The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  Aroused, Faraday let her straddle him. Still half-asleep, he lay motionless, vaguely wondering whether the favour was his or hers. Then he was back in the interview suite again, watching Yates and Ellis on the video link getting absolutely nowhere.

  Minutes later, his eyes closed, he felt the warmth of Gabrielle’s breath on his ear.

  ‘Il ne reste que quinze jours.’

  She was right. In a couple of weeks she’d be back in Chartres.

  ‘So?’ He opened one eye.

  ‘Maybe we can take a break. Go somewhere nice. You and me.’

  ‘Like now?’

  ‘Oui. Pourquoi pas?’

  Faraday stared up at her, trying to mask his disbelief. After all the time they’d spent together, hadn’t she understood anything about a copper’s life? Wasn’t she aware of the difficulty - the sheer impossibility - of trying to build a case, muster evidence, trap a man into a confession? And afterwards, once charges had been laid, hadn’t she realised the sheer weight of paperwork on which a conviction would depend?

  For a second or two, while she waited for an answer, he toyed with putting all this into words, with just getting a little of the torment and frustration off his chest, but then he saw the expression on her face, an almost child-like disappointment, and instead he’d rolled over, closing his eyes again, too weary to bother with an explanation. Life, in the shape of Billhook, was ganging up on him. He had a killer under lock and key and absolutely no way of proving his guilt. So how, in God’s name, was a holiday supposed to help?

  Moments later, without a word, Gabrielle got out of bed. Faraday heard her soft footsteps cross the wooden floor, then the rustle of clothing as she quickly got dressed. He caught more footsteps, down the stairs this time, then the squeak of the lock of the front door as she left the house.

  Faraday, up on one elbow now, was tempted to go to the bedroom window, to apologise, to tell her that somehow he’d find the time to fit in a couple of days away, but in his heart he knew it was hopeless. Gabrielle was the best thing that had happened to him in years. For a while he’d believed he could share his life with this wonderful nomad, that there’d be a way, but now he recognised the size of the gulf between them. The last person Gabrielle needed was a grouchy, morose, bad-tempered detective several months short of fifty. The truth was that the job, in the shape of Charlie Freeth, was robbing him of everything. Even hope.

  Half an hour later, sitting at the kitchen table, Faraday did his best to temper a growing sense that events were slipping out of control. A night in the cells might soften a little of Freeth’s arrogance. The two D/Cs in his Toyota might turn up something in Fishguard. Even this late in the day, with the PACE clock ticking, someone else on the Billhook squad might stumble over a promising lead. In this situation anything would be welcome, anything that would prevent him from having to release a man he knew to be guilty. That single fact, the near-certainty of Freeth walking free, had assumed an importance he’d rarely accorded to anything else in his professional life.

  But why Freeth? And why now? He didn’t know. Maybe it was because the man was an ex-copper. Maybe it was because he was demonstrating so clearly the real limitations of the investigative process. Think through the crime you wanted to commit. Pay scrupulous attention to detail. And there wouldn’t be a detective in the world who could lay a finger on you. That’s how tough people like Freeth could make this job of his, and the knowledge of his own helplessness simply deepened his gloom still further.

  Could it get any worse? He knew it could. He thought of Winter, with his wrecked face and his broken teeth. Here was a detective unlike any other. He’d won countless victories, taken scalps by the hundred, potted decent villains with an artful nonchalance he’d made uniquely his own.

  Faraday himself had certainly had his share of run-ins with Winter. He’d been frequently impossible to manage and had always offered the most elusive of moving targets. His open contempt for the bright new face of police work - transparency, partnership, delivery - had won him few friends in the upper levels of the hierarchy and his cavalier disregard for the rules had driven everyone else mad. But there was a germ of something profoundly reassuring inside Winter, a candle that twenty-plus years in the job had never been able to snuff out. For all his bent little ways, he’d always recognised the difference between right and wrong, between the good guys and the bad. That was a given. That was something on which you could depend. Until last night.

