Deadlight (15 page)

His eyes never left Faraday’s face. What he thought of the SE Hants Major Crime team couldn’t have been clearer.

‘So why didn’t you take it to DS Imber?’

‘I don’t know DS Imber.’

‘You should do. He heads our Intelligence Cell.’

‘I know that. I meant I don’t know him personally. Never had the pleasure.’

‘What difference is that supposed to make?’

In spite of a determination not to rise to this kind of provocation, Corbett was making Faraday very angry indeed, and the realisation made him angrier still. A tiny smile puckered the corner of Corbett’s mouth. When he didn’t answer the question, Faraday asked him again. At length, he shrugged.

‘No difference at all, sir. I just thought it best to go to the top.’

‘Then you were wrong. When Mr Willard’s away, I am the top. Do you have a problem with that?’

‘Not at all.’ He gestured idly at the space between them. ‘It’s not me who’s got the problem here.’

For a moment, Faraday fought the urge to take Corbett by the throat and wipe the smile off his face. Then he leaned forward, gesturing the DC closer.

‘You know something, my friend? You’re even more
reckless than I thought. On this unit, there are things you do and things you don’t do. We have a system here. It depends on teamwork. You have intelligence to offer, you take it to DS Michaels. He’s our Receiver. That’s what he does. And if Dave’s not around, you try the Intelligence Cell. Or me. It’s not rocket science, OK?’ Faraday held his gaze for a long moment, then eased back in the chair. ‘It’s too late for an apology so there’s no point making one. You were a dickhead to phone Mr Willard and Mr Willard will doubtless be making the point in his own way later. I’d wish you luck but I wouldn’t want to raise your hopes of staying on this investigation. If it was down to me, you’d have been out of the door hours ago.’

For the first time, Faraday detected a reaction, the merest flicker of a nerve beneath Corbett’s left eye. Anxiety? Anger. He didn’t know.

‘Tell me about this intelligence,’ Faraday said. ‘Pretend I know nothing.’

Corbett amplified what Willard had already said over the phone. Before he’d gone to court on the GBH, Davidson had been one of the in-demand drivers around the Streatham/Balham area. He’d been nicking motors for most of his young life and was extremely good behind the wheel. A couple of gangs, to Corbett’s certain knowledge, had hired his services on quality jobs and he’d built himself a sweet reputation with the people who really mattered.

‘So how come he was stupid enough to run the woman over?’

‘He may not have done. In my view, Davidson was right to kick up a fuss about not driving the car.’

‘The ID parade?’

‘One woman picked him out. Three other witnesses didn’t.’

‘The forensic from the car?’

‘He held up his hands to nicking it. Never denied that
for a moment. Hair, prints, fuck knows what else, the motor would have been full of it. No, the point about the car is much simpler. Say he did run the woman over. Given the fact he drove off sharpish, got away with it, why didn’t he torch the car afterwards? That way, there’d have been no forensic at all. Just one woman’s word at the ID parade.’

‘OK.’ Faraday conceded the point with a nod. ‘Say he didn’t do it. Say someone else was at the wheel when the woman got run over. Where does that take us with Coughlin?’

There was a creak of new leather as Corbett shifted in the chair. He crossed one leg over the other, making himself comfortable.

‘The way I read it, Davidson was stitched up. The bloke at the wheel that day was tied in with the firm Davidson was working for. Someone higher up. Someone with clout. He blew it on the crossing and ran the woman over. His arse was more precious than Davidson’s. Davidson took the fall.’

‘And knew it?’

‘Yeah. Either knew it or worked it out later. He had plenty of time.’

‘And now?’

‘He’s back in Balham, back on the scene.’

‘Picking up where he left off? Same firm?’

‘More or less. One or two of the faces have changed but it’s the same blokes calling the shots at the top.’

‘And you’re telling me they owe him?’

‘Yeah, big time.’

‘Conscience?’

‘That plus he’s the same old Ainsley Davidson. Good at nicking motors. Even better at driving them. He’s broke. He needs money. As well as something on deposit.’

‘A contract on Coughlin?’

‘A roughing-up that went too far.’ He paused, inspecting his fingernails. ‘Coughlin inhaled his own puke, didn’t he? That doesn’t sound like a contract to me.’

