The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  An hour and a half into the interview, Freeth’s solicitor asked for a break. Yates and Ellis joined Faraday in the adjoining office. Faraday was looking nearly as glum as Yates.

  ‘He’s pissing all over us,’ Yates said. ‘This isn’t an interview, it’s a speech.’

  Faraday could only agree. Every question, no matter how carefully phrased, seemed to lead back to the disgust that Freeth still felt on Frank Greetham’s behalf. How a bunch of thieving bastards had bought the company and stripped out everything of value. How a decent pension fund had mysteriously emptied. How a bunch of guys who’d had this old-fashioned idea about customer service had suddenly found themselves jobless, potless and totally without prospects. So far, it was true, they were still in the opening phase of the interview. Freeth had yet to account for the CCTV pictures and for the evident closeness of his relationship with the missing O’Keefe. But the truth was that he was bossing the exchanges. In situations like these it was often difficult to persuade the interviewee to say anything at all. In Freeth’s case they couldn’t shut him up. He had a great deal to get off his chest. And this was as good an opportunity as any.

  ‘Where next then, boss?’

  ‘Dermott O’Keefe. Then make a start on Mallinder.’

  Faraday’s phone began to ring. It was Jimmy Suttle.

  ‘I’ve just had a bell from the Duty Inspector at Fareham, boss. Gwent have been on to him. Apparently they’ve retrieved a phone number from Freeth’s Toyota.’

  The number, he said, had been found on a scrap of paper balled on the floor. It was a Fishguard number.

  ‘You’ve tried it?’

  ‘They did. That’s why they phoned. The number takes you to a boarding house near the ferry port. Harbour View.’

  Faraday reached for his pad. Fishguard was in west Wales. From Fishguard you could take a ferry to Ireland.

  ‘The boy Dermott,’ he said slowly. ‘He’s Irish.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You think Freeth was going to Fishguard?’

  ‘More than possible, boss. I phoned the B & B. They’d had a call from a punter wanting a room for a maximum of three nights. He gave his name as Smith. It’s their only call today.’

  ‘Have they got an O’Keefe booked in?’

  ‘No, I asked.’

  ‘But you think Smith might be Freeth?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘And you think he’d be waiting for the lad?’

  ‘It’s possible, boss. Either that or the boy’s in Ireland already. In which case he might be waiting for Julie Greetham.’

  Faraday nodded. A reunion with Julie made perfect sense but there’d been nothing in her interview to suggest she was planning a hasty exit from Pompey.

  ‘OK.’ Faraday glanced at his watch. Just gone nine. ‘The Toyota’s still with Gwent?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Get hold of Glen Thatcher. We need a couple of D/Cs over to Gwent. They’re to take the Toyota to Fishguard and stake out the B & B. O’Keefe knows the car. He might just appear. It’s a long shot, but to be frank, Jimmy, I’ll take anything just now.’

  The interview resumed at 21.14. After the half-time oranges, Freeth clearly sensed the game was going his way. When Ellis mentioned O’Keefe, asking why the boy was so special, he instantly turned the question on its head.

  ‘We’re the special ones,’ he said. ‘Not Dermott. He’s a bright lad, no question about it. He’s also much better adjusted than most of them. He’s got a life. He sorts himself out. Family matters to him. But what he hasn’t got is the kind of structure we supply, the kind of leadership challenges that come his way. It’s water in the desert. The kid laps it up.’

  ‘Does that make him unusual?’

  ‘Yes. Very.’

  ‘So how would you describe the relationship you both established?’

  ‘Relationship? What are you assuming here?’

  ‘We understand the pair of you are close.’

  ‘Yeah? Care to tell me why?’

  ‘Because people have told us so.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to—’

  ‘Then it’s bollocks.’ Freeth bent to his brief. ‘Tell them, Hartley. Tell them this kind of stuff’s out of order.’

  Crewdson registered an objection. Yates stepped in. He wanted to know whether the relationship with O’Keefe existed at all.

