant son, of course, had loved it.

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Millbrook. Same block of flats. Chrissie says there’s a kid there living with his gran. Parents chucked him out.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s got a bike for sale, nearly brand new. He wants a silly price for it but a couple of hundred quid says he’ll see sense.’

  The Millbrook flats lay at the end of the spur motorway to Southampton docks, a gaunt Sixties tower block stuffed full, according to Bazza, with problem families. Rain had pooled on the cracked paving stones outside the main entrance and a spilling wheelie bin, abandoned in the middle of nowhere, was attracting a cloud of squalling seagulls.

  Bazza parked beside a rusting Transit van and dispatched Paulie to sort out the kid.

  ‘Flat 76.’ He said. ‘Get him to bring the bike down.’

  Winter was gazing up at the flats. The sheer size of the building reminded him of similar blocks in Pompey. Somerstown or Portsea, he thought. Grey lives, grey concrete, grey sky. No wonder half the population had settled for shit television and a freezerful of pizzas.

  ‘Get the bike down?’ he said. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘The little toerag keeps it in his gran’s flat. Round here you would though, wouldn’t you?’

  He gazed out at the line of graffiti on a nearby wall. The boy, he said, had bought the bike on hire purchase, signing in his gran’s name. When she hadn’t kept the payments up, the company wanted the bike back. The repo man was expected any day now. Hence the boy’s desperation to sell it.

  Winter was watching a young couple pushing a supermarket trolley through the rain towards the main entrance. The woman, no more than a girl, had draped her anorak over the shopping to keep it dry. Her Robbie Williams T-shirt was soaking and the baby cradled in her spare arm was fighting to get free.

  ‘You know something, Paul?’ Bazza had seen them too. ‘This country’s fucked. And you know why? Because it’s all turned to ratshit. Families, schools, work, religion, it’s all falling apart.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Winter was checking the time of his appointment. He’d left the consultant’s letter Parsons had e-mailed on the dashboard. ‘So when was the last time you went to church, Baz?’

  ‘That’s not the point. It’s about faith, mush. You have to believe. It doesn’t matter what you believe in, it’s just gotta be there for you. In this country no one believes in anything anymore. But you know what? In my little gang, bad bastards though we are, we’ve alway
s believed in us. And you know where that comes from? The 6.57. Because we were scrappers. Because we watched out for each other. A bit of that wouldn’t do these people any harm.’

  Paul the mechanic had reappeared. He was pushing a scramble motorbike, thickly encrusted with dried mud. Winter watched as the mud began to soften and streak in the falling rain. Behind Paul trailed a thin, pale-faced youth in jeans and a black hoodie. He took a half-hearted kick at an empty Tennent’s Super Strength tin, and missed.

  Paul hoisted the bike onto its stand and came across to the Range Rover. He had a handful of tools in the holdall. Bazza asked him about the bike.

  ‘Looks alright. I don’t think the kid’s used it much. Couple of hundred miles on the clock, it’s nearly brand new.’

  He ducked back out into the rain and began to loosen the spark plug. The kid watched him a moment, hands dug in the pockets of his jeans, then wandered over to the Range Rover. Bazza had lowered the window on the driver’s side.

  ‘Alright?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded across to the bike. ‘Fifteen hundred quid. Cash.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  Bazza was still watching Paul. He’d removed the spark plug, sniffed it, and now he was screwing it back in. He straddled the machine, fiddled with the mixture, put on his helmet, then kicked the bike into life. Moments later, he was disappearing down the access road towards the big roundabout at the bottom.

  Bazza turned back to the youth. ‘Why aren’t you at school, then?’

  ‘Binned it, didn’t I.’

  ‘Job?’

  ‘No fucking chance. Not round here.’

  ‘Help yer gran with her shopping?’

  ‘She does it herself. Gets her out. You got the money, then? Only I’m getting fucking wet just standing here.’

  Bazza ignored him. He spotted the appointments letter on the dashboard, read it, then turned to Winter.

  ‘What’s this one for?’

  ‘A scan, Baz. It’s supposed to be routine but they always tell you that.’

  ‘You’ve still got a problem?’

  ‘I get headaches.’

  ‘Is that why you went to Bournemouth the other day?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘Nice of you to ask.’

  ‘Pleasure, mate. Gotta keep tabs on the staff, know what I mean?’

  He broke off, his attention caught by the chainsaw buzz of the returning bike. Paul stopped alongside the window, raising his visor.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Fine, boss.’ His voice was muffled. ‘Newbridge, is it?’

  ‘Yeah. Jasmine Cottage. It’s a got a wonky gate and no one’s taken the For Sale sign down. Chrissie’s expecting you. I’ll be along later.’

  Paul nodded, gunned the engine, then made for the roundabout again. Bazza was digging in his pocket. Winter watched the roll of ten-pound notes change hands.

  ‘Yours.’ Bazza said.

  The youth began to peel off the notes, one by one. He did it twice. Then his head came up. He needed a shave, Winter thought. Either that or he was trying to grow a beard.

  ‘You’ve given me two hundred,’ he said. ‘Where’s the fucking rest?’

  ‘That’s it, mush. Good to know you can count.’ He reached out, patting the youth on the cheek. ‘Be nice to your gran now. And watch out for those repo blokes. Some of them can be a fucking nightmare.’

