Deadlight (10 page)

Geech tried to snatch at the dog. Winter stepped backwards on to the walkway, letting Ellis slip herself between them. The dog was getting even more lively, struggling against Winter’s chest. With Winter halfway
down the stairs, Geech’s thin face appeared over the parapet above, scarlet with rage. He watched them as they crossed the patch of yellowing grass outside the flats and made for Ellis’s car.

‘You tell that bastard I’ll get him,’ he screamed. ‘Tell that cunt he’s a dead man.’

WEDNESDAY
, 5
JUNE
, 2002,
14.00

Bev Yates was back at Kingston Crescent by early afternoon. The car park behind the police station was packed with vehicles he didn’t recognise, a sure sign of a Major Crimes special event, but he managed to find a space for his Golf before taking a moment to check his mobile for calls in his voice-mail.

Amongst the half-dozen waiting messages was an SOS from Melanie. Her Citroen was on the blink again. Freya had thrown a wobbler about not going over to her friend Kate’s and there was nothing in the fridge for supper. Could Bev sort out a couple of readiwarm meals from the supermarket on the way home? And maybe pick up some Ostermilk supplement while he was about it? Any more breast-feeding, and she wouldn’t have any bloody nipples left.

She ended the message with a half-hearted attempt at laughter but Yates wasn’t fooled. Married life with two young kids wasn’t working out at all the way they’d both expected. Living in the country was a pain: no shops, one pub, and few neighbours under the age of seventy. Plus Bev’s hours seemed to be getting longer and longer. Last week he’d twice got back the wrong side of midnight, and for the first time ever she’d stopped waiting up for him.

Bev gazed at the mobile, then shrugged. Checking his watch, he wondered whether he could afford to stay with the Five Live coverage of the Ireland v Germany game until the final whistle. According to the commentator, there was only a couple of minutes to go and with the Germans predictably ahead, if only by the one goal, the
Irish were going to be struggling for a place in the next round. He settled down behind the wheel, shifting slightly until the sun fell on his face. Seconds later, he was asleep.

He awoke at half two, tugged back into consciousness by a hand on his shoulder. Half blinded by the sun, he switched off the radio and tried to make out the silhouette of the head and shoulders at the car window. Someone was squatting outside the car, looking in.

‘Lucky it was me.’

‘Dawn? What are you doing here?’

‘Meet with a guy in Traffic. He pulled a young kid on a TWOCing.’ She paused. ‘So how’s the big time?
Merriott
, isn’t it?’

‘Nightmare. I’ve got landed with the buddy from hell.’

‘Who might that be?’

‘Corbett. Andy Corbett. I’ve been trying to work it out. Either he’s taking the piss or he’s seen too many movies. I’m telling you, this bloke’s not real. Whatever he’s on, he should sue the makers.’

‘You really think so?’

Bev caught the inflection, the tiny rise in her voice at the end of the question. He struggled upright and took a proper look at her.

‘You’re joking.’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Why not?’ She moistened her fingertip with a kiss and then planted it on the end of his nose. ‘A girl can’t wait for ever.’

Bev wanted her to stay but she was late already. Maybe that drink one night? If he could ever spare the time? She smiled at him again, no kiss this time, then got to her feet. Seconds later, she’d disappeared through the big door that led to the back stairs.

Corbett? Bev shook his head again, reaching for the rear-view mirror, an automatic reflex that was beginning to get on his nerves. The face that stared back at him
spoke of too many late nights, too many three-pint conversations, too many bids to turn back the clock. At forty-five, second time round, he had to start learning the knack of making the best of what he had.

There were worse things to be saddled with than two young kids. Pass round photos of Freya and Nathan, and half the world thought you were the luckiest guy alive. Show them some of the holiday snaps of Melanie, topless on the beach at Marbella, and even the younger blokes started paying him a bit of respect. How come a bird that fit, that gorgeous, bothers with the likes of you? He never spoiled these moments with the truth, never even hinted at it, but he knew in his heart that there had to be more than twelve-hour working days and a family life that never seemed to get beyond a list of unfinished jobs. Ostermilk? Readiwarm garbage for the microwave? He rolled his eyes, taking a final peek at the mirror, then reached for the door handle.

Corbett? She must be off her head.

Minutes later, Michaels saw Yates walking past his open office door. He called him in and told him to sit down. He wanted to know more about Davidson and his ladyfriend.

