Deadlight, page 38
part #4 of Faraday & Winter Series
Faraday sat back, knowing better than to interrupt. At length, she changed her mind about the wine, emptying the remains of the bottle into her glass.
‘Corbett was with us for three years. He got married during that time. I knew the girl. She’d been a temp in Traffic, real looker. They were engaged before anyone even realised what was going on. A bunch of us went to the wedding.’ She watched Faraday’s face. ‘The marriage lasted less than a year. After the wife, Corbett started with other women. A couple were in the job. Finally, one or two of them put their heads together, compared notes.’
‘And?’
‘Turned out Corbett got off on weird stuff.’
‘Violence?’
‘Absolutely … but not what you or me would mean by violence. We’re not talking ten pints of Stella and a punch in the mouth. It was much more creative than that. He put real thought into it. Not just violence but humiliation. Once you understood, you could see it in him. The way he handled the job. The way he handled other people. Corbett has to be top dog. Come what may.’
Top dog? Faraday was looking beyond her, at the blur of faces crowding into the bar. This wasn’t Corbett she was describing. This was Coughlin.
‘Control,’ he murmured. ‘This is all about control. Me first.’
‘Yeah.’ She nodded. ‘And fuck everyone else.’
Too right. Faraday was frowning now. Something still bothered him. If the intelligence on Davidson’s criminal friends ruled out any kind of favours for the young excon, then how come Corbett had been so convinced they might have sorted out Coughlin? Had he made it up?
‘No.’ Pannell expelled a long plume of smoke. ‘He talked to the lads. They hate him. They know about his funny little ways and they’ll do anything to set him up.’
‘So they fed him this stuff? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Sure. As soon as they knew what he wanted, what kind of case he was trying to make, they took him down the pub and let him buy them lots of drinks.’
‘In return for … ?’
‘Whatever he wanted to hear. It’s all non-attributable. You know that. There wasn’t any chance of come-back.’
‘And you think Corbett believed them?’
‘I think Corbett didn’t care. If it made the case, it made the case. All he had to do was make a dramatic entrance and brag about his Met friends. He’s into the big time. You must have noticed.’
Indeed. Faraday was trying to attract the barmaid’s attention. Another bottle of Merlot would go down very nicely indeed. At length, she caught his eye.
Faraday felt a pressure on his arm. It was Pannell.
‘Not for me.’ She sounded genuinely regretful. ‘I have to go.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Faraday was holding up the empty bottle and signalling for another. ‘I’m beginning to enjoy this.’
Twenty-five
WEDNESDAYM, 12 JUNE, 2002, 04.30
Next morning, Bev Yates was up at half past four. He slipped out of the house, pausing by the car to savour the first blush of sunrise. An hour later, on the motorway and tuned in to the latest match analysis from the Far East, he was wondering quite how efficient KLM might be in keeping to their schedules. He’d talked in advance to the uniformed duty inspector at Gatwick, and had secured access to the landing pier. By arrangement with BAA security and a cheerful Dutchman in KLM’s traffic office, he’d be allowed on to the inbound plane. The cabby’s name was Vaughan. An office alongside Immigration had been made available for the interview. With luck, they’d be through by the time the England–Nigeria match was due to kick off.
At the airport, Yates left his Golf in the short-term car park and paused on the walkway to call a pre-assigned number. A woman from BAA security met him on the main concourse. She had good news. The KLM flight had already left Schipol and would be arriving fifteen minutes early. He had time for a Danish and a cappuccino before she’d escort him airside. Yates gave her a smile, then touched her lightly on the arm as she turned away.
‘Where would I find a television?’ he enquired. ‘Afterwards?’
The KLM flight touched down at 06.53. Yates, waiting at the end of the arrivals pier, was first on to the aircraft. The senior steward had already identified the cabby and led Yates down the aisle towards the rear of the aircraft.
‘Mr Vaughan?’ The man looked up in surprise, first at Yates, then at the proffered warrant card. ‘You got a moment?’