  Shocked by the sight of the man, saddened by what he’d had to say, Faraday had taken the long route home to the Bargemaster’s House, parking briefly on the seafront to stare out into the darkness. Even then, he’d known that this was the end of something impossible to measure. Winter had gone over to the enemy. Winter had cashed his chips and left the table with scarcely a backward glance. And he’d done it because at last he’d tumbled that the odds were against him. Now and probably for ever.

  Faraday shook his head, wondering how on earth he’d break this news to Willard. Winter, he suspected, had glimpsed for the first time the hardest of truths: that the job had become impossible, that his professional life had been, in the end, a failure. Then came the sound of footsteps as Gabrielle stepped back into the house. She was calling Faraday’s name. And she was singing.

  Jimmy Suttle stared at the name, not quite believing it. He’d got to the incident room early, knowing that if this hunch of his was right then the least he owed Faraday was a little extra ammunition for the morning session with Charlie Freeth. Extra ammunition? He checked again, aware of the hot stir of adrenalin flooding his body.

  Between the sixteenth of June and the sixth of July, according to Tracy Barber’s records, Frank Greetham had been an inpatient at The Orchards. He glanced at his watch, wondering whether to try and check out Greetham’s medical records. The details of his GP would be on the Coroner’s file. He could put a call through to the practice, try and elbow his way into the morning queue of patients, try and make a case for confirming this one single fact, but already he knew that it would be wasted effort. To access any medical data required, at the very least, a Court Order. The medical community was, at every level, fiercely protective when it came to patient confidentiality.

  There had to be another way. He eyed the phone a moment, then checked back through his pocketbook. He still had Sam Taylor’s number. Taylor’s wife answered on the third ring. Suttle introduced himself and asked to talk to her husband.

  ‘He’s on the early shift at B&Q,’ she said. ‘Can I help at all?’

  Suttle, about to say no, changed his mind.

  ‘It’s about Frank Greetham. I understand he was in The Orchards for a spell. During the summer.’

  ‘That’s right. Sam went to see him. Poor man, he was in a terrible state.’

  ‘Why was he admitted? Do you happen to know?’

  ‘Sam thought it was something to do with all the pills he was taking, but you ought to talk to him yourself. He’d know. He was very pally with Frank. He thought the world of him.’

  He thought the world of him. Julie Greetham had used exactly the same phrase, describing the way Charlie felt about her father.

  ‘When’s he back? Sam?’

  ‘Around two this afternoon. He comes home for a late lunch. You’re bound to catch him then.’

  Suttle thanked her and looked up to find Faraday at the open office door. He was talking to Glen Thatcher. According to the Outside Enquiries D/S, the two D/Cs had been in Fishguard for a couple of hours now, hoping Dermott O’Keefe might turn up. They’d found a parking space across the road from the boarding house and left a Positivo baseball cap on the dashboard. The cap had come from the boot of the Toyota. If O’Keefe was really heading for Fishguard prior to a ferry crossing, he’d know the car belonged to Freeth.

  ‘So where are the lads?’

  ‘In a café down the road. They’ve got line of sight on the Toyota. Turns out there was also a mobile in the boot, hidden under the spare wheel. Full mark
s to the blokes for finding it.’

  ‘The mobile belongs to Freeth?’

  ‘I’d have thought so. It seems to be brand new. There’s nothing on the SIM card, no numbers stored. You just wonder why he bought it.’

  ‘Where is it now? This mobile?’

  ‘The blokes have got it.’ He grinned. ‘And it’s switched on.’

  Faraday’s grunt appeared to suggest approval. He stepped into the office, shut the door behind him.

  ‘Anything new?’ He was looking at Barber’s paperwork strewn across Suttle’s desk.

  Suttle told him about the psychiatric unit. At first he thought Faraday hadn’t heard him properly. He’d sunk into his chair, letting his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘Say that again,’ he murmured.