‘And the state of the room? The porn mags?’

‘They smashed the place up and sent a little message. Coughlin was a wanker. Par for the course.’

Faraday was still wondering where Corbett had picked up the details on the post-mortem. Maybe Paul Ingham, he thought. Or even Dave Michaels.

‘All this intelligence …’ Faraday waved a hand at the space between them. ‘Where does it come from?’

‘I worked at Streatham, CID,’ he said. ‘You get to know a lot of blokes in three years.’

‘You’ve been tapping them up?’

‘Of course I have. That’s what I get paid for.’

‘You’re paid to share information, spread it around. It’s called teamwork.’

‘You weren’t here,’ he repeated. ‘So I went one better.’

‘Of course you did.’ Faraday got up and went to the window. Gone eight, it was still broad daylight. The car park below was nearly empty but a queue of lorries was still heading into the nearby ferryport. ‘DS Imber is processing a formal request through channels,’ he said at length. ‘When we see what comes back, we’ll be in a better position to make some operational decisions.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I don’t place that much reliance on hearsay. You’ve got anything on paper? Officers you’ve talked to? Sources? Names?’

‘You know I haven’t. That’s not the way it works. Not in the real world.’

Faraday didn’t even have to force the smile. Wind-ups this obvious were easy to deal with. He glanced at his watch and turned back into the office.

‘Dunno about you,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got better things to do than hang about here all night. I take it you’ve checked in with DS Ingham?’

‘Of course.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘We’re widening the house-to-house parameters tomorrow. Good luck with the PDFs.’

Winter had more trouble than he’d anticipated convincing the
News
about Charlie. His best contact was a journalist who occasionally did week-long stints as a stand-in for the news editor. She was youngish and extremely pretty and she’d come to Winter’s attention during the course of a long-running investigation into arcade robberies.

Gangs were running round the country with some very expensive tools that got them inside the latest gaming machines. They’d work arcades, clubs and pubs mob-handed, the women distracting the security staff while the pointmen did the business. It took barely a minute to empty a machine of all its cash and the beauty of the scam was that no one knew any different until the next big jackpot was due and the punter found himself looking at an empty tray.

A good team would net hundreds of pounds a night, and Winter had spent several very happy weeks gathering intelligence from outlets the length of Southsea seafront. Coincidentally, a routine
News
enquiry for tasty background information on current inquiries had been OK’d by Hartigan, and the reporter who’d turned up with her notebook and scoop-necked Elle T-shirt had, by some welcome twist of fate, been directed Winter’s way. He hadn’t bothered her with any of the operational details on the machines scam, but he’d told her enough to whet her appetite and she’d gone off very happy. The resulting feature had been embargoed until the case came to court but she’d still wound up with her name in lights and a nice memo from the editor.

Now, she seemed to be having trouble spotting Charlie’s news value. Was this a rare breed of dog? Had
it just had a heart transplant? Or was she missing something here? Winter started going through the whole thing again, then realised there were better ways to bait the hook.

‘You’ll know about the guy kicked half to death in Somerstown …’ he began.

‘Sure. Front-page lead in tomorrow’s paper. What about it?’

‘Just some enquiries we’re making. Might interest you.’

‘Yeah? Like what?’

‘Can’t say just now but when I can, you might be the first to know.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘It most certainly is.’

‘Are we talking tomorrow?’

‘We might be.’

‘And Charlie?’

‘He’s here now, love. I can meet your snapper outside the owner’s place. A Mrs Czinski. Heart of gold and extremely photogenic.’ He paused. ‘Do I hear a yes?’

WEDNESDAY
5
JUNE
, 2002,
21.15

It was nearly dark by the time Faraday made it to the long terrace of apartments overlooking South Parade Pier. Pre-war, most of these buildings had been well-kept family hotels, catering to the thousands of holidaymakers who took the train down from London and stayed for weeks on end, but vacation tastes had changed and the hotels had got seedier and seedier until the developers stepped in, sorted out the crumbling stucco and Victorian plumbing and turned the entire parade into a lifestyle statement. Instead of tour coaches, there were BMWs and sleek Mercedes saloons at the kerbside. Instead of high tea and an evening of bingo, the new residents preferred digital TV and designer cocktails.

