Borrowed Light (34 page)

‘Whoever he was.’

‘Yeah. Exactly.’

‘You never got a name? You’re sure about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Maarika never told you?’

‘No.’

‘But you’d have asked? You and Max?’

‘Yeah, of course we did. Maarika’s his sister. He wanted to know.’

‘And?’

‘She wouldn’t tell us. We asked and she wouldn’t say. That’s what happened. That’s the way it was. Don’t you guys understand
plain English? Do I have to tell you
again
?’

There was a long silence. Yates and Ellis were plainly waiting for more but Sadler didn’t say a word. Yates cleared his throat.
He wanted to return to the missing concrete block. The question threw Sadler for a moment or two. She seemed to have lost
her thread.

Yates reminded her about the blocks that held down the caravan. One had gone missing. In his view it would be perfect if you
wanted to dispose of a body at sea.

Sadler at last understood.

‘This is bizarre,’ she said. ‘First you seem to be suggesting I might have something to do with killing Johnny Holman. Now
you’re telling me I’ve got rid of his body. At sea. So how do I do that? Tie him to your precious concrete block and chuck
him off my RIB? Dead of night? Is that what happened?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘Fine. Go down to the marina. I’ve given you the details. Check out the boat. Look at the CCTV. Do whatever you have to do.’

‘We just did.’

‘And?’

‘You’re right. It hasn’t moved for weeks.’

‘Thank you. Thank you very much. Might an apology be in order? Or do I have to put up with any more of this shit?’

She sounded really angry. Fantastic performance. Yates wasn’t giving up. He still wanted to know how she explained the missing
concrete block.

‘How do
I
explain it? Are you guys thick or something? Don’t you
listen
? I know fuck all about concrete blocks. Neither do I make a habit of killing people, or disposing of them, or any of this
other rubbish you’re trying to pin on me.’

‘What other rubbish, Ms Sadler?’

‘Dustbin liners, for a start. Listen. Max takes it into his head to do a spot of spring cleaning. What do I do, except applaud?
You’ve got to get a grip, guys. This is a waste of time, mine and yours. It’s the tax from people like me that pays your wages,
don’t forget. And if this is the best you can do, I’m going to start wondering about a refund.’

Faraday was trying to imagine the expression on Benny Stanton’s face. Lou Sadler must be nearly home and dry, he’s probably
thinking. Nearly time for a bevvy or two.

Dawn Ellis wanted to move on to Wednesday night. Someone had driven a red Vauxhall Corsa out to woodland on the south of the
island and set fire to it. Ellis believed that was the car Johnny Holman had used early Sunday morning when he’d fled from
the burning farmhouse. She wanted to know where Sadler had been on that same Wednesday night.

‘In bed. At home. With Max.’ ‘Convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Convenient?’ Sadler was off again.

‘
Convenient?
Listen, my love. I can tell you a lot about Max. I can tell you what he does to me, for me, in me, whatever you like. We
can go into that in great detail. My pleasure. As it happens, I can tell you a great deal about Wednesday because we were
both a bit pissed, and that can help no end in all kinds of ways. If you want the truth, we fucked each other stupid most
of the night. That was great. That was the kind of night a girl really appreciates. But was it
convenient
? I think not. You know what you guys should do? You should get a life. It’s not too late. I promise.’

Faraday heard a chuckle. Stanton, he thought.

Yates took over. He had one card left to play. It was the name on the bottom of Faraday’s checklist.

‘Let’s talk about Martin Skelley,’ he began.

‘Of course. Whatever.’ Sadler was recovering her breath.

‘You know this guy?’

‘I pay him rent. On the stables.’

‘That wasn’t my question. I asked you whether you know him.’

‘Then the answer’s yes.’

Faraday glanced at Suttle. There was something new here, a tiny hint of wariness in Sadler’s voice that hadn’t been there
before. Suttle had heard it too. And so had Yates.

‘So how well do you know him?’

‘I’ve met him on social occasions a couple of times.’

‘How many times?’

‘God knows. I never count.’

‘Try.’

‘Half a dozen? More? Less? Fuck knows.’

‘What kind of social occasions?’

‘Business functions, mainly.’

‘Here? On the mainland?’

‘Mostly on the mainland. I met him here once. He came down to the farm. We had tea together.’

