The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

He was watching a pair of novice sailors in a dinghy, no more than kids really, trying to cheat the tide and make it through the Harbour mouth. They were on the far side of the channel, zigzagging out, heads up, desperate to keep the sail filled, oblivious of the churning wake of a passing ferry. The V of the wake spread and spread and the dinghy was broadside on when the kids found themselves suddenly enveloped.

  The dinghy rolled, righted itself briefly, then a gust of wind caught the back of the sail and the boom swung savagely over. Winter found himself on his feet as the kids threw themselves across the tiny boat in an effort to avoid the capsize. It didn’t work, and seconds later two tiny heads bobbed up alongside the upturned hull. The tide was stronger here, a river of water surging out towards the distant triangle of sea forts, and the dinghy was no more than a dot with a sail by the time they’d got the thing upright again.

  Winter sank back into his seat, glad they were safe, acutely aware of the temptation to read too much into an incident like this. The irresistible drag of the tide. A sudden wave. A blast of wind when you least expected it. Then disaster, everything upside down, everything green and wet and cold. Shielding his eyes against the brightness of the morning sun, he tried to imagine how the lads were coping. Were they having a laugh? Were they frightened? Or, like him, were they readying themselves for the next blow?

  He’d been awake for most of the night, trying to still his racing brain, trying to tease some kind of order into the chaos of the recent weeks, trying - above all - to get this bloody woman into perspective.

  The lads on Covert Ops, he now realised, had got Gale Parsons completely wrong. This wasn’t some novice D/I on the make. This wasn’t some over-promoted graduate entrant with some vague idea of where she might be heading next. On the contrary, she had real grip. She’d sussed what modern policing was about and she’d made herself word-perfect on every line of the management manual. She’d even had the bottle to front up to Willard and tell him exactly where his wider responsibilities lay.

  Winter could picture the confrontation only too well. The risks they were running on D/C Winter’s behalf. The chances of something going wrong and the likelihood of a post-mortem afterwards. Winter shook his head, reaching for the last of the pain au raisin. Post-mortem was a phrase he was beginning to treat with a great deal of respect.

  He looked out at the view again, hoping for a glimpse of the dinghy. In his heart he knew he couldn’t do without this place, the busyness, the faces, the memories, the scams, the times he’d stood every fucking rule on its head and still emerged with a result. There was simply too much history here, his own and other people’s, to even contemplate stuffing his life into a pile of cardboard boxes and legging it. Manchester or Leeds would be bad enough. Auckland or Winnipeg unthinkable. That’s what you’d do if you lost your nerve. Or someone else did on your behalf.

  His mobile began to chirp. He looked at it. He wasn’t sure he liked the budgie ringtone.

  ‘It’s me. I just talked to our pianist friend. Mush, we’ve got a fucking problem.’

  A smile warmed Winter’s face. In real life, he thought, there was nothing that couldn’t be sorted.

  ‘What is it, Baz?’

  ‘This jet ski business. The Trophy. All that. Turns out someone’s got there first.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Fucking Scummers. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Horrible.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Gunwharf.’ Winter named the café-bar.

  ‘I’ll be there in five. Double espresso. No sugar.’

  He arrived minutes later, out of breath. He’d cut himself shaving and there was still a wisp of cotton wool scabbed on his chin. Winter had yet to order the coffee.

  ‘Forget it. I’m pushed as it is. Listen …’

  He outlined what little Lander had been able to tell him. The producer had talked to the people at Sky. The good news was that jet skis definitely did it for them. There was a big audience out there, no question about it, and Sky Sports would be happy to oblige. The bad news - and it couldn’t be worse - was that a bunch of numpties from Southampton had already pitched something similar.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That’s what we don’t know. Lander thinks it’s some kind of endurance race but he hasn’t got any details. Either way, we’re in the shit.’

  ‘Why?’ It seemed a sensible question. Bazza didn’t agree.

  ‘Because, fuckwit, there’s only room for one player at this table. In case you hadn’t realised, Southampton is only twenty miles down the fucking coast. That makes us next-door neighbours. There’s never going to be room for two trophies.’