  ‘Frank Greetham was a patient in The Orchards for about three weeks. According to D/C Barber’s notes, his visitors included his daughter and Charlie Freeth. They went to see him more or less every night. There’s a note here about one of the nurses. Apparently she said that was unusual.’

  ‘And this was a Polygon action?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did anyone follow it up?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’ Suttle nodded at the paperwork.

  ‘Have you talked to Barber?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘Do it. Now.’

  Suttle lifted the phone. Tracy Barber was on another call. The third time he tried, the line was free. Suttle explained what he was after. Barber said she’d check with the incident room and call him back.

  ‘Yeah. Quick as you can, Trace.’

  The phone rang within minutes. According to an assistant in the incident room, neither Julie nor Freeth himself had been interviewed. They were both on the to-do list of actions.

  Faraday was monitoring the conversation from the other side of the desk. The Orchards was next door to St James’ Hospital.

  ‘Ask her whether the hospital has CCTV. Ask her about the grounds. Ask her about the derelict villa where they found the bike.’

  Suttle caught his eye, grinned, then relayed the question. A series of nods raised an answering smile from Faraday.

  ‘The answer’s yes, boss. There’s nothing that covers the villa but there’s yards of other footage. They’ve been through it all.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s got a list as long as your arm for people wandering around in the grounds. This kind of weather, everyone’s at it. She says tracing them has been a nightmare.’

  ‘But we know what Freeth looks like. We can check out the footage ourselves.’

  ‘Of course, boss, but there’s a problem. She’s saying the tapes are wiped after a month. They don’t go back as far as July.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Suttle mumbled a thank you to Barber and put the phone down. Faraday was looking at the ceiling again.

  ‘Tracy sends her regards, boss,’ Suttle said at last. ‘And she wants to know what we’re up to.’

  ‘I bet.’ Faraday reached across, helping himself to Barber’s notes. ‘So what possessed you to go through this lot?’

  ‘Something in one of the statements that first day. It’s been bothering me for a while.’

  ‘Which first day?’

  ‘The day the minister got shot. I didn’t get to read it for a bit, and by that time we were being shipped up here, but it stuck with me, like it does sometimes.’

  ‘And what was it?’

  ‘It was the woman pushing her baby home from the nursery. You probably don’t remember. She was about to cross a road. Greyshott Road. She’d stopped on the pavement to let a motorbike go past and she made a point of saying how small the bloke on the back was. I was struck by it. That’s all. Some of the witnesses at the scene had said exactly the same.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I tucked it away, like you do. And then I began to think about the MO, how someone had thought this whole thing through - no shell casings at the scene, no CCTV footage, lying low the way they did, lots of local knowledge. What does that remind you of? Just a week beforehand?’

  Faraday raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You’re telling me Freeth killed the minister? With O’Keefe on the back?’

  ‘I’m saying it’s possible, boss.’

  ‘But why would he ever do that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Except that he’s got the skills. Think about it, boss. I wasn’t there yesterday. I’ve no idea how he behaved in interview. But everything I know about this man tells me two things. Number one, he’s incredibly meticulous, incredibly sorted, incredibly good at doing what he does. Number two, he knows it.’

  ‘Right on both counts,’ Faraday conceded. ‘The man’s arrogant. He can do no wrong. But this is old news. That’s the way he was in the job. That’s why no one was sorry when he jacked it in. And that’s why we’ve probably got six hours before we have to let him go.’

  ‘The Superintendent won’t authorise an extension?’

  ‘I can’t see it. We need more evidence. This is terrific …’ Faraday gestured at the notes ‘… and so is what lies behind it. But it’s speculation, Jimmy. It’s guesswork. The Superintendent’s a hard bastard.’ He glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘We need more.’

  Winter did his best to fend Mackenzie off. The phone call came in at just gone nine. Bazza wanted to know how last night had turned out. Had the Pole been happy to join forces? Had he seen the logic behind bringing the two events together? Might he even chuck a little money in the pot? Winter ran a hand over his battered face. He was still in bed, still trying to work out whether he could risk another couple of ibuprofen on top of the fistful he’d swallowed already. The bathroom cabinet seemed a bus ride away. Pain made you lazy.

