Deadlight, page 30
part #4 of Faraday & Winter Series
‘You mean he’s delivered the little cunt?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘After a word or two in his ear.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Darren’s still facing a murder charge.’
‘So go ahead. You know where he is. Charge him.’
‘We can’t. There’s no evidence. We’ve recovered stuff from his mum’s place but she’s still blaming it on another kid.’
‘Like who?’
‘Won’t say.’
Clarence hadn’t taken his eyes off Winter’s face. The perfect detective, Winter thought. Scary as hell.
‘You want me to push these round?’ Clarence’s tattooed hand closed on the pile of prints.
‘Yeah. You’ll know the names, Darren’s mates, the ones who were with him when he did Rookie. Give them a copy each. Tell them Bazza is still itching to sort out Darren’s little gang. And then explain how cool it might be to make a statement or two.’
‘About what?’
‘Darren thumping Rookie.’
‘That’s grassing.’
‘No, it’s not.’ For the first time Winter smiled. ‘Let’s call it self-preservation.’
Bev Yates finally got through to Mark Harrington just before noon. Accolade’s First Lieutenant had been top of his call list since nine. Now a captain with a desk in the Ministry of Defence, he’d so far resisted the temptation to phone Yates back.
Until now.
Yates was still in Faraday’s office. The pad at his elbow was full of names ringed, ticked, or savagely scored through. To date, Yates had managed to arrange just five interviews with Accolades from Monday night.
The phone to his ear, Yates explained the reason for the call. A Major Crimes team were investigating the death of a serving prison officer. Sean Coughlin had once been in the navy. They had reason to suspect a possible connection with an incident aboard HMS Accolade, back in ’eighty-two. Captain Harrington might be able to shed some light on this incident. Might he have time for a brief interview?
‘I don’t understand,’ Harrington said at once. ‘What kind of incident?’
Yates mentioned Matthew Warren. There was a silence, then Harrington was as measured and businesslike as ever.
‘I’m not quite with you,’ he said.
‘We understand Warren disappeared over the side.’
‘That’s right, he did. Unfortunate to say the least, poor kid. We did our best to find him, of course, but these things happen. Bloody tragic, actually, though I suppose he was spared what followed.’
Yates repeated his request for an interview. Half an hour, max.
‘When?’
‘This afternoon?’ Yates glanced at his watch. ‘I can be with you by three.’
‘No can do, I’m afraid. Meetings all afternoon.’
‘This evening, then?’
‘I’m off to Leicester.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Stafford. Then Stoke-on-Trent. I’m on the Recruiting Directorate. You won’t believe how understaffed we are.’
Join the club, Yates thought. He pushed the pad away, his patience suddenly exhausted.
‘I understand there was a Ship’s Investigation into Warren’s death.’
‘Of course. Standard procedure.’
‘So there’d be an official report, something in writing.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘We don’t seem able to access it.’
‘Really … ?’ Harrington strung the word out. For the first time, Yates imagined a smile on his face. There was a long silence. Then Harrington was back on the phone. ‘Listen. Best I can do is make some enquiries. It won’t be today and probably not tomorrow but I’ll give you a call back. How does that sound?’
Fucking useless, Yates thought, but the line had already gone dead.
Twenty
MONDAY, 10 JUNE, 2002, 12.10
Dave Beattie returned to the cottage shortly before noon. Faraday, alerted by the approaching growl of a diesel engine, stepped towards the window with his second mug of coffee, watching an ancient Land-Rover bumping down the track between the trees. Parked-up, Beattie got out. With him was an Alsatian dog. The pair of them paused to examine Faraday’s Mondeo, then made their way towards the cottage.
Beattie seemed smaller than Faraday remembered from the CCTV tapes, a lean, slight figure in grubby shorts and a torn blue T-shirt. The T-shirt was blotched with sweat and he paused by the garden gate to stamp the muck and dust from his boots. Glancing up again, the sunshine caught his face. It was an outdoors face, a face weathered by hard physical work. Faraday guessed his age at early fifties, maybe a year or two older. His greying hair was drawn back, a ponytail secured with a rubber band, and he wore a tiny gold earring.