  ‘Maybe they’re taking a different angle.’

  ‘Yeah, and maybe I’m the man in the fucking moon. Listen, mush, a jet ski’s a jet ski whichever way you cut it. This thing’s about pictures. That’s what gets people creaming themselves. That’s why the Trophy’s going to be such a huge draw. And that’s why I’m not having a bunch of Scummers nicking off with it. This is family, right? And that was my brother we just buried. So …’ he leaned low over the table, nodding at Winter’s mobile ‘… you get on the blower and sort it out. If you need wheels, ask Brodie. She’s over at the hotel, settling in. OK?’

  Faraday was in conference with Jimmy Suttle when D/S Glen Thatcher appeared at the door of the tiny office.

  ‘A word, boss?’

  Faraday broke off. It was with regard to the Thornhill Park house-to-house over in Southampton. A D/C had just rung in. He and his oppo seemed to have scored a result at an address down near the edges of the estate. A woman recognised the Mercedes from the photo she’d been shown. It had been stored in a lock-up at the bottom of the road. She’d seen it a couple of times when the doors had been open, though yesterday she’d taken a peek through a crack between the doors and thought the lock-up was empty. She was positive it had been the same vehicle.

  ‘How can she be?’

  ‘Apparently she took the reg number.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You need to talk to the D/C yourself, sir.’ He gave Faraday a number. ‘It’s Bev Yates.’

  Faraday shot Suttle a glance and reached for the phone. Yates was one of the older D/Cs on the Billhook squad. Faraday had worked with him for years, both on division and Major Crimes. With his sullen good looks and chaotic love life he could occasionally be a handful but Faraday had never questioned his worth at the sharp end.

  ‘Bev? It’s Joe Faraday. Tell me about the Mercedes.’

  ‘It’s gone, boss. As of a couple of days ago.’

  ‘I know that. Tell me the rest.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can. We’re still checking it out. I think it boils down to some kind of neighbourhood feud. It’s been going on a while.’

  The lock-up, he said, belonged to a family round the corner from the witness. According to her, they’d been a problem on the estate for years. There was a husband who was out of it most of the time, a fat mum who swore blind all her kids were angels, and then the kids themselves. Tearaways. All of them.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘She says eight.’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘They’re Irish.’

  ‘I see. You’ve talked to these people?’

  ‘Not yet, boss. I thought it was worth phoning in first. See how you wanted to play it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s one other thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Our witness is pointing a finger at a particular lad. She thinks he’s the eldest. And she swears he’s the one who laid hands on the Merc to begin with.’

  ‘Nicked it, you mean?’

  ‘She’s keeping her fingers crossed.’ Yates laughed. ‘I think she’s looking for payback here. When I told her we were coppers, she thought it was Christmas.’

  Winter got Brodie to pick him up from Blake House. He’d been on the phone non-stop since Bazza’s departure and had finally nailed down an address.r />
  ‘Lee-on-Solent, love.’ He slipped into the passenger seat. ‘Bloke called Nigel Evans.’

  Lee-on-the-Solent was a quiet residential suburb west of the city highly favoured by retired couples. The price of property kept the riff-raff at arm’s length, and a couple of miles of promenade offered a front-row seat when the huge ocean-going liners from Southampton slipped down the Solent towards the open sea. Winter had always associated the place with invalid buggies and lavish bring-and-buys. The sight of a Harley-Davidson outside Nigel Evans’s bungalow came as a bit of a surprise.

  ‘You’ve talked to this guy?’ Brodie asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do we know … ?’

  ‘Because he’s the man they all go on about. Trust me, love. I used to be a copper.’

  Evans turned out to be tall and skinny with shoulder-length hair and the need to listen to heavy metal at pain threshold. Once they were in the tiny living room Winter asked him to turn the music down. He’d never much liked Led Zeppelin.

  ‘What’s all this? Only I’ve got a living to make.’

