In essence, they were looking at a minimum of three four-hour sessions, with extensions beyond the twenty-four-hour PACE limit if they could stand it up. All they had to date in terms of evidence were the CCTV pictures, and these were far from conclusive, and the two big unknowns were Westbourne Road and Dermott O’Keefe. Forensic evidence from the house, or news that O’Keefe had resurfaced, would give Yates and Ellis a possibly decisive advantage in interview.
To this degree, as Martin Barrie had been the first to point out, Freeth’s arrest might have been somewhat premature, but Faraday had strongly disagreed. At the time of his interception on the M4 Freeth had been going in the wrong direction, in the wrong part of the country. He might have been heading for an airport or a ferry. Alerted by his partner, he might have decided on flight rather than fight. A bird in the hand, he’d told the Detective Superintendent, was worth a great deal more than the chore of trying to trace a suspect who might, within a couple of days, have been anywhere.
D/C Yates had already conferenced briefly with the duty solicitor. Hartley Crewdson had built a successful practice from premises in the north of the city. A sharp legal brain married to a taste for impeccable suits had won him a degree of respect in the custody suite and he’d lost no time in reminding Yates that his client was due back at work in a couple of days’ time. Vulnerable kids might well be put at risk if the integrity of the Positivo programme was jeopardised. Yates parried this move with ease. If it turned out that Mr Freeth had a charge to answer, then the first to benefit would surely be those same kids.
Faraday was monitoring the interview from an adjoining room. Two video monitors gave him a choice of views of Charlie Freeth. Since leaving the job, the ex-cop seemed to have lost a bit of weight. His hair, on the other hand, was now shoulder length, gathered at the back into a ponytail. He was a rangy man, lean, tall, attractive to a certain kind of woman, and the expression on his face - sullen, dismissive - seemed calculated to sharpen that impact. On a billboard, thought Faraday, Charlie Freeth would probably be selling a brand of French cologne.
Yates began the interview. Quickly he established the facts of Freeth’s relationship with Julie Greetham: where they’d met, when he’d moved into Westbourne Road, the presence of her father in the house. From the start Freeth handled himself well. He was articulate, self-composed, a man keen to leave not a trace of ambiguity or doubt. He’s thought about this moment for a long time, Faraday concluded.
Yates was asking about his relationship with Frank Greetham. Had the two men been close?
‘Very. I’d say exceptionally. Frank was the father I’d never had. People say mixing the generations under one roof can be tricky. With Frank and myself that just wasn’t true. The man was a fund of stories. He’d done stuff with his life. If you had the time to listen, he was the best company in the world.’
‘And you found the time?’
‘Always. We binned the TV early on, Jules and me. Actually, it broke and we just never replaced it. That makes for conversation. Believe me.’
Faraday scribbled himself a note. Danny McPhee, the CSI at Westbourne Road, had noted the absence of televisions in the house. Now Faraday understood why.
In response to another question, from Ellis this time, Freeth was describing Frank Greetham’s working life. At the time Freeth had moved in with his daughter, Gullifant’s was still a going concern.
‘He lived for it. He took pride in it. They all did, all the people who worked in Frank’s branch. We’re talking half a dozen at the most. It wasn’t a big place, but you’d go in there for some bits and pieces, screws, drill bits, whatever, and they’d bust a gut to make sure you got exactly what you wanted. Apparently Jules’s mum used to make a little joke about it. There are two wives in this marriage, she used to say. Me and bloody Gullifant’s.’
‘So it mattered to him, the firm?’
‘Enormously. After his wife went, it was Frank’s whole life. Doing the job properly. Satisfying the customers. Enjoying the company of the people at work. That’s what he lived for.’
‘And you knew that?’
‘Absolutely. The two things were inseparable. Frank was meticulous. It showed in everything he did. In the way he kept the house up. In the allotment he had. In his financial affairs. Everything.’
‘Financial affairs?’