Yates settled into the chair by the door. Sitting here, visitors couldn’t help noticing Michaels’ thirteen-year-old son, star striker in a local tyro league side. The photograph was tacked up on a wallboard beside a sports-page story from the
News
. ‘Four Goal Hero’ the headline read.

Yates enquired about the final score in the Ireland game. When Michaels said he hadn’t had a chance to see it, Yates changed the subject.

‘Corbett back yet?’

‘Blow-out on the motorway. He just phoned in.’

‘Not badly hurt I hope?’

‘Haven’t a clue, mate. Listen, he might not be your cup
of tea, and he might not be mine, but there’s plenty of this job to go round so don’t slag the guy.’

‘Did I speak out of turn there?’

‘No, but I’m not fucking deaf. OK?’ Michaels sounded genuinely pissed off, a rare event.

‘You all right, skip?’

‘Never better, son. Now why don’t you answer the question?’

Yates had been anticipating this conversation all the way home. At some point or other he was going to have to come up with an opinion on the strength of Davidson. That’s the way the system worked. Not one pair of eyes, but two.

‘There’s no chance,’ he said slowly. ‘Absolutely none.’

‘No chance of what?’

‘No chance he did Coughlin. Number one, he’s got a perfectly sound alibi. The girlfriend’s a teacher for fuck’s sake, not some Fratton slapper. And number two, no one’s that good an actor. You know when someone’s trying it on for size. Believe me, skip, he wasn’t.’

‘Corbett says he hadn’t got any regrets.’

‘Who hadn’t?’

‘Davidson.’

‘He said that? Davidson had no
regrets
?’

‘Just now.’ He nodded at the phone. ‘When he called in.’

‘Then the guy’s a dickhead. Regrets is way off the mark. The moment it dawned on him that Coughlin was a goner, Davidson lit up. In fact he was over the bloody moon. Nothing pleased him more than the thought of Coughlin getting it. Regrets suggests he did it. He didn’t.’

‘Corbett thinks otherwise.’

‘Yeah? So why didn’t we arrest him?’

‘That was my question.’

‘Sure, and I’ll give you an answer. Because we haven’t got a shred of evidence against the guy. If he was that certain about Davidson, why weren’t we in there with
Scenes of Crime? Ripping the floorboards up? Seizing his gear? His clothes? The girlfriend’s motor? Why turn your back on all that DNA if it’s that bloody obvious he did it?’

Michaels made no comment. Instead, he asked again about the girlfriend, Marie Elliott.

‘I told you, skip, she’s class. If you want the truth, she made us feel that big.’ He narrowed the gap between finger and thumb. ‘Corbett tried to do the big Met number on her and she just blew him away. Easy really, if you know you’re innocent.’

‘You’re that sure?’

‘Yes.’

Michaels leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Fifteen years on the same force, job in, job out, you get to learn who to trust.

‘Off the record, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘Why is he riding this one so hard?’

‘Corbett? Because it’s easy. Because it makes him look good. He’s a young bloke. He’s come down from the big time. He’s in a hurry. He’s got a reputation to make. We were all there, once, skip. You know we were.’

‘Yeah, and look what fucking happened.’ He rocked with laughter and gave Yates’s knee a slap, suddenly the old Dave Michaels again. An East End childhood and three tough years trying to make his own way in the Met before coming south had given him a shrewd take on life. He knew there was some stuff that would never make it on to paper, never make it into HOLMES, and as a good detective he also knew the value of conversations like these.

He was looking at Yates’s briefcase.

‘You’ve got the statements?’

‘Yeah.’

He nodded at the desk.

‘Stick them on the pile.’ He stood up and stretched
while Yates bent to the briefcase. ‘And another thing,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘The Irish play better without Keane.’

Cathy Lamb wanted an explanation.

‘I haven’t got one, boss.’

‘You told me this bloke of yours was kosher.’

‘He is. Was.’

‘Have you seen him? Talked to him? Asked for our money back?’

‘It was a freebie. He owed me.’

‘Terrific. We save loads of money and achieve absolutely nothing.’