  The window whirred shut and Winter heard a clunk as the youth aimed a kick at the departing Range Rover. Bazza hit the brakes. Seconds later Winter was watching him in the wing mirror, perfectly framed, as he threw the youth to the ground. He knelt on his chest, one hand tightening around the youth’s scrawny throat, then he bent very low, his mouth inches from the boy’s ear. The youth struggled to get free but Bazza wasn’t having it. He kept talking. Slowly the youth’s limbs went slack. Only when Bazza was on his feet again, adjusting his jacket, did signs of life return.

  Back in the car, he shot Winter a look. The last couple of minutes had pinked his face.

  ‘Way out of order.’ He gunned the engine. ‘Little twat.’

  Back in Fareham, Faraday was glad to see the Billhook incident room in full working order. The indexers had arrived from Kingston Crescent and one of them was gridding a whiteboard in Pentel, ready for the Outside Enquiries list of actions. Faraday conferred briefly with the D/S in charge, Glen Thatcher, briefing him on the Thornhill house-to-house operation. He wanted bodies on the ground by late afternoon, in time to catch working couples returning home. SOC photos of the Mercedes had been duplicated for each of the two-man teams. When the D/S asked about the interview with Benskin, Faraday pulled a face. There’d be follow-up checks to action in the London area but no one should be holding their breath.

  From his desk in the office at the end of the room Faraday put in a call to Tracy Barber. The D/C was still part of the Intelligence Cell on Operation Polygon and Faraday wanted an update.

  He caught a mumble of apology as Barber got up and closed the door. Then she was back on the phone.

  ‘Not a lot,’ she said, ‘to be frank. We had a team in the hospital grounds all night to see if anyone showed for the bolt cutters.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What about the cutters themselves?’

  ‘Again nothing. No prints. No DNA. Clean as you like. The longer this goes on, the more we’re looking at some kind of terrorist hit. These people knew exactly what they were about. Either they do it for a living or they’ve been to college, got a diploma, passed the exam.’

  Faraday smiled. The sheer momentum of an inquiry like this would inevitably raise expectations. With so many bodies on the ground and so much resource available, some kind of breakthrough became a foregone conclusion. In the absence of any real progress, therefore, the premium would be on speculation. Blaming a hit like this on the shadowy world of terrorism was a whole lot more comforting than the possibility that Polygon might be running out of steam.

  ‘How’s Madison?’

  ‘Loud. I’d forgotten what a crap human being that man is.’

  ‘And Mr Barrie?’

  ‘Harassed. He tries not to show it, but if you know where to look all the signs are there. I was talking to one of the cleaners. She found him out in the car park, five o’clock in the morning. She’s not absolutely certain but she thought he was skinning up.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Either that or he’s taken to smoking really long roll-ups. Not that anyone would blame the poor guy. Get this one wrong and he’ll be on Traffic for the rest of his life.’

  ‘What about the hospital? Anyone drawn up an interview list?’

  ‘I’m looking at it now. Page five starts with the truckies who service the kitchens. There are …’ she began to count, ‘… eight of them. Even with the bodies we’ve got, this is going to take a while. To tell you the truth, boss, I’m not sure—’

  She broke off and Faraday heard Brian Imber’s voice in the background. Moments later, he’d taken the phone.

  ‘Joe? You still there?’

  ‘I am. You sound knackered.’

  ‘Too fucking right. Headless and chickens are two of my least favourite words. How about you?’

  ‘Fine, Brian. Never better.’

  ‘You’ve had another crack at Benskin?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I can’t see it somehow.’

  He talked it through, glad of the chance to run the interview past someone whose judgement he completely trusted. In the end, once you’d assembled all the available evidence, it often came down to something far more instinctive than hard facts.

  ‘He’s got the motivation, Brian. There’s no question about that. And I’m assuming he’d have the money to buy himself a contract.’

  ‘What about the wife? Mrs Mallinder?’

  ‘He says there’s nothing between them, never has been. Suttle’s suggesting a DNA test on the baby. It’s due any day now.�
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  ‘Good thinking. You might check the PM report too. I’ve no idea whether they test for vasectomies these days but if Mallinder had the snip that might be a pointer.’

  Faraday scribbled himself a note. Why hadn’t he thought of something so obvious? Imber wanted to know where Billhook went from here. Faraday told him about the house-to-house in Thornhill. In the absence of any other lead, it seemed as good a line of enquiry as any.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Joe. How’s the boy doing?’

  The boy, Faraday knew, was Jimmy Suttle. He could see him now, juggling two coffees as he picked his way back across the incident room. One of the indexers was a new face - young, raven-haired, pretty. Suttle grinned at her, spilling one of the coffees.

  ‘He’s fine, Brian. In fact he’s bloody good.’

  Mackenzie dropped Paul Winter at the main entrance to Southampton General. As Winter buttoned his car coat for the dash through the rain, Bazza leaned over.

  ‘You want this, mush?’ It was the consultant’s letter.

  ‘Thanks.’ Winter folded it into his pocket, aware of Mackenzie still watching him. ‘Should be through within the hour, fingers crossed.’

  ‘No problem. Ring me on the mobile.’

  Winter watched the Range Rover purr away. Working for Bazza Mackenzie had brought its own ration of surprises and one of them was how sane and thoughtful he could be. As a working copper, Winter had never associated either of these descriptions with the robber baron who’d built an empire from Pompey drug debts, but now he was beginning to realise that he might have had the man badly wrong. He pushed in through the big double doors, trying to rid himself of a growing sense of bewilderment.

  D/I Gale Parsons was occupying an empty office attached to the Imaging Department. She came straight to the point.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Mr Willard,’ she said at once. ‘To be frank, I found our last exchange somewhat disturbing. We have to make some decisions pretty damn fast. Hence my call last night.’