They met at the door. Beattie’s handshake was dry and firm. The dog sniffed Faraday up and down while Beattie clumped through to the kitchen. A blast of water from the tap, then the sound of the electric kettle being filled.
‘How did you know about the birds?’ Faraday had propped himself against the jamb of the kitchen door.
‘I gave Derek Grisewood a call. After we talked on the phone.’
‘Checking me out?’
‘Of course. He said you were all right. Apparently you’d been discussing birds with him.’
Faraday nodded. Grisewood was the manager at the Home Club in Pompey.
Beattie busied himself with a jar of Maxwell House. He wanted to know the purpose of Faraday’s visit. Just what was he after?
On the phone, Faraday had simply referred to a major inquiry. Now, he began to talk about Monday night.
‘Does the name Coughlin ring any bells? Sean Coughlin?’
‘Yeah. Killick chef aboard Accolade. We were only talking about him the other day. Arsehole, if you want the truth.’
‘So I gather. Maybe that’s why he’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Faraday’s news put the ghost of a smile on Beattie’s face. ‘You mean someone whacked him?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You’ve got a squad on it?’
‘Obviously.’
‘So how’s it going?’
Faraday didn’t answer. Instead, he suggested they talk next door, somewhere more comfortable. Beattie followed him into the big living room, settling himself on the sofa with the dog curled beside him. Faraday retrieved his mug from the window sill and took the other armchair.
‘I want to talk about Accolade,’ he began. ‘And what happened in the Falklands.’
Beattie frowned. A conversation like this appeared to be the last thing he expected.
‘The Falklands was a bummer,’ he said. ‘We lost the ship.’
‘I know.’
‘Sure you know. Everyone knows. It’s history. It’s in all the books. What you don’t know is what it feels like.’
‘Felt like?’
‘Feels like.’ Beattie took a long pull at the coffee. ‘Something as big as that, you never forget it.’
‘Is that why you went to the reunion last Monday night?’
‘Yeah.’ He looked at the dog. ‘Yeah.’
‘And that brings it all back?’
‘Of course.’
Faraday let the silence grow and grow. From way down the valley, he thought he caught the clatter of a train. At length, he asked why Beattie had left the navy so soon after the Falklands.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Wallace. The association secretary.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘He said you’d baled out sharpish. Lost your taste for it.’
‘Then you’ve got your answer.’ He nodded. ‘I thought you were interested in Coughlin?’
‘I am.’
‘Then why all this personal stuff?’
Faraday studied him for a second or two. It was a fair question and he saw no point in not admitting the truth.
‘Because I’m fascinated,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been here in my life. For two pins I’d never go back.’ He paused. ‘You’ve been here long?’
Beattie shot him a quizzical look, then ran a finger round the top of his mug. Plainly, Faraday’s question was more complex than it sounded.
‘Nearly twenty years,’ he said at last. ‘We were living down in Guzz before, me and the missus. I used to take the kids up here on the boats they run in the summer. I’d seen this place often. You pass it on the way to Morwellham. It was a real wreck.’ The memory put a bigger smile on his face. He glanced across at Faraday, then eased the dog off his lap and got up. ‘You want to see it? The way it was?’
Without waiting for an answer, he stamped upstairs. Faraday heard footsteps overhead. Then Beattie was down again, back on the sofa, leafing through a big photo album.
‘Here.’ He passed the album to Faraday. ‘That was the first summer. This time of year. 1983.’
Faraday found himself looking at a building site. The cottage was barely recognisable, scaffolded on two sides, and the garden had disappeared beneath stacks of timber, a small mountain of sand, and carefully sorted piles of slates. A cement mixer stood beside the open front door, a wheelbarrow parked on the plank that led inside.
‘You sort all this yourself?’