‘His books. We’re not talking anything complicated here. Frank was on PAYE. But he still kept a ledger, still recorded all the items he bought that might one day form some kind of claim. Receipts, too. Like I say, he was meticulous. And a lot of that came from Gullifant’s. He was old style, Frank, old stock. And so was the shop.’
‘And the new regime? Had that made a difference?’
‘Of course it had. Looking back, the writing was on the wall. By the time I got to know Frank the new people had been in for a couple of years and the place was beginning to fall apart. Deep down I think Frank knew that, but people of his generation just never give in. They don’t know how to. They soldier on. They do their best. If the boat’s sinking, they try and plug the holes. From where I was sitting, believe me, that was an education. I loved the man, adored him. But that’s because I respected him.’
Faraday, watching, found himself drawn in by the passion in Freeth’s voice. This account of his, deeply personal, was beginning to shape itself into a sort of manifesto. D/C Freeth, to the best of his recollection, had stepped out of a job he’d come to hate. And in the shape of Frank Greetham, he seemed to have found a kind of salvation.
Yates sensed it too.
‘You said he was like a father, Frank.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that I trusted him. And I suppose it means that I needed him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he represented …’ He frowned, staring at Yates, taking his time. ‘No, because he was somebody I’d never had in my life before. I was working with kids by now. We were getting Positivo together. And I saw it with them, too. Every life needs a direction. Life’s a journey. You need to be sure about your bearings.’
‘And Frank?’
‘He gave me my bearings. Just the same way we try to do with the kids.’
‘And how did he do that? Frank?’
‘Because he knew. Because he’d been there. Blokes like Frank are like sticks of rock. They’re honest through and through. Certain things have shaped their own lives. Obedience, for a start. And a sense that they’re part of something much bigger than themselves. Frank came from a functional family. There were eight of them, here in Pompey. Strong mum, strong dad, bugger-all money. Then he joined the paras. Those organisations worked. And they produced blokes like Frank. Today?’ Freeth lifted his hands, a gesture of contempt. ‘You live in a bubble. You live for you. And you know the result? Kids, people, punters who haven’t a fucking clue who they are.’
There was a brief silence. Yates was studying his notes. Ellis came to the rescue. Time to get the interview back on track.
‘So it would be fair, would it, to suggest that you’d have done anything for Frank Greetham?’
Faraday caught a flicker of concern on the solicitor’s face. Crewdson raised a cautionary finger but Freeth ignored it.
‘Absolutely anything.’ The nod was vehement. ‘And he knew that.’
Jimmy Suttle found Tracy Barber alone at her desk in the Polygon intelligence cell. At nearly eight in the evening, to Suttle’s surprise, the Major Crimes suite at Kingston Crescent was virtually empty.
‘Where is everyone? I thought this was the big one?’
‘It is. We had a squad meet this evening, a major review. Most of the blokes are upstairs in the bar now, drowning their sorrows.’
‘Sorrows?’
‘Barrie monstered us. I never realised he could be so tough.’
Frustrated by the lack of progress, the Detective Superintendent had torn into the Polygon squad. He wanted detectives who thought on their feet, not
plodders who went through the motions. He wanted people savvy enough to think outside the box, to suggest lines of enquiry no one else had dreamed worth pursuing. He wanted a bit of vision, a bit of originality. Above all, he wanted the first hint of some kind of breakthrough.
‘The poor bloke’s frustrated. That’s the bottom line. You get the feeling that command has passed up the chain. It’s not his baby anymore. There’s just too much riding on the result.’
‘You mean the right kind of result?’
‘I mean a result that puts bodies in court. Or, failing that, a result that serves some other purpose.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like convincing the rest of us that all this terrorist stuff really matters.’
‘And does it?’ Suttle nodded at the pile of paperwork at Barber’s elbow.
