Deadlight, page 14
part #4 of Faraday & Winter Series
Solitary individual? Faraday leafed on through the report, pausing a page or two before the end. By 1982, Coughlin had become a ‘LCK’ aboard HMS Accolade. The ship had obviously been part of the Falklands Task Force because the posting had come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the hostilities. ‘The loss of a ship can be profoundly traumatic,’ a Commander Wylie had written, ‘and it is to LCK Coughlin’s credit that he seems to have been less affected by the sinking than many of the ship’s crew. This strength of resolve should stand him in good stead in future drafts.’
Faraday put the report to one side, suddenly swamped by memories of the Falklands Task Force. For the moment, HMS Accolade rang no bells – so many ships had gone down – but April 1982 had found him on leave from the CID training school in Lancashire, and back in Portsmouth he’d taken J-J down to the harbourmouth to watch Hermes and Invincible leaving for the long passage south.
The crowds had been ten deep on top of the Round Tower overlooking the harbour narrows, but with his three-year-old son perched on his shoulders Faraday had found the perfect spot, wedged against a big retaining wall. The ships had seemed enormous – Hermes in particular – and Faraday remembered the choke in his throat as he watched the battered old aircraft carrier slip slowly seawards. The flight deck, crammed with helicopters, had been lined with sailors – feet spread, heads held high – and it was impossible not to wonder how many of these men wouldn’t be coming home. The crowd, mainly women and kids, had been strangely muted, not a hint of the brash tabloid jingoism that had gripped the rest of the nation, and watching the television news that night, Faraday had tried to explain something of this puzzle to his infant son. The country, he’d signed, seemed only too glad to go to war. Only cities like Portsmouth were anticipating the bill.
‘Sir?’
It was Dave Michaels’ head around the door. He was looking unusually cheerful. He’d just had a call from Dave Stockley at the Computer Crime Unit. They’d been working flat out on the analysis of Coughlin’s hard disk and had come up with what Stockley termed ‘good news’.
‘Like what?’
‘Like a name.’
Stockley himself appeared forty minutes later. He’d driven over from the CCU at Netley and brought yet more print-outs. Faraday borrowed Willard’s office again, spreading the paperwork across the conference table. Brian Imber had abandoned the Intelligence Cell up the corridor to join them. Dave Michaels made the coffees.
Since the last meet, Stockley’s analysts had isolated a number of more recent newsgroup conversations involving Coughlin. Still using the nickname ‘Freckler’, he’d thrown his weight about, doing his best to antagonise whoever might have dropped in. None of this had been the least bit surprising, not after his earlier performances, but another factor had entered the equation, something new.
Faraday looked at him, waiting.
‘Well?’
‘Coughlin was being stalked. There’s another guy, follows him around from site to site, logs on, gets stuck in. Here.’
Stockley selected a print-out and slid it along the table. Faraday noted the time and date: 23.12, 17.11.01. Seven months ago. He peered at the lines of text beneath. Coughlin had embarked on one of his more violent riffs, slagging off a subscriber from Heidelberg who’d evidently been making enquiries about a Led Zeppelin album. In Coughlin’s view, the guy was a total wanker. Only cretins and Nazis liked that kind of crap. This diatribe, increasingly explicit, had been interrupted by a new voice, even more savage than Coughlin’s. ‘Freckler’ deserved a bomb up his arse. And if he didn’t watch his manners, the new arrival would be only too happy to oblige. This threat naturally sparked a reaction from Coughlin and over the next half an hour or so this corner of the newsgroup was wrecked by a full-scale brawl. Even on paper, the violence felt all too real.
Faraday looked up.
‘And there’s lots of this?’
‘Loads.’ Stockley gestured at the print-outs at his elbow. ‘We haven’t had a chance to go through absolutely everything but it seems to have started last year. The new guy obviously checks in through DejaVu, runs “Freckler” as the prompt, and tracks Coughlin from newsgroup to newsgroup.’
‘Is that easy?’
‘Time-consuming. You have to want to do it. It has to matter to you.’
‘And the stuff is all like this?’ Faraday lifted the print-out he’d just read.