  Winter said he was interested in jet skis. He understood Evans was a bit of a force in the field.

  ‘Force? That’s a bit strong. I’m out on the water a lot, if that’s what you mean, and yeah, I’ve got lots of mates who do the same thing.’

  ‘Locally?’

  ‘All over. Here. Abroad. Wherever. Why?’

  ‘Because we might be able to help each other out.’

  ‘You’re a rider too?’

  Winter didn’t much like the tone of his voice. He said he wasn’t. Then, without going into details, he outlined the plans for the Mackenzie Trophy. Mention of sponsorship and media interest at last got Evans’s attention.

  ‘Sit down.’ He nodded at the only armchair. ‘You want something to drink?’

  Winter shook his head. He wanted to know about the Vectis Enduro.

  ‘Who told you about that?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s round the Isle of Wight, right?’

  ‘Sure. We’ve been running it for a while now, four seasons. Get the right weather, bit of chop on the water, and it’s massive. Eight hours in the saddle and you’re lucky to move for days.’

  ‘Are these stand-ups or sofas?’ Winter stole a look at Brodie. This was ski-talk. Stand-ups were what they sounded like; sofas you sat down on. She didn’t look the least impressed.

  ‘We get both,’ Evans said. ‘Doesn’t matter which. So far it’s been open entry - bit of a laugh, an outing basically, plus a ton of moolah for charity - but all that might have to change.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the telly fancies it. Sky to be precise. Couldn’t believe our luck. A chance to be cowboys and TV stars? Bring it on …’

  He explained that someone connected with the big Southampton Boat Show, a major backer, had a daughter who was mad for jet skis. She’d mentioned the Isle of Wight event to her dad, who’d instantly thought of tying it to the week of the Boat Show. The show already drew loads of media. If they talked up the Isle of Wight thing, turned it into a proper race, gave it a fancy name, then there’d be even more TV crews knocking on Southampton’s door.

  ‘The Vectis Enduro?’

  ‘Exactly. And you’re looking at the guy who had to dream all that up. The rest of it, to be honest, isn’t my bag, but jet skis, believe me, I can deliver. As many as you like. To whatever standard.’

  ‘What’s the rest of it? You mind me asking?’

  ‘Not at all. We’re talking profile, the media deals, sponsorship - all that shit.’

  ‘And that’s sorted?’

  ‘More or less. There’s a syndicate, Southampton businessmen mainly, rich bastards who’ve been involved a bit themselves. You know, nothing fancy, just roaring around impressing the ladies.’

  ‘So who are they? These rich bastards?’

  ‘You want names?’

  ‘Yeah. And a couple of phone numbers if you’re offering. ’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we might all end up in bed together - pool resources, get something really special going. There’s a fancy word for it …’ Winter frowned. ‘Kath?’

  Brodie had been studying the framed colour shots on the wall. One of them featured Evans aboard a jet ski in mid-air. Upside down.

  ‘Synergy,’ she said drily. ‘It’s a business term.’

  Faraday drove to Southampton. A detour to the CCTV control room in Port Solent had given him a black and white print from the surveillance camera in the car park, and before he talked to the owners of the lock-up on the Thornhill Park estate he wanted to show the shot to Yates’s witness.

  ‘That’s him. Little squirt.’ Her finger hovered over the youth in the grey hoodie. ‘I’d recognise him anywhere.’

  She was a severe-looking woman not far short of sixty. She wore a small gold crucifix round her neck and there was a fading picture of St Francis of Assisi on the wall above a fish tank. Half a lifetime living in Thornhill Park had done nothing for her sense of charity.

  Faraday wanted to know more about the youth she’d ID’d from the picture. Did he have a name, for instance?

  ‘Of course he has a name. Everyone has a name.’

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘There.’ She jabbed a finger at the photo again. ‘Him. That one.’

  ‘And what makes you think the car was stolen?’