Eadie Sykes lived at number thirty-three. Faraday inspected the intercom and pressed the button against her name. After a couple of showers in the late afternoon, the weather had cheered up again and the tiny cap of cloud over the Isle of Wight was pinked with the last rays of sunset.

‘Joe? Hi. Come up.’

Faraday took the lift to the fourth floor, trying hard not to look at himself in the mirrored glass. The last twenty-four hours had been even more brutal than usual and he knew it showed on his face. Keep up this kind of pace and he’d need more than a couple of snatched extra hours in bed before the city delivered another corpse to Major Crimes.

Eadie Sykes had left the door to her flat open. She must have heard the lift arrive because she shouted for him to
come in. First sight of her flat took Faraday’s breath away. The interior space stretched the full depth of the building, acres of maplewood flooring dotted with rich oriental rugs. The walls were painted a fashionable green – a shade or two lighter than sage – and the scattering of chrome and leather furniture was arranged to make the most of the view.

Tall glass doors opened on to an ample balcony. Standing in the coolness of the dusk, Faraday gazed out over the Solent. A pattern of lights against the dark hump of the island resolved itself into a cruise liner. Inshore, much closer, he could hear the putter-putter of a fishing boat pushing out against the flooding tide.

‘Don’t be too impressed. I’m only camping.’

Faraday didn’t believe her. Spend a single night with this view, and you’d never want to leave.

He stepped back into the room and looked round again, wondering how he’d alter things. A change of sofa, definitely, and pictures on the walls that didn’t look so impersonal. Whoever had furnished this place had never got beyond the second floor at John Lewis.

‘Where do you sleep?’

‘Through there.’ Eadie indicated a connecting door. ‘Bathroom and two bedrooms. Poky compared to this.’

There was a fitted kitchen at the back of the room, lots more chrome. Everything looked brand new, barely used, a page ripped straight from the brochure. There was nothing on the big ceramic hob but hints of garlic and rosemary suggested something bubbling in the oven.

‘I thought you were taking me out for a beer?’

‘Afraid not.’ Eadie shook her head. ‘I thought I’d test your sense of humour and do some cooking. You’re not a veggie, are you?’

‘Never.’

‘Thank Christ for that. There’s a butcher I just found in Fratton. Lamb to die for. Change your life.’

She swept him on to the sofa and poured a huge glass
of wine. Given any kind of choice, Faraday would have preferred a beer but never had the chance to ask.

‘Rioja. Bloody wonderful. Try it.’

Faraday did what he was told. She was right. The wine was delicious. She went back to the kitchen and rummaged around in a cupboard before returning with a bowl of cashews. She was a big woman, broad shouldered, and moved with the easy lope of a serious athlete. Conversationally, she seemed to ride wave after wave as they caught her fancy and she radiated an energy that lit up her entire face. Someone like this around, Faraday thought, and you’d never bother with central heating.

He’d noticed a pair of worn Nike runners in the hall.

‘You go jogging?’

‘Every morning.’ She dipped in the bowl for another handful of cashews. ‘Get out there early and there’s no one around. That way you keep your secrets.’

‘Which are … ?’

‘I’m too bloody fat.’ She slapped a thigh. ‘You know something about your boy? He’s going to have hair just like yours.’

She reached up and touched the greying curls at Faraday’s temple. It was a cheerful, artless gesture, completely devoid of sexual overtones, and it made Faraday feel curiously at home. Another glass of wine and he’d forget he’d ever met Andy Corbett.

‘So who owns this place?’

‘Guy called Doug Hughes. He’s got the whole block.’

‘And you rent it from him? Must cost a fortune.’

‘Not really. We’ve got an arrangement.’

‘What kind of arrangement?’

‘I keep an eye on the other tenants. Throw little soirées when he wants to impress someone. Go away for the weekend and leave him the key when he fancies a discreet shag. Works OK most of the time.’

‘You know this guy well?’

‘Should do.’ She laughed, reaching for the wine bottle. ‘He used to be my husband.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Always.’ She recharged his glass, and then handed him the bottle. ‘Call me Sykes, by the way.’ She was on her feet again. ‘Everybody else does.’