‘Worse.’ Stockley was trying to find another example. ‘The last couple of weeks it’s virtual death threats.’
Dave Michaels’ grin flagged the pun. Virtual indeed. Until you knocked on a door in Niton Road and found an overweight fifty-three-year-old dead on the floor.
Faraday was still looking at Stockley.
‘So who is he?’
‘He calls himself Guzza.’
‘Guzza?’
‘That’s his nickname, his handle. That’s what we start with.’
It was Stockley’s turn to smile. He opened his briefcase again and took out a file. Tracking down a subscriber name and number could often take weeks. With foreign-registered ISPs it would often be even longer. On this occasion, though, they’d struck lucky. The duty inspector had signed the RIPA and data protection forms and the ISP had come up with a subscriber number.
‘In the UK?’
‘In Pompey.’
Faraday blinked. Dave Michaels had been right. Good news at last.
‘And they gave you a name?’
‘No, but BT did.’
The duty inspector had obliged by signing another DP2 and the form had gone to BT’s Police Liaison department. Thirty minutes later, Stockley was looking at their response. He passed the fax to Faraday. Kevin Pritchard. Alhambra Hotel. Granada Road. Southsea.
Faraday stared at it. Granada Road ran from the Strand down to Canoe Lake, an expanse of brackish water reserved for mute swans, pedalos and model yachts. There were lots of hotels down Granada Road, thirty pounds a night B and B, the kind of place you wouldn’t take anyone you wanted to impress.
Faraday looked up.
‘Niton Road’s five minutes away.’
‘Exactly.’ Dave Michaels was already on his feet, collecting the mugs. ‘I took the liberty of phoning Scenes of Crime.’
Paul Winter had been waiting nearly half an hour before Dawn Ellis turned up. The CID office was virtually empty. Cathy Lamb had organised massive house-to-house checks in the vicinity of Rooke’s beating, the squad bulked out with uniforms poached from every corner of the city. Chief Superintendent Hartigan, who had an appetite for Wild West metaphors, had decided that this was high noon. One way or another, he was going to re-establish the rule of law in Somerstown.
Dawn Ellis looked awful. She normally had a flawless complexion, a tribute to her diet and her arm’s-length relationship with tobacco and booze. She went weeks without touching a proper drink, never smoked, and regularly worked out at a Port Solent gym. But this morning, for reasons that Winter could only guess at, her normal sparkiness had gone. She went straight to the electric kettle and then spooned Nescafé into an empty cup. Her face was drawn, the skin beneath her eyes smudged black with exhaustion.
Winter looked pointedly at his watch.
‘Traffic bad, was it?’
Ellis ignored him. She wanted to know what Scenes of Crime had sussed last night.
‘They finished late, round ten, closed off the whole street. Jerry Proctor was in here first thing with Cathy.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing much. The blood’s got to be Rookie’s.’
‘All of it?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter reached for the last of the biscuits. ‘This wasn’t a fight. Just a bunch of kids handing it out.’
‘Bunch? Who says?’
Winter explained about the mobile phone SOC had retrieved from the pocket of Rooke’s denim jacket. The last stored message to come in had invited him to a meet on the street where the beating had taken place. The presumption was that Rookie had gone along in the expectation of a drug deal. At Proctor’s request, Winter had listened to the voice and confirmed it wasn’t Darren Geech. Not that Geech wasn’t squarely in the frame.
‘So probably two of them,’ he said. ‘At least.’
‘What about Rooke’s mobile?’
‘They got a number off that last message. Traced it to another cell phone.’
‘And?’
‘Stolen off a kid from the school down the road last week. He was in class yesterday afternoon.’
‘Does he know who nicked it?’
‘Of course he does.’
‘Is he telling?’
‘No bloody chance – and no one else has come forward either. Cath organised a speaker tour last night, and put a media appeal out this morning. The house-to-house started at seven to catch the early risers. Hartigan seems pretty up about the prospects but he’s old-fashioned that way. Thinks the uniform still opens mouths. Amazing, isn’t it? Couple of years behind a desk and you’ll believe anything.’