‘Of course it does. We did no one any favours by going into Iraq and there are people out there who want to make us pay for it. Whether offing the Minister for Defence Procurement makes them feel any better, I don’t know. It’s difficult, Jimmy. These days you can dream up a useful motivation for any crime. Politicians do it all the time.’
Suttle nodded. He’d come to ask a favour.
‘You know that list of hospital interviewees you drew up? People who might have seen someone wandering around the grounds? Casing the shed where the Kawasaki ended up?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s the status of the interviews?’
‘They’re done. Finished.’
‘You’ve talked to everyone?’
‘The people we could lay hands on, yes. The rest we’ll get round to. If you’re asking me if we turned up anything useful I’m afraid the answer’s no.’
‘Have you still got the list?’
‘Of course.’ She nodded at the paperwork on her desk. ‘It might take a while to find, but yes.’
Suttle helped himself to a spare chair. Outside, down the corridor, he heard the door to the stairwell bang.
‘Does this list include admissions?’
‘It includes everything. Why?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘I can see that, Jimmy, but tell me why.’
Suttle shook his head. He’d wait until she found her list. Then he’d be out of her hair.
‘How’s Billhook?’ Barber was still sorting through the pile of paperwork.
‘Fine. We’ve got a name in the frame. He’s down at the Bridewell right now.’ He smothered a yawn. ‘Fuck all to throw at him, though.’
Twenty-four
TUESDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2006. 20.34
It took a while for the cabbie to find the offices of Dial-a-Van . A stranger to this part of Southampton, Winter sat in the back of the Peugeot gazing out at the wasteland of retail estates, light industrial units and huge warehousing sheds that had spread north from the docks. He’d phoned Dobroslaw from Pompey in the late afternoon. He’d presented Mackenzie’s compliments and asked for half an hour of the Pole’s time. Dobroslaw, on the phone, had sounded surprised. Surprised and somewhat chilly. Four hours later Winter was still wondering why.
The cabbie slowed for an enormous articulated truck emerging from a fenced compound beside a meat packing factory. According to the address on the side of the cab the truck had come from Bratislava, and Winter sat back, aware of just how little he knew about commerce. There was money in this city. You could feel it, smell it. Pompey had always been martial, scraping a crust from foreign wars, but here in Southampton there were easier ways of earning a living.
Minutes earlier he’d eyed the line of container boats tied up beneath the huge yellow cranes. Trade, he thought. Trade and commerce and blokes like Dobroslaw who made a fortune in what he’d doubtless call the service industry. Bazza, although supplying cocaine, had basically been in the same game. People wanted to get high. Blokes wanted to get laid. And you wouldn’t stay poor very long if you saw to it that they got what they were after. That was the beauty of people like Bazza and the Pole. It was supply and demand. Get the sums right. Deliver a decent product. Crush the opposition. And you’d probably end up very, very rich.
Winter grinned to himself, immensely comforted by the simplicity of this equation. On the back of the white powder Bazza had erected a business empire. Dobroslaw was in the process of doing something very similar. From a small army of Russian toms had come the profits to finance an import/export business, a string of pizza parlours and now a van rental company. Earlier Winter had surfed his way to Dobroslaw’s website. His fleet of second-hand Transits - vans and minibuses - were on offer at silly prices and were doubtless earning the Pole yet more dosh.
The way that bad money, criminal earnings, could so easily become a legitimate fortune had always fascinated Winter, and now he’d suddenly found himself part of that amazing conjuring trick. All day he’d been hunting for a word that would describe this new role of his. Was he Bazza’s bagman? Or was he, in a more dignified sense, representing his new boss’s best interests? Winter nodded to himself, preferring the latter description. He felt, in a word, ambassadorial.
Dial-a-Van operated from a pair of prefabs at the far end of a potholed compound beside the railway line. The lights were on in both. Winter got out of the cab, told the driver to be back in fifteen minutes and watched the lights of the Peugeot disappear towards the docks. An untidy line of rusting Transits stretched into the distance. Winter got to twenty, then gave up.