‘So what sort of a guy is he? This Martin Skelley?’

‘He’s …’ she hesitated ‘… late forties, bit older than me, nicely dressed, smart/casual. Brilliant businessman – spotted
an opportunity, got in there, did it well, earned himself a fortune. You can still do that in this country, believe it or
not.’

Faraday was waiting to see where this line of questioning went next. Suttle’s D/Cs had been trying to develop the intel on
Skelley’s company all day, so far with little result. Urgent requests for the movements of Freezee delivery vans at the beginning
of last week had so far been blanked.

Ellis had taken up the running again. There was a hint of irritation in her voice. She wanted to know how familiar Sadler
was with Skelley’s past.

‘I know he’s been inside, if that’s what you mean.’

‘And do you know why? What for?’

‘Haven’t a clue. It’s not the kind of question you ask, believe it or not.’

‘GBH,’ Ellis said quietly. ‘A particularly brutal attack.’

‘Really?’ Sadler didn’t seem the least bit interested.

‘Yes. Does that put the man in a new light?’

‘Not in the slightest. I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me here.’

‘I’m trying to suggest, Ms Sadler, that you know Skelley a great deal better than you say you do.’

‘And why would that be?’

‘Because good friends,
close
friends, friends with lots in common, often help each other out.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Especially when they’re in trouble.’

‘That’s true too.’

‘On Sunday night, Ms Sadler, we believe you were in serious trouble, big, big trouble.’

‘Not me, love. Maarika.’

‘And you too, Ms Sadler. Why? Because you’d landed yourself with a body. Or to put it more accurately,
Max
had landed you with a body. We don’t know how he killed Holman, not exactly, not yet, but the overwhelming probability is
that he did. And so the pair of you had to make a decision.’

There was a silence. Both Faraday and Suttle knew that Dawn Ellis had gone way off-piste. This second interview was still
meant to be coaxing a clear account from Lou Sadler. Only later would she be challenged with an alternative interpretation
of events.

‘This is bizarre,’ she said. ‘You’re telling me it was Max who killed Holman? Is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why would he do that?’

‘Because he hated what Holman had done to his sister.’

‘So he
killed
the man?’

‘Yes. And that gave you a problem, because afterwards you had to decide what to do with this body, how to get rid of it. First
off, we thought you might have used the RIB. Now we have to accept you didn’t. So there had to be another way, a better way,
and what better way than giving your old mate Martin Skelley a ring?’

‘To do what?’ She laughed. ‘Turn Holman into burgers and flog him to some caff or other? Get real, love. Why would he do that?’

‘Because you phoned him and asked him. And because you said you were also sitting on a huge consignment of cocaine.’

‘Of what?’

‘Cocaine. Bugle. Toot. Lots and lots of it.’

Sadler was laughing again. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

‘This is fabulous. So now I’m the cocaine queen?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is the purest bollocks. I know nothing about any cocaine.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Fine. That’s your privilege. You think I made a phone call to Martin Skelley? You prove it. You think I’m trying to flog
him a couple of tons of toot? Same answer. Prove it.’

‘The cocaine belonged to Johnny Holman. We believe it was in the back of the Corsa. We believe the car was outside Maarika’s
place when you and Max arrived from Cowes. And we believe that Holman was there inside the flat.’

‘Bollocks. Total bullshit. What are you guys on, for fuck’s sake?’

Ellis ignored the jibe. ‘We believe Max drove the Corsa up to the caravan that Sunday morning, hid the car in the spare outhouse
and killed Holman. We believe he wrapped him in a roll of dustbin liners and probably kept him in the caravan. Two problems,
Ms Sadler. What to do with the body and what to do with the toot. And you know the sweetest answer? Phone Martin Skelley.’

‘But why? Why would I do that?’

‘Because Skelley runs delivery vans all over the country. They come here, to the island. They drop stuff off. They go home
empty. Plenty of room inside, Ms Sadler, for Johnny Holman and all that toot.’

‘Fine. So what are you telling me?’

‘We’re suggesting, Ms Sadler, that one of Skelley’s vans called at Upcourt Farm, probably last Monday afternoon, probably
late, probably after dark, and solved your little problem. Not just Holman. Not just the toot. But a big fat concrete weight
as well. You know where Skelley calls home? He’s got a lovely little place up in the Lake District, bang on Derwent Water.
Perfect, wouldn’t you say?’