Vaughan was a thin, sallow-faced man with haunted eyes and a disastrous haircut. A long weekend in Amsterdam appeared to have robbed him of the power of speech.
‘What’s this, then?’ he said at last.
‘Nothing you should be worried about. Do you have any hand luggage?’
Yates escorted Vaughan off the aircraft. Minutes later, they were sitting in a small, bare office with a square of one-way glass in the door.
Yates explained the background. He was investigating a major crime. A man had been murdered in Pompey. He wanted Vaughan to think back to Monday night.
‘Monday night just gone? I was over in Amsterdam.’
‘No, the Monday before that – or early Tuesday, rather.’
‘Fuck me, don’t want much do you?’
Yates offered a prompt. It had been two in the morning. He’d gone to the Alhambra Hotel in Granada Road and collected three guys, one of them pissed out of his skull. The cabby gazed into the middle distance. He’d picked up hundreds of fares last week, each one blurring into the next. Past eleven o’clock it was rare to find anyone who wasn’t legless.
‘These were middle-aged guys,’ Yates said. ‘Ex-skates. Two of them wanted to go back to the Home Club. The other one you dropped in Milton. He was off his face. You had to help him into the house.’
The cabby frowned. Something had snagged in his memory.
‘Big guy? Heavy?’
‘That’s it.’
The frown deepened. He was trying really hard.
‘Glasgow Road? Milton?’
‘Spot on. 189.’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘So what’s the question?’
‘I want to know what happened.’
‘You what?’ Vaughan looked bewildered.
‘Just talk me through it. You picked these guys up?’
‘That’s right. The Alhambra, Granada Road, like you said.’
‘Then what?’
‘I dropped the big guy off. Terrace house. His missus was at the door.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘We went to the Home Club.’
‘No detours?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What were the guys talking about?’
‘Talking about? You’ve got to be joking. A week ago? How the fuck am I going to remember that?’
‘Did they mention a name at all? Bloke called Coughlin?’
‘No idea, mate.’
‘Straight back to the Home Club, then. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yeah. Definitely.’
‘And you’ll make a statement to that effect?’
‘Yeah.’ He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
Faraday was asleep when Yates got through.
‘Listen, boss. I’ve talked to the cabby.’
‘And?’
‘Fuck all. He picked them up, dropped them off. No surprises. OK?’
The phone went dead and it was several seconds before Faraday was able to focus on the clock beside the bed. 07.31. He rubbed his eyes, trying to ease the pain. Waiting for the train at Waterloo, he’d treated himself to a pint of Spitfire and a couple of Scotches. Two Nurofen last thing had been a lifesaver but he still felt dreadful.
Willard answered the phone surprisingly quickly. Faraday, still propped up on one elbow, told him about Yates. In his view, there were no longer any grounds for hanging on to the Accolades. They were free to go. Willard grunted his approval and told Faraday to sort it with the Custody Sergeants.
Faraday returned the phone to the bedside table and then eased himself out of bed, knowing that he had to get some fresh air in his lungs. Out on the harbour, a lone figure in a smallish yacht was taking advantage of the ebbing tide. Couple of minutes, he’d be out through the narrows and away. Lucky bastard, thought Faraday, hunting for a pair of jeans.
It was gone nine before he got to Kingston Crescent. Three miles on the towpath beside the harbour and a full fried afterwards had stilled a little of the thunder in his head. Calls to the Custody Officers at Central, Waterlooville and Fareham had already authorised the release of all three prisoners, and Faraday left a number for Beattie. He’d no idea how the man was going to make it back to Devon, but whatever happened he ought to take his dog. The Alsatian was still at Eadie’s place, and Faraday still had the key.
Willard had been at his desk since eight, locked in conference with Nick Hayder. Willard had already had a lengthy conversation with the Crime Correspondent on the News, confirming the breakthrough on the Somerstown murder, and there now appeared to be every chance of an optimistic in-depth feature highlighting a welcome change of mood amongst hard-core youths on the estate.