The first door he tried was locked. He walked to the other Portakabin, knocked twice, went in. Dobroslaw was hunched behind a desk at the far end, the phone to his ear. Winter had forgotten how big he was. He glanced up then put the phone down. Light from the lamp on the desk spilled onto the bare floor.
‘Mr Winter, you’re late. We wait an hour. Not good. Not polite.’
There was another man in the Portakabin, half hidden in the shadows. He was small and wiry with big hands seamed black with oil and grease. There was more oil on his jeans but the Nikes and the Saints Number 6 Shirt looked brand new. It was an odd combination. Winter muttered an excuse. The train service was crap these days.
‘You come by train?’
Winter nodded, wondering why he was bothering with this lie. The cabbie was on Bazza’s books as well. A tenner to Southampton and back.
Dobroslaw was scribbling himself a note. Winter walked across, a smile on his face. The Pole studied the outstretched hand, then folded his massive arms.
‘Cunt,’ he said. ‘And stupid too.’
‘You what?’ Winter wanted to talk jet skis, TV deals, money, fame.
‘I said cunt.’
‘Why?’
‘You think I’m stupid?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
Winter heard the scrape of a chair behind him. Then, without quite understanding how, he was sitting down. Dobroslaw was saying something in Polish to the man in the Nikes. Then his eyes found Winter again.
‘You’re either very brave or very stupid. I think probably stupid. Can you read, Mr Winter?’
Winter found himself looking at a copy of the Southern Daily Echo open at an inside page. There was a photograph of one of Dobroslaw’s vans parked on the pavement outside the newspaper’s offices. Inside, clearly visible, were half a dozen naked women. Some were blowing kisses to passers-by. Others were trying to cover themselves. One was showing the camera her arse. Across the top of the page ran the headline From Russia With Love.
‘You really don’t know?’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘A man comes here yesterday. Yesterday morning. He has money. He wants a van. No problem. We give him a van. He drives to a house I own. There are other men with him. They take all the girls. They take them naked. And they leave the van in the middle of the city.’ He nodded down at the newspaper. ‘A joke, you think?’
‘You can describe him? This man?’ Winter felt like a detective again.
‘Very tall. Black.’ Do
broslaw said something else in Polish. Seconds later Winter found himself looking at a photocopy of the booking form. Brett West.
‘There’s more.’ Dobroslaw’s hand settled lightly on the telephone. ‘This afternoon I get a call. Bazza wants you to buy a newspaper, says the voice. Then nothing. Until you arrive. Have you come to apologise? Or are you here to share the joke?’
The word ‘joke’ triggered an explosion of pain in Winter’s right ear. He rocked back in the chair, then toppled over, sprawling on the floor, looking up in time to try and shield himself from the blur of white Nike. The blow caught him high on the right shoulder. More pain. Then another pair of feet were visible, bigger, clad in black leather.
He brought his knees up, buried his head between his arms, waited for the worst to pass. It seemed to go on forever, blow after blow driving the breath from his body. It was years since he’d been in a serious ruck and the better part of a lifetime since he’d taken a beating like this. A couple of teeth went. He spat blood onto the floor, curled his body a little tighter, tried to trick his mind into thinking of something else. A savage kick to his lower body made him want to throw up. A second, and he was spewing on the floor. Pain tasted of bile. His eyes tight shut, he fought to concentrate on a single image. The view from his apartment. Misty. Anything. Then, quite suddenly, it was over.
Outside, dimly, he caught the clatter of a diesel engine. Dobroslaw was helping him to his feet. He seemed immensely strong. Winter’s hand went to his mouth. His tongue explored something jagged where teeth had once been. Withdrawing his hand, he noticed it was covered in blood. A door opened. A face swam into focus. The cabbie, he thought vaguely.
‘Tell Mr Bazza no more jokes, eh?’ The voice was soft in his burning ear. ‘Tell him next time we’ll mean it.’
The Price Of Darkness Page 38