  ‘Dermott’s a client. He’s done well. He’s on the leadership course. Do we talk? Have a laugh or two? Try and nail one or two things down? Of course we do. Do we have …’ Freeth smiled his dangerous smile ‘… a relationship ? The answer is no. Positivo has hundreds of clients. He’s just one of them.’

  ‘So you don’t see him at all outside the course?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No.’

  Yates glanced at Ellis. Almost imperceptibly she nodded. Yates turned to Freeth again.

  ‘How much did you know about Jonathan Mallinder? Before he was killed?’

  ‘I knew that he’d signed a letter to the Gullifant’s people. And I knew that a bunch of them had gone to see him.’

  ‘Did you find out anything else about him? Did you Google him at all? Or Google the partnership?’

  ‘Yes. Frank was in a state about the whole thing. I did whatever I could.’

  ‘And what did you find out about Mr Mallinder?’

  ‘I found out pretty much what I told you before. That these guys were asset stripping. That they were in it for the freeholds. That they’d make back their initial stake by selling a couple of the freeholds with planning permission, and then cash in on the rest when the time was right. None of this is rocket science. All you need is a heart of stone.’

  ‘So your attitude to Mr Mallinder … ?’

  ‘I loathed the man. In my view he deserved everything he got. If the nation’s wealth depends on people like Mallinder we’re better off living in mud huts. The man was a disgrace.’

  Yates was smiling now. You’d never accuse Charlie Freeth of not speaking his mind.

  ‘Last Monday week,’ he began, ‘that’s Monday the fourth of September, can you remember where you were?’

  ‘Here. In Pompey.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I was at home at Westbourne Road. Monday evenings Jules goes to yoga. I cook.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Bit of Radio Two probably. Then bed. Kids are knackering, especially the kids we deal with. I’d just come off a residential weekend. I could have slept for a week.’

  ‘You never left the house?’

  ‘No.’ He pretended bemusement. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘We have CCTV pictures that tie Dermott O’Keefe to Port Solent that night. He’s with an adult. That adult looks like you. We have more pictures, three o’clock in the morning, that show him going back towards Southampton with the same adult. We think it was you, Mr Freeth.’

  ‘You’re sure about that? Only I was in bed. Asleep.’ He held Yates’ gaze a moment then bent forward. ‘Listen, I know what you guys are driving at, I know what you think, what you suspect, but you’re going to have to do a whole lot better than this to put me anywhere near Port Solent. Is that where the man lived? I’ve absolutely no idea. Did someone kill him there? That’s what they were saying in the paper. Was it me? Absolutely not. Would I have been pleased to have done it? Absolutely fucking delighted. So a big round of applause for whoever pulled the trigger. But don’t ask me to take the rap.’

  ‘Trigger?’ Ellis’s question was barely audible.

  ‘In the paper, love. The following day and the day after. They mentioned a gun and guns have triggers. Why were we so keen on reading all the coverage? Because we couldn’t get enough of it. Does that make us vengeful? Yes … and extremely happy. Am I making myself clear here? Have we done with “open account”? Do you want to get on to the “challenge” phase next?’
/>   Faraday winced. Yates was right. Freeth was totally in charge. Every in-depth interview began with an open account from the suspect. In classic CID theory the challenge phase would follow. But what was there left to challenge?

  ‘You’ve admitted a debt to Frank Greetham …’ Yates said.

  ‘I have. And gladly. He was a fine man.’

  ‘You’ve been equally candid about Mallinder. Would it be fair to say he was someone you hated?’

  ‘I loathed him. Despised him. Hate’s too weak a word.’

  ‘You had no regrets that he got killed?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Would you have liked to have killed him?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘Could I have done it? Yes. Did I do it? No.’

  ‘You knew Dermott O’Keefe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dermott O’Keefe was at Port Solent on Monday night. With someone who looked a whole lot like you.’

  ‘So you tell me. Except it wasn’t me.’