  ‘So what’s the score?’ Bazza wanted an answer.

  ‘Early days, Baz,’ Winter muttered, aware of the thickness in his voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said early days. He wouldn’t commit.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Paul? Forgotten to put your teeth in?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I just—’

  ‘Bollocks, it’s nothing. What have you been up to? You sound terrible, mush. You sound fucking old.’

  ‘God forbid, Baz.’ Winter tried to force a laugh. ‘Me? Never better.’

  ‘You’re lying, mush. Stay there. You in bed or what?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer and Winter groaned, staring at the mobile, only too aware of where the next hour or so would probably lead.

  Mackenzie, when he arrived, had brought Marie with him. Winter let them in. He’d managed to struggle his way into Maddox’s dressing gown. Below the knee, his bare legs were purpled with bruising.

  ‘Paul!’

  Marie was in the bathroom within seconds, running water from the hot tap, filling the basin. She called for cotton wool. Soap was in the shower tray, TCP in the bathroom cabinet. She sat Winter on the loo then began to sponge his face. There was still blood crusted on his chin and cheeks. One eye had closed overnight and his swollen lips made it hard to keep his mouth closed.

  ‘You need a dentist, Paul.’ She was probing along the line of broken teeth. Through his one good eye Winter could see the concern on her face. She turned to Mackenzie.

  ‘You didn’t know about this?’ It sounded like an accusation.

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘Paul?’ She wanted to know what had happened.

  ‘Little accident, love,’ he muttered.

  ‘Accident, bollocks.’ It was Mackenzie. ‘Tell me, mush. Tell me what happened.’

  Winter shook his head. In moments of fitful sleep he’d dreamed about this very situation. Winter would hold his ground. Mackenzie would call for Westie. The whole thing would kick off again and Winter would end up without a face at all. Welcome to Bazzaland.

  ‘A misunderstanding,’ he managed at last. ‘Nothing to get worked up about.’

  ‘You walked into
a lamp post? You fell out of the bath? You got hit by a meteor? What kind of twat do you think I am? I ask you to go and see our new friend. Next thing I know you look like something out of the Hammer House of Horror. Our Polish mate’s extremely heavy. Are we talking some kind of connection here or am I just imagining it? Only this could be quite serious.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Winter managed a smile. ‘You know something, Baz?’

  ‘No. Fucking tell me.’

  ‘That woman Brodie. I’ve worked it out. She’d have had a plan.’ Winter had both eyes shut now while Marie swabbed his face with TCP. Mackenzie waited until she’d finished.

  ‘What plan?’

  ‘She’d have wanted to have provoked a war.’ He gestured up at his face. ‘Something like this.’

  ‘So it was the Pole. Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘Of course it was.’

  Marie had left to put the kettle on. Bazza settled himself on the edge of the bath. He was like a kid. He was getting excited again. Winter could feel it. He explained about the minibus parked outside the newspaper offices. The thought of half a dozen naked Russian slappers put a grin on Bazza’s face.

  ‘Who organised that? You?’

  ‘Westie.’

  ‘No way.’ Bazza shook his head. ‘Westie wouldn’t have the brain for it.’

  ‘He did, Baz. I’ve seen the booking form.’

  ‘Fuck me. Westie? A stunt like that? Amazing.’ He was eyeing Winter’s face again. ‘So the Pole took it out on you, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not the point. The point, Baz, is this. You’re safe on the van, they can’t do you for that, but if you take it any further with the Pole, do anything really silly, then Brodie will be in the medals.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘They’ll expect you to react. They’ll be waiting. They’ll mount a fucking huge investigation and then do you for GBH, conspiracy, perverting the course of justice - whatever. Then they’ll go to town on the narcotics side of the business, turn something up, and once that happens they’ll take it all off you, every last penny.’