Deadlight (20 page)

‘She can’t say. She was in bed herself by then because she knew Pritchard was already pissed and she had to be up at five to make sure he was ready for the taxi.’

‘Taxi?’

‘To take him to Gatwick. It was an Aqua cab. Bev Yates is checking the driver out.’

‘So this holiday was prearranged?’ Dave Michaels picked up the booking form. Like Brian Imber he’d somehow assumed that Pritchard had done a runner, fleeing the scene of crime and buying himself a one-way ticket at the airport.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Faraday said. ‘Pritchard sorted it out weeks ago. According to the sister, he was a bit vague about the return flight but the evidence is pretty plain. The bloody holiday was pre-booked. The paperwork we seized proves it. And that, I have to say, is a problem.’

‘But we’re still sure about all this newsgroup argybargy?’ Dave Michaels let the booking form flutter to the desk.

‘Absolutely. His computer has gone over to the CCU for cloning but there was a pile of print-outs up in his living room, little souvenirs, choice quotes underlined. Pritchard is definitely Guzza.’

‘And the footprint?’

‘Ninety-nine per cent sure it’s his. The sole looks identical to the cast and they should be able to match the soil, too.’

‘So why the long face, boss? We’ve got motive, the newsgroup stuff. We’ve got opportunity, the shoeprint.
And now we find the bloke’s flown off with no definite plans to come back. I might be thick, but where’s the problem?’

Faraday leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. A number of loose ends had been worrying him since he left the Alhambra and this was the opportunity to tease them out.

‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘What do we actually know? We know that Pritchard’s been slagging Coughlin off for ever on the internet. We have proof that he’s threatened to ram all kinds of goodies up his arse. And then we find a photo of them snogging. That says best mates to me, and that’s exactly what his sister confirms in her statement. She couldn’t stand Coughlin but it obviously made no odds to Pritchard because the pair of them have been shagging for years.’ He gazed down at his hands. ‘So how does all that work? Anyone care to tell me?’

Michaels said the question was irrelevant. In his view, their job was to put the bad guys away. Explaining why one man killed another was down to the psychiatrists.

Brian Imber was looking more thoughtful.

‘Lovers’ tiff?’ he suggested. ‘Coughlin giving Pritchard a hard time about his holiday? Couldn’t bear the thought of life without him? They’re both pissed? Things get out of control? You know the way it goes with these people …’

‘So why the footprint in the flower bed round the back?’

Imber looked at Faraday a moment, then got up and stepped across to the window. Every day of his working week he faced questions like this, trying to figure out the likeliest pattern amongst all the dots.

‘Pritchard couldn’t raise Coughlin at the front door,’ he suggested at last, ‘so he goes round the back, taps at his bedroom window.’

‘Scenes of Crime say the bed hadn’t been slept in.’

‘Sure, but Pritchard didn’t know that. He knocks a
second time. No response. So round the front he goes and tries the front door again. This time Coughlin opens up and hey presto … he’s in.’

‘And then what?’

‘They have a row, a tiff, like I said just now.’

‘And?’

‘There’s a fight.’

‘But Coughlin’s twice Pritchard’s size. You can tell in those photos behind the bar. Pritchard’s skinny.’

‘Sure, and Coughlin’s pissed.’

‘But so is Pritchard.’ Faraday stared up at Imber. ‘You’re telling me a bloke like that could really damage Coughlin?’

Dave Michaels intervened again. The expression on his face suggested they were missing the obvious.

‘Happens all the time, boss, you know it does. Pritchard gets lucky, whacks Coughlin where it hurts, gives him a kicking.’

‘You might be right.’ Faraday nodded. ‘But there’s another problem.’

‘Which is?’

‘The shoes they’ve recovered. Absolutely no sign of blood or tissue.’

‘Proves nothing. How many times have we sent shoes away, clean as you like, and the report comes back, list as long as your arm, blood in the lacing, blood in the stitching, blood under the uppers?’

‘OK. So why haven’t they found bloodstained clothing in Pritchard’s flat? They’ve been through all three rooms, first trawl. Crap everywhere but absolutely no sign of what you’d expect.’

‘He’s hidden it.’

‘Doesn’t work, Dave. According to his sister, this is a guy who can’t organise his way downstairs. His brain’s gone. That’s why he ends up with a pile of parking fines. He gets pissed, abandons the car, then can’t remember where he left it. Monday night was like that. She says
Pritchard was out of his head. Are you really telling me he’d be in any fit state to bury the evidence?’

‘He binned it on the way home.’ Michaels wouldn’t give up. ‘He stuffed it into someone’s dustbin, chucked it over a hedge, left it in a skip, whatever. We ought to retrace his route, have a poke about.’

‘I’ve organised a POLSA.’

‘Great. Then let’s wait and see.’