There was a long silence. It wasn’t hard to imagine Sadler tipping her head back, letting the slow smile spread and spread.
Ellis wanted to know whether she had any comment to make.

‘Yes. I think it’s rubbish. And that’s being kind.’

‘You’re still denying it?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘We don’t believe you.’

‘Fine.’ Sadler smothered an audible yawn. ‘So why don’t you prove it?’

It was the TIA, Ian Whatmore, who tore into Dawn Ellis. In twenty years of conducting CID interviews he’d never seen a working
detective throw away so many cards. In his view she’d opened the doors to
Gosling
’s fragile store of inner secrets and invited Sadler, the prime suspect for fuck’s sake, to help herself. Already, she and
her spivvy brief were aware of how hard the detectives were all having to work to climb the evidential mountain. Now, in barely
a couple of minutes, Ellis had made that task, that ascent, all the tougher. Ellis, chalk-faced, tight-lipped, was still convinced
the punt had been worth it. The woman was guilty as fuck. Plus she was taking the piss. Two perfectly good reasons to give
her a bit of a shake.

‘Didn’t work though, did it?’ This from Whatmore. ‘So thanks for fucking nothing.’

This second interview with Lou Sadler ended a couple of minutes before seven in the evening. After Ellis had gone for broke,
Yates had done the bulk of the work. He’d pressed Sadler’s account time and again, revisiting moments of potential crisis,
challenging her on this detail or that, alert for the merest hint of hesitation or doubt, the tiniest suggestion that she
might trip herself up or give herself away. But none of the usual strategies had worked. Whatever combination of punches he
threw at her, she simply ducked or parried. She had immense stamina and self-confidence, and afterwards, in the debrief, even
Yates had come close to admiring her performance.

‘Dawn’s right,’ he said glumly. ‘She’s guilt on legs. But that’s not enough, is it?’

Dawn Ellis had nothing to say. She seemed to have lost interest in
Gosling.
Faraday was about to voice the obvious but Parsons saved him the trouble.

‘This is becoming a disaster,’ she said. ‘At this rate we’re going to be struggling to even get an extension.’

Application to the island’s uniformed Superintendent was due
within the hour. Unless Parsons could demonstrate that the ongoing investigation was, in the parlance, ‘diligent and expeditious’,
then Sadler would walk free. In the light of his non-cooperation, an earlier application for a twelve-hour extension on Oobik
had been grudgingly granted, but Sadler’s continued detention, when she was only too willing to offer and defend her account
of events, was a different matter entirely. As a law-abiding citizen without a blemish on her name, she had rights in this
matter, and it was the job of the Superintendent to uphold them.

These last few days Parsons had developed a habit of bypassing Faraday in meetings like these, and now was no exception.

‘Jimmy,’ she said, ‘I’m pleading our case in ten. What do I tell the Superintendent? What have we got left?’

Suttle, it seemed, had been anticipating exactly this question.

‘It boils down to Martin Skelley, boss. As far as last week’s concerned, we have to link Sadler to Skelley, and to do that
we need two things. One of them is billing on whatever phone she used, and the other is proof that he had a delivery van on
the island.’

‘When?’

‘My money’s on Monday. Sunday they get their bearings, tidy up, make the call to Skelley. It may be that he had a van down
on the island already. In which case she’s home free. Or he may have jacked up something special, just for her. In which case
we’re in with a shout.’

‘He’d cover his tracks,’ Faraday pointed out. ‘He’d invent deliveries, bend arms, concoct some kind of schedule. He understands
all this stuff. He’d know what we’d be after.’

‘I know, boss. But at least it gives us a chance, something to get stuck into, something to unpick. Plus …’ Suttle turned
to Parsons ‘… it gives you something for the Superintendent.’

‘Sure, Jimmy.’ Parsons nodded. ‘But we’re talking twelve hours. That takes us to breakfast time tomorrow morning, which means
we’ll have to jack something up for this evening. Are you really telling me you can get that information within – say – a
couple of hours?’

Suttle shook his head. No chance, he admitted.

‘What about the phone she used?’ It was Faraday again.

‘That’s interesting. She obviously doesn’t care a fuck about her phones – landline or mobiles – which tells me she probably
used Oobik’s mobile.’