  ‘You were a police officer. You’d served with CID. You knew about crime scenes, about forensic procedures. You’d also done the firearms course. Is all that true?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘So.’ Yates tossed his pen onto the desk. ‘We have a classic kill. A totally cleaned-up crime scene. And a suspect who knows all about guns, all about CID work and - by his own admission - thought Mallinder should be held responsible for the death of someone he loved. Is that all fair?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ The smile again. ‘And your point is … ?’

  Winter made his way slowly into the flat. The cabbie had offered to take him to Accident and Emergency for a check-up but Winter had said no. He wanted a large Scotch, a fistful of painkillers and a bit of a think. Now, he prepared a nest of cushions on the sofa and then limped into the kitchen to find a glass. Everything hurt. His ear. His mouth. His shoulder. His ribs. Even his buttocks where he’d tried to shield his groin. Thank Christ he’d managed to stay conscious.

  He tipped Scotch into the glass and thought about ice from the fridge but decided that bending was too painful. A token splash of water from the tap three-quarters filled the glass and he held the countertop for support as he took a deep swallow.

  A month ago, as a working copper, it would have taken a single phone call to rouse the cavalry. Dobroslaw and his grubby apprentice would have been inside by now, a holding cell each, tasting a little of their own medicine. Winter eyed his reflection in the kitchen window, glad that the shadowed image spared him the details. Sooner or later he’d have to clean himself up in the bathroom, swab his wounds with TCP and inspect the damage to his mouth, but for the time being all that could wait.

  He took another mouthful of Scotch, topped up the glass then eased himself onto the sofa next door. His soiled jacket lay where he’d dropped it on the carpet and his hand explored the creases until he found his mobile. The temptation was to phone Bazza and demand to know what the fuck was going on, but he knew he had to straighten things out in his own head first. There was a possibility, just, that he’d been set up - that Bazza had planned this little prank, that sending him into the lion’s den with an outraged Pole would be the ultimate test of his real loyalties. If Winter had been a plant all along, Bazza might reason, then this would surely flush him out.

  It was a neat enough theory, and Bazza was certainly devious enough to have dreamed it up, but something told Winter it didn’t hold water. For one thing he’d never have shared Misty with a working copper. And for another Winter himself was a reasonable judge of whether people were being sincere or not. Bazza liked him. There was a kinship between them that boiled down to something bigger than self-interest. In many respects, to Winter’s amusement, they had a great deal in common.

  So what else might explain a minibus full of naked Russian slappers in the middle of Southampton? Winter’s favourite theory, the more he thought about it, was a dickhead piece of freelance mischief from Brett West. He’d been there in Sandown Road the night Bazza had summoned his council of war. He’d seen his boss ranting about the Pole, demanding redress, insisting on a settling of accounts. And because Westie was a bit literal about these kind of things, taking Bazza at his word, he’d decided to seize the initiative himself. Nothing would please Bazza more, he might have told himself, than a full-page story from a Scummer rag in his scrapbook.

  Winter lay back, closing his eyes, the warmth of the Scotch easing some of the pain. If he was right about Westie, then phoning Bazza would be the obvious course of action. Westie would get bollocked for acting out of turn, a thought which put a smile on Winter’s face, but then Bazza was more than likely to take offence again at the Pole’s lack of respect. He’d sent Winter across to Southampton in good faith. They had business to discuss. But instead of listening to Winter’s proposals his newly recruited lieutenant had been subjected to a severe slapping. From Bazza’s point of view this would be totally out of order, and even Winter himself, the victim, would have absolutely no say in what followed. Bazza would go to war and - irony of ironies - the likes of Willard would probably end up with the result they’d intended all along.

  That, as Winter knew only too well, couldn’t happen. Not if he was to make anything worthwhile of this new life of his. He was swallowing the rest of the Scotch, resigned to seeing this thing through by himself, when his mobile began to ring.

  Caller ID was a blur. He put the mobe to his ear. Faraday.

  ‘Bastard day,’ he said at once. ‘And it’s bloody late.’