Winter looked pained. Apologies were strictly for losers but he was coming dangerously close to saying sorry. It was rare to find DIs with a brain in their heads – in Winter’s view, Faraday had frequently been off the planet – and there’d been countless occasions when Cathy, as DS, had covered Winter’s arse. These favours certainly didn’t come for free. A bollocking from Cathy Lamb could make your eyes water. But the fact was that Winter’s more colourful adventures very seldom came to management’s attention, thus sparing Winter a great deal of grief. As a newly promoted DI, though, Cathy
was
management. And that put their relationship in an altogether different light.

They were sitting in the unmarked Skoda on the edge of Somerstown. Cathy had asked for a tour of the targeted corner stores and Winter had obliged with a drive-by past all three Asian shops. The presence of Geech’s dog on a square of old plaid blanket on the back seat appeared not to surprise her. In fact Winter was beginning to wonder whether she’d even noticed the little cairn terrier.

‘We have to get one or two things sorted,’ she said.
‘Whatever you think of PIMS, it’s there for a purpose. Use it.’

The PIMS system was the official filter through which every informant was supposed to pass. Just registering a tout – paperwork alone – could take half a day. Winter, who resented having to fight the crime war with both hands shackled, largely ignored it.

‘I just talk to these guys,’ he protested. ‘We get on fine. It’s like a love affair. Why ruin it by getting married?’

‘Because that’s what the book says.’

‘You never complained before.’

‘You always delivered before.’

‘But it’s not going to work every time, Cath. PIMS or no PIMS, it never does.’ He smiled to himself. He rather liked the comparison to marriage. He hadn’t thought of it in those terms before. He glanced across at Cathy. ‘How’s Pete?’

‘He’s fine. Don’t change the subject.’

‘I’m not. I’m serious. Bloke told me he was doing really well the other day. Got a promotion, didn’t he?’

With some reluctance, Cathy nodded. Pete Lamb, her husband, had once been a uniformed sergeant across at Fareham. Both his police career and his marriage had hit the rocks after he’d shot a major drugs supplier and tested positive for alcohol afterwards. Three years later, back home again, he now headed the investigations department in a big Portsmouth-based insurance company.

‘We’ve got a new boat,’ Cathy said. ‘A twenty-eight-footer. Pete’s over the moon. You should see it.’

‘Ah …’ Winter at last began to understand. ‘New job, thirty-five grand a year, and a boat to go with it. No wonder you’re getting nervous.’

‘Pete doesn’t earn that kind of money.’

‘No, but you do.’ Winter put a hand on her arm. ‘Apologies, boss, about Geech. Won’t happen again.’

Cathy seemed not to have heard him. She wrinkled her nose, then twisted round in the seat.

‘Jesus Christ!’ She sounded resigned as well as incredulous. ‘What’s that bloody dog doing in the back?’

Corbett went straight to Faraday. His office door was open and Corbett didn’t bother with the usual precautionary knock.

‘Yes?’ Faraday was reading some material sent down the corridor from Brian Imber’s Intelligence Cell. The first of the phone billings had come in, confirming the state of Coughlin’s social life. Last quarter, nearly eighty per cent of his calls had gone to premium-rate porn sites.

Corbett closed the door behind him. He’d been to see Dave Michaels about Davidson and his girlfriend and he wasn’t a happy man.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Difference of opinion, sir. I was there. In my view, Davidson needs further development.’

‘DS Michaels has discussed it with me. We agree.’

‘Agree what?’

‘That Davidson needs further development.’

‘So why put me on house-to-house?’

‘Because that’s the way the cards fall. Paul Ingham’s got a pile of actions need attention. Last time he counted it was past sixty. You’re one of the squad. Some of those actions go to you. This isn’t rocket science, Corbett. That’s the way the system works.’

‘But I talked to Davidson. And I flagged him up in the first place. Why put someone else on to him when I’ve got the inside track?’

‘Who said we’re talking this afternoon?’

‘We’re not? I’m sorry, guv, I thought this was a murder inquiry.’

Faraday looked him in the eye, letting the silence stretch and stretch.

‘Do you want to apologise for that?’ he said at last.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m just concerned about—’

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yes, sir.’ His face was a mask. ‘And I apologise.’

‘Good. Now fuck off out of here. Ingham works in the incident room. Big guy. Yorkshire accent. Can’t miss him.’

Corbett held his gaze. This was a declaration of war and both men knew it. Out beyond the car park, a flock of pigeons wheeled over the rooftops of Stamshaw. Finally Corbett stood up.