‘Which he says he’s lost.’

‘Exactly.’ Suttle checked his watch. ‘I was there on the farm for the hour or so before he was arrested. I was sitting in
the car in the drive with line of sight to the caravan. If he was going to get rid of the phone he’d have had to do it then,
because he was searched in the
custody suite. He definitely came out of the caravan a couple of times and went round the back, and he also went into one
of the stables. He could have binned the phone in the field behind the caravan, dug a hole, fed the SIM card to one of the
horses, anything that took his fancy. We could blitz it now, throw loads of guys at it, whatever.’ He shrugged, looking at
Parsons. ‘Your call, boss.’

‘But how do you know he had the phone when you arrived?’

‘He looked up some numbers for me. Corroboration for what he’d been doing on Saturday night. It was a Nokia.’

‘Was it Pay As You Talk or was he on some plan or other?’

‘He won’t tell us.’

‘Shit.’ Parsons rarely swore.

‘Exactly, boss.’

The silence was broken by a cackle of laughter from the office down the corridor. Benny Stanton.

Finally Parsons made a decision. She’d press the Superintendent for a twelve-hour extension. They’d throw everything they
had at the caravan and its surroundings. And they’d pray to God that this last desperate toss of the investigative dice would
work to
Gosling
’s advantage before they interviewed Oobik and Sadler for the last time.

It didn’t.

Faraday mustered as many D/Cs as he could from the MIR at Ryde. The local duty Inspector supplied half a dozen more hands,
mainly P/Cs. In the wet darkness, on their hands and knees, they combed and re-combed every square inch of turf behind the
caravan, looking for signs of recent disturbance. Climbing the fence, they worked methodically outwards, fumbling among the
tussocks of wet grass, the same fingertip search, until they’d gone beyond what Suttle calculated as a throw radius. Nothing.

Inside the caravan, meanwhile, a separate search team tore the place apart, dismantling the wardrobe, unscrewing the tiny
kitchen unit from its brackets, examining every inch of the mattress in case Oobik had managed to slip the mobile inside.
Ninety minutes later the search team beat a retreat. Again, nothing.

The interviews were a formality, no more. Oobik, after a day and a half’s rehearsal, had perfected the art of going No Comment,
while there was almost a hint of sympathy in Lou Sadler’s performance. Her faith in the script she and Benny Stanton had concocted
never wavered for a moment. No, she hadn’t seen Johnny Holman for weeks and weeks. No, she hadn’t asked Max to kill him. And
no, she hadn’t arranged for one of Martin Skelley’s vans to pick up his remains. As for the cocaine, she expressed mild surprise
that Johnny Holman
had either the money or the wit to have acquired a decent stash and suggested that Yates and his mates look elsewhere for
the real owners.

‘Try Pompey,’ she’d said as the interview came to a close. ‘They love the stuff over there.’

Back in Ryde, dead on his feet, Faraday had a quiet word with Dawn Ellis, expressing his disappointment at the way she’d handled
Sadler in the interview suite. She accepted responsibility for what she’d done, offered neither an apology nor an explanation,
but said she had to be back in Pompey as soon as she could be spared. Watching her leave the office, Faraday could only assume
she’d been overwhelmed by some personal crisis. Maybe he should listen to canteen gossip more carefully in future. Maybe he
wasn’t the only Major Crime detective to be cornered by his demons.

When Suttle appeared, minutes later, Faraday suggested a drink. He wasn’t at all sure where
Gosling
might be headed next but Parsons had decided against application to the magistrates for yet another custody extension and
both Sadler and Oobik would be released on police bail by eight o’clock the following morning. Suttle had pressed Parsons
to maintain obs on Sadler, but
Gosling
was gobbling up budget by the day and Parsons was reluctant to have her name attached to an expensive failure. Sadler, as
she’d demonstrated so amply, was a class operator. Even if Dawn Ellis had kept to the script, there was no guarantee they’d
have got any kind of result. Now, with all their immediate leads exhausted, that possibility was even more remote. Sadler
now knew the case they had to prove. As Parsons pointed out, it was unlikely she’d make it easy for them.