  ‘Come round,’ Winter replied. ‘If you want to know about bastard days.’

  Faraday was buzzing at the main entrance downstairs within half an hour. Winter limped slowly to the video entryphone in the hall. He opened his own front door and found his way to the bathroom. He was still swallowing four ibuprofen when Faraday appeared in the hall. One look at Winter’s face told him everything. A truly bastard day.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Bit of an accident, boss.’ Winter had trouble getting the words out. His tongue felt thick. Nothing worked properly.

  ‘Accident my arse. Who did that?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Mackenzie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you tell me if it was?’

  ‘No. But it wasn’t. Believe me.’

  ‘Someone associated with Mackenzie?’

  ‘Wrong again. It’s a learning experience, boss. Thick old bastard like me, these things happen.’

  ‘Learning experience?’ He offered Winter a shoulder, then walked him slowly into the lounge. When he suggested a detour to the bathroom to clean up his face, Winter shook his head, sparking a thick wave of nausea.

  ‘There, boss.’ Winter was looking down at the sofa. ‘Gently, though, eh? You want a drink?’ He nodded vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Help yourself.’

  With Winter settled on the sofa, Faraday found himself a can of Stella.

  ‘You want to talk about it?’ He tore off the ring-pull and took a deep swallow.

  ‘This?’ Winter’s fingers briefly touched his swollen face. ‘No, I don’t. You do the talking, boss. I bet it’s Willard, isn’t it? Put you up to this?’

  ‘Yes.’ Faraday saw no point in denying it.

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He asked me to find out what you were up to. Not in those words exactly but that’s what he meant.’

  ‘Right … Fair question.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So?’ Winter managed to summon the beginnings of a grin, then shrugged, ‘Fuck knows,’ he said at last. ‘I used to be a copper, once. But I think he knows that.’

  ‘He does. I think he’s more interested in now. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, in fact I’d prefer it if you didn’t, but I get the impression he thinks you’re a bit …’ Faraday frowned ‘… out of control.’


  ‘Then he’d be wrong. This is me, boss. This is who I am.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You make a decision. Then you live with the consequences. ’

  ‘I don’t doubt that. Not for a moment. He just needs to know what the decision was. If it’s of any interest, he thinks you were out of your head the last time he talked to you.’

  ‘Quite the reverse, boss. He happened to catch me at the perfect moment.’

  ‘And what did you say.’

  ‘I told him to fuck off. Or that’s what it boiled down to.’

  ‘And you meant it?’

  ‘Every word.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’d let me down. Him and someone else. You know a D/I called Gale Parsons? Covert Ops?’ Faraday nodded. ‘I thought she was a clown to begin with. Then I thought she was incompetent. But in the end it turned out a whole lot worse. Like everyone else in the job, she just covers her arse. Get any kind of result for her and I’d end up in fucking New Zealand. How’s that for incentivisation? ’ He groped blindly for the bottle. ‘Maybe I got it right first time. Maybe she is a clown. Either way, though, all that bollocks is history. New life, boss.’ He gestured at his face again. ‘New prospects.’

  Haltingly he told Faraday about the fuck-up over the Devon and Cornwall cocaine seizure. The stuff had come in from Cambados, two kilos of it, and no one had thought to warn Winter. As a result, he said, he’d been lucky not to have been hurt a whole lot earlier.

  ‘And I mean hurt, boss. Really hurt. Not this. Not the way I am now.’

  ‘So you’ve binned the job? For sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘To work for Mackenzie?’

  ‘Yeah. Does that sound odd to you? Be honest.’

  Faraday took his time. He’d left the Bridewell nearly an hour ago. He’d seldom felt so empty, so exhausted, so utterly bereft of ideas.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t.’

  Twenty-five

  WEDNESDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER 2006. 07.12

  Faraday awoke to a kiss. Gabrielle had curled herself around him, one leg flung over his belly, the moistness of her lips anointing the soft pockets of skin beneath his eyes. Now her busy tongue was exploring elsewhere.