Ellis was pouring hot water over the coffee and Winter noticed that her hands were shaking. Nothing heavy, just the slightest of tremors.
‘Good night?’ he enquired.
‘Wonderful,’ Ellis said bleakly. ‘So where do we find young Darren?’
Willard phoned Faraday mid-morning, between lectures. Faraday was in his office, waiting for Bev Yates to return from the magistrates’ court with a search warrant for the Alhambra Hotel. Scenes of Crime had already got themselves organised, calling in reinforcements from Southampton. The last twenty-four hours, in Jerry Proctor’s dry phrase, had been a challenge: a full day’s work still waiting at Niton Road, a near-murder in Somerstown, and now every prospect of the full monty on the premises in Granada Road. If you were looking for career experience in forensics then Portsmouth wouldn’t let you down.
Willard wanted to know more about Kevin Pritchard. The impatience and irritation of yesterday had vanished and he was back to his old, measured self, following the story step by step, interrupting Faraday’s account with an occasional grunt.
Faraday brought him up to speed. He’d put a car out front of the Alhambra, two DCs, and stationed another one round the back. Orders had gone out that everyone leaving the hotel was to be discreetly stopped and ID’d. For the time being he had no idea whether Pritchard was in residence but he wasn’t taking any risks. By lunchtime, with Scenes of Crime, they’d be inside giving the place a thorough shake. Pritchard too, with luck.
‘Pritchard got any previous?’
‘Nothing on PNC.’
‘Anything else we know about him?’
‘No, apart from his manners on the internet.’
Willard’s chuckle took Faraday by surprise. Twenty-four hours without another head-to-head with Corbett had done wonders for his sense of humour.
‘What about Niton Road? Any hits on the print lifts?’
‘None. I phoned Netley this morning. They’ve run the whole lot now.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Davidson to me, then.’ He paused. ‘What about FIB? Have they got anywhere with SO11?’
‘No.’ Brian Imber had already fed Corbett’s hearsay into the headquarters Force Intelligence Bureau and was still awaiting an assessment. Whatever happened, there were very definite limits to the covert information other forces were prepared to share. Individual sources were fiercely protected and the most that FIB could probably expect from the Met was a nod or a shake of the head in Davidson’s direction.
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, then Willard was back again. Famously manic about good housekeeping on major investigations, he wanted to know about media strategies, about the appointment of a Family Liaison Officer, about the state of the overtime budget after the first blitz. Faraday jotted down the questions one by one. Photos of Coughlin had been released to local press and television. There was still no sign of a Family Liaison Officer on the inquiry but that was just as well because Coughlin didn’t appear to have any family.
‘None at all?’ Willard sounded incredulous.
‘Just a mum. She’s in her eighties in a home somewhere near Emsworth. Coughlin never saw her. Not even at Christmas. His dad died young and there were no brothers or sisters.’
‘Wives? Kids?’
‘Never married.’
‘OK.’ Willard seemed mollified. ‘What about the overtime?’
‘I checked again this morning. We’ve caned it over the last couple of days but we’re still within the allowance.’
‘Thank Christ for that. You know about this Rooke business?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Fella died an hour ago. Under the circumstances, I’m hoisting it into Major Crimes but there’s going to be resource implications. You’ll be looking at a smaller squad on Merriott.’
Faraday was still thinking about Willard’s reference to ‘circumstances’. Dave Michaels’ account of the Somerstown beating had left little to the imagination. Paul Winter had found a bathful of blood in some nearby flat and Scenes of Crime had allegedly picked up brain tissue from the pavement. Any more kids turning executioner on city streets and the top corridor at force HQ would be thinking hard about early retirement.
Willard was musing aloud about personnel. He’d already put a call through to Operational Support for yet more bodies but he knew the cupboard was nearly bare and Faraday should start drawing up a list of DCs to be transferred to the Rooke killing. Nick Hayder would be SIO until Perry Madison got back on Monday.
‘Any ideas, Joe? People you might want off your hands?’
‘No problem.’ Faraday kicked his office door shut. ‘Let’s start with Andy Corbett.’