From Willard’s point of view, this was a perfect result. More and more, top management were emphasising the links between crime and social exclusion – and here was a textbook example of painstaking detective work successfully undertaken in a difficult and challenging neighbourhood. Hayder’s squad, said Willard, had managed to turn the tide of apathy and aggression on the estate. The kids were not, after all, beyond salvation. Fundamentally decent, three of them had chosen to come forward and volunteer statements.
As the morning wore on, there were rumours along the Major Crimes corridor that Paul Winter’s hand might lie behind this surprising outbreak of civic duty. There was even word that the youths concerned had mentioned him by name but no one was quite sure why. The younger DCs thought this was bollocks and said so but Faraday, still nursing the remains of his hangover, wasn’t so sure. Winter was a past master at ghosting into other people’s investigations. More often than not, he caused a great deal of confusion, but the results – as Faraday knew only too well – could occasionally be startling.
Not that Willard paid the slightest attention. As far as he was concerned, making the case against Darren Geech had been a scalp for Major Crimes and a memo to that effect landed on the desk of every DC involved in Operation Hexham. Andy Corbett taped his to the corridor wall facing Faraday’s office, a gesture that Faraday treated with contempt.
The call from Beattie came shortly before noon. Under the circumstances, Faraday thought he sounded remarkably sanguine. He was in Southsea and he wanted his dog back. Faraday glanced at his watch. Anything to get out of the office.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the middle. By the shops.’ There was a pause on the line. ‘Store called Knight and Lees?’
Faraday told him to hang on. Five minutes and he’d be down there to pick him up. Blue Mondeo, X reg.
Beattie was waiting on the pavement outside the big department store. He hadn’t shaved and he looked tired, but there was something in his eyes that spoke of a deep satisfaction. Only on the seafront, slipping into a parking bay across from Eadie Sykes’s flat, did Faraday break the silence between them.
‘Dog’s been fine,’ he said.
‘Good.’ Beattie was gazing out across the common. ‘I used to come down here years ago. Saturday nights mainly. Runs ashore.’ He frowned. ‘The Birdcage? The Pomme d’Or?’
Faraday nodded. The clubs had been closed for years, but in his days as a young beatman he’d policed them both. He began to hunt for stories, little anecdotes that might raise a smile, but quickly realised that Beattie wasn’t remotely interested in the past. The silence between them stretched and stretched. Then Beattie looked across at Faraday.
‘No grudges, OK?’ He extended a hand. ‘In your shoes I’d have done exactly the same thing.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Yeah. I might have been tougher … but yeah.’
Faraday hid a smile and shook the proffered hand. For some reason, he felt flooded with relief.
‘I’ll get the dog,’ he said. ‘You hang on here.’
Upstairs, Sykes was out again. A note on the carpet inside the front door established that Rory had gone running with his new mistress at dawn and was now knackered. He’d had a big breakfast and a little nap but might need another walkies before lunch. The note ended with a line of kisses, a gesture which further brightened Faraday’s morning.
Back in the street, Faraday handed the dog over to Beattie. For a moment or two they stood awkwardly on the pavement, not knowing quite what to say, then, on the spur of the moment, Faraday gestured at the pub across the road.
‘Fancy a spot of lunch. My shout?’
Beattie gave the invitation some thought, then shook his head. He’d take the dog for a stroll on the Common, then he was off to the station. The Custody Sergeant at Waterlooville had given him a rail warrant. There was a through train at two. He wanted to get home.
‘Of course.’ Faraday turned to the car. ‘Just a thought.’
Beattie bent to the dog. Then he squatted on the pavement, ruffling the fur behind the Alsatian’s ears, making friends again. The dog licked his hand.
Faraday was in his car. He wound down the window.
‘Good luck,’ he said simply.