  ‘Your colleague asked me that earlier and you know what I told him? I said that everything is possible in God’s kingdom, absolutely everything. But how in heaven’s name would a hooligan like that end up with a Mercedes? Unless he’d helped himself? There’s no other explanation, Inspector. Miracles, I’m afraid, have to serve a higher purpose.’

  ‘Has he stolen before? To your knowledge?’

  ‘Not from me, no. But you people are round all the time.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’ve got eyes in my head. Because I’ve seen your cars outside their house. They’re a disgrace, the whole lot of them, the whole tribe. They breed like rabbits. They have absolutely no sense of responsibility. There. I’ve said it. I’m sorry. But it’s true.’

  Bev Yates was waiting in an unmarked car across the road. He and another D/C had been checking nearby addresses, looking for corroboration of the woman’s story. Two other witnesses had confirmed the presence of the Mercedes in the lock-up. One of them, a retired postman, had also seen the car leave.

  ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of nights ago. He was walking the dog.’

  ‘Did he see who was at the wheel?’

  ‘Yeah, the same kid. The description matches.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘No, boss, but I do.’

  Yates had phoned Jimmy Suttle for an electoral roll check on the address. Number 147 Tennyson Drive was occupied by a Mr and Mrs O’Keefe. Further PNC checks established that young Dermott, from the same address, had made two recent court appearances for shoplifting. In both cases the articles involved had been either food or household goods. Suttle, intrigued, had probed further. Household goods evidently included bleach, loo roll and tins of dog food. Listening to Yates, Faraday began to wonder who had drawn up the shopping list.

  They walked round the corner. Number 147 was one half of a council semi. There was an abandoned cement mixer and a rusting bike in the tiny oblong of front garden, and closer inspection of the hedge revealed a couple of car tyres, both bald. At the back of the property a patch of beaten earth was scabbed with flattened curls of dogshit. Amongst them stood a line of sandcastles, each topped with a tiny flag. Might the Stars and Stripes be significant? Faraday didn’t know.

  Yates knocked at the door. A dog began to bark. It sounded like a big dog. Then came a woman’s voice and a yelp. Finally, the door opened.

  ‘Mrs O’Keefe?’ Yates showed her his warrant card.

  ‘T
hat’s me.’

  She was enormous, with a plump, contented face and a fringe of black curls escaping from a pink shower cap. She had milky white skin and a flawless complexion but her ample forearms were criss-crossed with crimson scars.

  ‘Burns, love.’ She knew they’d caught Faraday’s attention. ‘The amount of cooking I get through, you wouldn’t be surprised now, would you?’

  She had a strong Irish accent. Sight of the warrant card didn’t appear to upset her in the slightest. She invited them in, filled the kettle and indicated the one intact chair in the chaos of the steamy kitchen.

  ‘Help yourself, love,’ she said to no one in particular.

  Faraday had become aware of watching faces at the door. There were three of them, all toddlers. One, the boy, was wearing a red spotted pirate’s scarf knotted round his tiny head. Faraday was trying to identify the smell. Cabbage, he decided.

  Yates had his notebook out. He wanted to confirm the names of the people who lived here. Mrs O’Keefe obliged, spelling them out. Dermott, she said, had been the first of her brood.

  ‘How old is he now?’

  ‘Sixteen next birthday.’

  ‘And where is he at the moment?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. The boy’s a mystery to me.’

  ‘He’s not at school?’

  ‘He doesn’t like school.’

  ‘Isn’t that a problem?’

  ‘Not to Dermott.’

  ‘But don’t the education people come looking for him?’

  ‘All the time. Nice, they are. Helpful.’

  ‘But you’re telling me he lives here?’

  ‘Sure he does. When it suits him.’

  ‘But not at the moment? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, not since …’ She frowned, hunting in a cupboard. Faraday glimpsed a whole shelf of Tesco Own Choice beans and wondered whether they were spoils from one of Dermott’s expeditions. Maybe he’d started life as a pirate too. ‘Monday night,’ she said at last.

  Yates asked about the lock-up round the corner. Did that belong to her?

  ‘Not me, love. My husband.’

  ‘What does he use it for?’