From the unmarked Skoda, Winter had a perfect view of Mrs Czinski’s house. Off to the left, in the heart of Old Portsmouth, was the picturesque muddle of yachts and fishing smacks that filled the Camber Dock. Look to the right, where the road curved away between rows of new-looking town houses, and the red front door of number twelve was unmissable. Soon, if Winter had this right, young Darren would appear.
Dawn Ellis sat in the passenger seat, reading the first edition of the News. Winter’s contact had been as good as her word, penning a brief three-paragraph story about Mrs Czinski’s precious Charlie. The dog had unaccountably gone missing. Pompey’s finest, in the course of their duties, had scooped the little terrier up. And here was Charlie, bedecked once again in big pink bows, sprawled on his owner’s lap.
‘So what makes you think Geech is going to see this?’
Winter didn’t take his eyes off the rear-view mirror. The street was one-way. He was looking for a red Audi A4, XBK 386 W.
‘Has to. Celebrity’s a big thing with these kids. They like seeing their efforts in the papers. That’s why they’ll all be buying the News, to check out Rookie.’
‘But what makes you think Darren can read?’
‘Doesn’t have to.’ He leaned over and tapped the colour shot of Mrs Czinski. ‘A picture’s worth a thousand words.’
His eyes returned to the mirror again. If he’d got it right, the Audi would appear first beside the pub up the road, slowing for the speed bumps. Darren would be at the wheel, looking for number twelve. That left them plenty of time to ready themselves for the moment when he found the address, stepped on to the pavement, and left himself wide open to what would inevitably follow. Game, set and match. Drinks in the bar and a herogram from Willard.
Dawn wasn’t convinced.
‘You really think the dog matters to the boy that much?’
‘I know it. You were there. You heard what his mum said. Geech loves the bloody animal to death.’
‘His mum was off the planet. She’d have said anything.’
‘Nonsense.’ Winter shook his head. ‘Darren’s found himself a little friend. This is a kid who’s probably never loved any living thing in his life. If all that stands between him and Charlie is a couple of pink bows he’ll be round here like a shot. Guarantee it.’
Dawn tried not to laugh. Winter was at his least credible when he tried to sound like a social worker.
‘Since when have you cared about kids like Darren?’
‘Never. You asked a question. I gave you an answer.’
‘That’s not an answer. That’s wish fulfilment. How long has Cathy given us?’
‘As long as it takes.’ He hesitated a moment, then frowned. ‘Three hours.’
Faraday decided to accompany Bev Yates and the Scenes of Crime team to the Alhambra Hotel. Strictly speaking, he should have stayed at Kingston Crescent, chained to the precious Policy Book, tallying his latest decisions and fielding the incessant stream of incoming calls, but there had to be compensations for this crippling sequence of twelve-hour days and a potential breakthrough like this was undoubtedly one of them.
Yates had the search warrant in his hand when the door opened to his second knock. A small, dark woman of uncertain age peered out at them. She was wearing a black wig and far too much eyeliner. A thick layer of make-up masked a face that might once have been pretty.
‘Can I help you?’ West Country accent, softer than Pompey.
Yates introduced himself. He was investigating a major crime. He wanted to talk to a Mr Kevin Pritchard.
‘You can’t, my love.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s not here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Gibraltar.’
The woman held the door open and stepped back to let them in. The smell of the hotel hit them at once, years of damp and neglect anointed with gallons of the cheapest spray deodoriser. Stay here for more than an hour or two, Faraday thought, and you’d live with that smell for ever.
The woman took them into a small lounge. The patterned nylon carpet felt greasy underfoot and most of the tables were cratered with cigarette burns. The net curtains were yellow with nicotine and there was a gust of stale beer from the tiny bar at the far end as the woman closed the door behind them.
Faraday’s eyes strayed to the framed photographs hanging on the wall. Most of them were sepia or black and white and all of them featured warships. HMS Hood nosing out through the harbour narrows. HMS Repulse nudging the quayside in some faraway port, officers in tropical gear peering down from the bridge, sweating matelots making fast below.