‘Sure.’ Beattie was still making a fuss of the dog. ‘Listen. If you’re ever down our way again, time to spare …’ He glanced up, looking Faraday in the eye. ‘OK?’
‘You’re telling me Corbett sold us a dummy?’
Faraday was back in Willard’s office. He’d been through the conversation in the wine bar with DI Pannell, and the Det Supt hadn’t been slow in drawing the obvious conclusion.
‘I think he was over-hasty, sir. Ambition’s not a sin but he ought to be more careful.’
‘Don’t fuck about, Joe. The pillock was trying to snow us.’
‘You might be right.’
‘I am right. The point about intelligence like this, you can make any case you want. He was grandstanding. You were right all along. What else did she tell you?’
Faraday had spent the last hour or so debating where to draw the line on Corbett. It gave him a deep personal pleasure to know that his instincts about the young DC had been right, that the man really was an arsehole, but fellow officers’ private lives were no concern of Willard’s, not unless they got in the way of the job. At length, he shook his head.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And you’re telling me this DI knew Corbett pretty well?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she was happy to talk about him?’
‘Yes.’
Willard gave him a last chance, then pulled open a drawer. Faraday found himself looking at two cassettes: one video, one audio.
‘Cathy Lamb brought these over. I haven’t been through them myself, but if what she told me is even half true then Corbett’s out of here. Harassment? Sexual abuse? Date rape?’ He sighed. ‘You know something, Joe? You’re too bloody straight for your own good.’ He got up and went across to the window. ‘So what are we going to do about Coughlin?’
Faraday was still looking at the cassettes. At length, he straightened in the chair.
‘You want the truth, sir?’
‘Dare you.’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
The billing on Gault’s mobile phone came in five days later. Brian Imber, in his office at Havant police station, phoned through with the news.
‘Gault made a call that Monday night,’ he said. ‘From the hotel.’
‘What time?’
‘Twelve nineteen.’
‘Did he get through?’
‘I assume so. It lasted a couple of minutes.’
Faraday was fighting to remember the exact chronology of events that Monday night. Already he was dealing with another murder, a Southsea housewife who was denying taking the kitchen knife to her errant husband. Coughlin, just now, felt like history.
‘Remind me.’ Faraday was reaching for a pen. ‘Had Coughlin paid his visit by then?’
‘Definitely. Pritchard tried to phone him at twelve two. Gault’s call was after that.’
‘And the number?’
‘It’s local. You want to take a guess at the address?’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘217 Kingsley Road. Subscriber by the name of Warren.’ He paused. ‘That’s the lad’s mum and dad.’
Faraday’s call found Bev Yates in the Southsea Waitrose. Lunchtime, he was doing the weekly shop.
‘Do you remember Gault mentioning making a call from the hotel that Monday night?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Positive. We asked him in that first interview and he said no. Check the tapes if you want.’ There was a pause, then Yates laughed. ‘Means bugger all, though. He was so bladdered he couldn’t remember anything.’
Faraday was already on his feet. His next meeting on the Southsea stabbing wasn’t until two thirty.
‘You finished the shopping? I’ll be outside in ten minutes.’
217 Kingsley Road was a modest, neat-looking terrace house in a quiet street on the eastern edge of the city. There was a poster for a church rummage sale in the downstairs window, and the front door had recently had a new coat of paint.
Faraday paused on the pavement. This bottom end of Kingsley Road overlooked a tiny, tucked-away corner of Langstone Harbour known locally as the Glory Hole. Once used as a dumping ground by various branches of the armed services, this muddy little backwater was rumoured to be a soup of heavy metals but Faraday was in no position to know the truth. It certainly offered a nicer view than most locations on the island and Faraday could think of worse places to live.
Turning back to the house, he wondered whether anyone would be in. There were no real grounds for supposing that Gault had said anything worthwhile, but gone midnight was a strange time to phone and whatever tiny light this call might shed on the investigation might just be worth the drive across.