Even Suttle had to admit that Parsons was probably right. Tomorrow he and Faraday would be driving up to London to put a little
pressure on Martin Skelley. Whether the delivery information they were after would offer a pathway forward was anyone’s guess.
Skelley, like Sadler, obviously knew his way around the criminal justice system and would already have taken steps to make
it hard for them. Meanwhile, to his regret, Suttle had yet another downer to share with his boss.

‘What’s that?’ Faraday had just sunk a pint of Goddards and was waiting for a second.

‘I talked to Meg Stanley again. She’s having second thoughts about matching the fresh stuff from Sadler’s horses to the manure
at Monks-well Farm. Apparently the manure they shifted at Holman’s place is too wet. There’s fuck all left to analyse after
the rain we’ve been having.’

‘Shit.’ Faraday sucked the head off his fresh pint.

‘Exactly.’

‘This woman’s luck is beyond belief.’

‘It is, boss. But she’s played it well too. Like Bev said.’

‘So what haven’t we done? Apart from charge them?’

‘You tell me, boss. You think we
could
charge them?’

‘No chance. The CPS wouldn’t wear it for a second. Circumstantially, it looks like a stone bonker. But we need something more.’

Suttle nodded. Faraday had collapsed again. All the air had left his fragile balloon. Maybe it was the accident. Or maybe
it was a lot more than that.

‘You want to share it, boss?’

‘Share what?’

‘Whatever’s got to you?’

‘You mean apart from all this crap? Five murders, four bodies, two prime suspects and no fucking clue what to do next? You
mean apart from all that?’

Suttle laughed. This was better, he thought. Genuine despair, in his experience, never had much to do with the Job.

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘I’m not with you, Jimmy.’

‘Something’s happened. Something’s got to you. Big time.’

Faraday reflected on the question, then took a long pull at his beer.

‘Yeah …’ he said at last ‘… it has.’

He told Suttle about Gabrielle, about the Burns Unit, about the ongoing tussle for the little girl’s affections. He’d sensed
for weeks that something had changed in Gabrielle, and now he knew the consequences that lay in wait for all three of them.

‘Like what?’

‘Like we sit at home, whenever, and have some infant social worker crawl all over us, all over our private lives, all over
our family histories, everything. Like we try and make space for a little girl who will never,
never
be able to come to live with us. It’s a fairy tale, Jimmy, total make-believe, and the shame of it is that I seem to be going
along with it. Why? Because I’ve been up to my neck in all this crap. Why
really
? Because I can’t, for the life of me, work out how to stop it.’

‘Just say no.’

‘And lose her?’

‘But you just told me it’ll never happen.’

‘I meant Gabrielle.’

‘Really? You’re serious?’ Suttle’s surprise was genuine.

‘Yeah, I think I am.’ Faraday nodded. ‘It’s not something I’d say lightly, but I think it’s probably the case. This little
girl’s sweet. And she’s vulnerable. And all the rest of it.’

‘So why don’t you go along with it? Adopt her?’

‘Because it’s impossible. Because the minute she gets better, they’ll fly her back to Gaza. Because the system just won’t
permit it.’

‘But
should
it permit it?’

‘That’s a different question. I’m just telling you it’ll never happen. How do I know? Because people at the hospital, people
who
do
know, have had a quiet word. Why? Because they want to save Gabrielle from being hurt.’

‘You mean from hurting herself?’

‘Yeah, exactly. Well put. Me? I just want us back again. Does that sound unreasonable?’

Suttle shook his head, only too aware that his own relationship, with a baby on the way, probably made it worse for Faraday.
No dramas about adoption. No visits to the Burns Unit. No anguished conversations in Isle of Wight pubs. He was still trying
to work out how to voice all this when his mobile beeped.

He fetched it out, glanced at caller ID. Winter again. Second time today.

He glanced at his watch then slipped off the bar stool.

‘I’ll be back in five, boss. Mine’s a lager.’

Suttle took the call on the seafront, across from the pub. Winter, he knew at once, had been drinking.

‘Son …’

‘Me. What is it? What do you want?’

‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Like what?’

‘Lots of stuff. Good stuff. Better than good stuff. Stuff that’ll make you—’ He broke off.

‘Make me what?’

‘Wet yourself, son. This is crazy. The whole thing’s crazy. You know what?’

‘What?’

‘It’s crazy.’

The line went dead. Suttle gazed across the road towards the pub, wondering how best to pursue this last slim hope.