‘Had to. Leaving the navy when I did, I never got the full pension. Plus I’d split up with my missus. Divorce isn’t cheap, believe me.’
‘So you were living here, as well?’ Faraday turned the page. Gaping windows, waiting for new frames. An old tarpaulin, secured with ropes, where the roof had once been.
‘Yeah. Took the best part of two years. We managed it in the end, though.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Rory.’ Beattie looked down at the dog and gave it a pat. ‘This one’s her son, Rory Two, and even he’s getting on now. Rory One came from the RSPCA. Useless guard dog but great company. We mainly got by on Welsh rarebit and bean stew. On good days, I might shoot the odd pigeon.’
‘What about money?’
‘I’d started a little business, just to make ends meet when the bills piled up. Couple of days a week to begin with.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Gardening.’ He nodded at the album. ‘Take a look.’
Faraday turned the page. As the cottage slowly emerged from the chaos of those two years, other shots began to intrude: gardens of all sizes, enormous lawns, tiny borders, rows of runner beans, immaculately staked. Occasionally Beattie himself would appear, bent over a spade or filling a watering can, eyeing the camera. Beneath the deep tan, he looked wary and ill-at-ease. Life as a divorcee plainly had its problems.
‘You liked it here?’
‘Loved it. It was hard at first, like nothing I’d done before, but it gave me what I wanted. The place itself is amazing. Winter, you needn’t ever see a soul.’
‘And that suited you?’
‘Then it did. Now it’s just habit. You know something?’ He gestured towards his own garden, and the river beyond. ‘This valley used to be the Klondike. Hundred years ago, they were digging every bloody thing out of the hills, copper, arsenic, you name it. Stuff went out on barges, down to Guzz, then was shipped off round the world. Miners walked here from West Cornwall, thousands of them, brought their families, made their fortunes. It’s all gone now but you can still feel it sometimes. This valley’s full of ghosts.’
Ghosts?
Faraday’s eye had settled on another shot in the album. Time must have passed because Beattie was looking older, and infinitely more relaxed. He was posed against a backdrop of an exquisitely terraced garden. He had a glass of something bubbly in his hand, while his other arm was draped around a much younger man.
Faraday showed him the picture.
‘That’s Johnno, my oldest. Still lives in Guzz but helps me out on some of the jobs. That was a couple of years back. Bloke was really chuffed with the garden.’
Faraday remembered the files stacked next door on the office desk. Twenty years of hard labour had obviously paid off. He glanced up, more intrigued than ever by the life this man had made for himself. What wouldn’t he give, he thought, for fresh air, silence, and the promise of a good night’s sleep?
‘Soil good?’
‘South-facing, it is. It’s moist round here, lots of rain and lots of sunshine. Fruits crop well. You have to watch for arsenic, though, the tailings they left. I could take you places where nothing will ever grow.’
He got to his feet, checked his watch, then drained the last of the coffee. One o’clock, he was due at a pub in Calstock to pick up a cheque. Smalltalk was getting them nowhere. Whatever Faraday was after, now was the time.
Faraday was still leafing through the photo album. Finally, he looked up.
‘How about I buy you lunch?’
They went in Beattie’s Land-Rover, the old dog wedged between them. The back was full of cuttings and potted shrubs, plants destined for Beattie’s current project, and as they bumped up the narrow lane towards the crossroads at the top, Faraday wondered about the realities of living in a spot this remote. You’d need to be on good terms with yourself, he thought. You’d need to know who you really were.
Calstock was a scruffy collection of houses climbing up the valley beside an impressive-looking railway viaduct. Beattie described it as a village that had never quite managed to become a town, and hinted at a certain degree of lawlessness. Calstock, he said, was the last refuge for hard-core sixties hippies, plus a small army of assorted no-hopers, and gazing out at the narrow-fronted terrace houses, Faraday could believe him. Round one corner, a stained mattress lay abandoned on the pavement. Round the next, someone had spray-canned ‘Legalise Smack’ across the notice board outside the Methodist Church Hall.
The pub lay beside the river. Clouds were building to the west but the sun was still strong and Faraday elected for a table on the terrace overlooking the river. He bought himself a pint and a packet of crisps and left Beattie to collect his cheque. Downstream, he could see a modest line of yachts, swinging in the tide. Immediately below him, where the muddy water lapped against the pilings, three mallard were quarrelling over the remains of a bread roll.
Bev Yates was still at Kingston Crescent when Faraday finally got through.
‘What’s been happening?’ he asked.
Yates updated him on the Accolades interviews. He’d now managed to get through to more than a dozen survivors from the anniversary dinner and planned to start the interviews this afternoon. One of them sounded especially promising.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Bloke called Gault. Says he knew the boy Warren really well. Took him under his wing.’
‘And Coughlin?’
‘Knew him, too. Usual story. Complete cunt.’
‘Where is this Gault?’
‘189 Glasgow Road.’
‘Pompey?’ ‘Yeah.’
‘And he was at the do on Monday?’
‘Yeah. Pal of your bloke, Beattie. Gault was a cook in the navy. Works in the Harvester now, over on the Eastern Road. I couldn’t get any more out of him because he was so busy.’
‘You’ve fixed to interview him?’
‘Tonight. Mel’s going to love it. I’m blaming it on you.’ Faraday smiled to himself. Yates went through the rest of the list. When he got to Mark Harrington, the First Lieutenant, Faraday broke in again. He wanted to know when Yates anticipated the return call.
‘It won’t happen. I’ll put money on it. It’s a family thing. We’re not welcome.’
‘Family thing? Kid going over the side? Suspicious death?’
‘Who says it’s suspicious?’
‘Me …’ Faraday had spotted what might have been another buzzard, high over the wooded flanks of the valley. ‘But you’re right. I can’t prove it.’
Yates rang off shortly afterwards, leaving Faraday wishing he hadn’t left his binoculars at the cottage. For high summer, the pub felt deserted, just a couple of tables occupied. Brilliant, thought Faraday, leaning back in the sunshine and closing his eyes.
Seconds later, the door from the bar banged open and Faraday found himself looking at a middle-aged Hell’s Angel, big as a house, with a pint in one hand and a couple of pasties wrapped in napkins in the other. Bare-chested under a filthy denim waistcoat, he commandeered the table next to Faraday. With him was a girl, no more than seventeen. She was blonde and pretty and the cut of her T-shirt left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The side of her neck was livid with love-bites. She settled within touching distance of Faraday and kicked off her sandals. For a moment or two, he put the giggles down to high spirits. Then he realised she was drunk.
Her partner swallowed half the lager, then asked her which way had been best. The girl told him she didn’t care. Up the arse, oral, it was all the same to her. She stuck her tongue out and giggled again. The tip of her tongue was pierced, a tiny silver ball nestling amongst the pink folds. She nodded at the biker’s ample crotch.
‘What about you, then? Fucking loved it, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
He began to review their morning in bed. Faraday, aware of two elderly women three tables away, shot him a warning look. The biker broke off and stood up. Seconds later, he was looming over Faraday, grease-stained jeans, studded belt, scuffed Doc Martens. Monday morning clearly didn’t extend to soap and water.
‘You got a problem?’
‘Yes. I have.’
‘Something get up your nose?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Like what?’
‘You.’ Faraday shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘You want to compare notes, you should have stayed in bed. You think anyone else is interested in your love life?’
The biker said nothing for a moment. Then a shadow fell over the table as Beattie stepped between them. He eased the biker away, backed him against a window, began to talk very softly in his ear. There was a stillness about Beattie that it was impossible to miss. In situations like these, you’d be foolish not to listen very hard. Faraday caught the word ‘fuckwit’ before the girl abandoned her drink, grabbed her boyfriend by the arm, and dragged him towards the exit at the end of the terrace.