‘Sure. But say he’s got blood on his jeans? On his shirt? What does he do? Walk home half-naked? Come on …’

Michaels was beginning to look concerned. He’d never had Faraday down as a manic depressive but this conversation was going absolutely nowhere.

‘You’re still up for Gib, boss? Only if you’re not, I know just the bloke—’

Faraday stayed him with a look. Discussions like these were invaluable. Better to shake the wrinkles out now, before they got anywhere near a defence lawyer.

Brian Imber had sat down again.

‘This mobile you gave me. We’ve applied for priority billing but we’ve also managed to access the last number he dialled.’

‘And?’

‘It was Coughlin’s. Pritchard tried to phone him at some point before he left.’

‘Bingo!’ It was Michaels. ‘That’ll be the call we retrieved from Coughlin’s message tape. Number withheld.’

Faraday looked from one to the other.

‘OK,’ he said slowly, ‘so where does that take us? Pritchard calls from the hotel? Wants to make sure Coughlin’s in? Goes round to find out for himself? Or say he’s outside the flat? Can’t get in? Tries to raise Coughlin on the mobile?’

‘Whatever, take your choice.’ Michaels was still grinning. ‘Right now it doesn’t matter a toss except it’s yet more evidence. We want to tie Pritchard to Coughlin
Monday night? We’ve done it twice. Once with the footprint, and now with the phone.’ He paused, searching for the right words. First Davidson. Now Pritchard. He leaned back in the chair, his hands clasped behind his neck. ‘Hate to say this, boss, but how many times do you want to solve this fucking crime?’

Faraday offered him a bleak smile, acknowledging the justice of the question. Then he knotted his hands again.

‘Once would be good,’ he said quietly. ‘In court.’

Cathy Lamb found Paul Winter in a ward on the third floor at the Queen Alexandra Hospital, his bed wedged between a consumptive-looking eighty-year-old and a younger man being prepared for a heart operation. She pulled up a chair and found a space for herself beside the tiny bedside cabinet. According to the nursing sister behind the desk, Winter had been admitted for ‘observation’. X-rays had confirmed two broken ribs and a fracture of his upper right arm but neither need keep him in hospital for more than twenty-four hours.

‘This is a welfare visit,’ she said at once. ‘In case you were wondering.’

Winter offered her a weak smile. A bandage round his head covered the wound they’d stitched in Casualty and he was still convinced they’d left tiny splinters of glass in his face. Maybe, after all, it might have been wiser to have worn the seat belt.

‘Here, Cath.’ He reached for her hand and took it on a little journey across his right cheek. ‘And here and here. See anything?’

Cathy withdrew her hand, not even bothering to look.

‘You’ll be glad to know that Dawn’s OK,’ she said. ‘In fact they’ve already discharged her. Shock and multiple bruising. I’m insisting she take the rest of the week off.’

‘She’s an old toughie, Dawn. Good as gold in the ambulance.’ Winter was still exploring his face.

‘You could have killed her, Paul. Easily. Plus God knows who else.’

‘Who told you that?’ Winter tried to frown but frowning hurt. ‘I had it completely under control, Cath. There was absolutely no problem.’

‘Until the old lady appeared on the crossing.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But that’s what old ladies do, Paul. They appear on pedestrian crossings. And you know something else? That’s what crossings are for.’

Cathy folded her arms. She’d brought fruit and a jumbo bag of Werther’s but she wanted a good deal more contrition before she parted with either.

Winter sighed. He knew what was coming next. It wouldn’t be today, or even next week, but sooner or later the suits were going to reach for the big stick. Pursuit in unmarked cars was strictly verboten. Even slipping behind a suspect and quietly tailing him for a mile or two required a full-blown risk assessment. Paperwork, he’d long concluded, was the working criminal’s best friend.

‘You’ve forgotten the big one, Cath.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘Darren Geech.’ He lifted his good arm again and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Anyone nail the little bastard?’

Cathy shook her head. According to the control room log, it had taken a full eleven minutes to sort out a traffic car for the slip road on to the M275, by which time the red Audi had long gone. There’d been a couple of possible sightings since – one in Fareham, another in Portchester – but nothing that anyone wanted to stake their careers on. Geech would doubtless surface in God’s good time but for now he’d disappeared again.

‘Shame.’ Winter was peering down at Cathy’s bag. ‘Back to the drawing board, then?’

‘Not for me, Paul.’

‘No?’

‘’Fraid not.’ She shifted her weight on the chair. ‘Your mate Rookie died this morning.’

‘No one told me that.’

‘You asked for radio silence, remember? All those scanners? Otherwise I’d have let you know. We’re looking at a murder charge.’

‘And Major Crimes have nicked it? Set up a squad?’

‘As of lunchtime.’

The news seemed to sober Winter. He struggled to make himself comfortable against the pillows, then closed his eyes. Watching, Cathy Lamb began to wonder quite what the dead informant had really meant to him.

At length, Winter sighed.

‘That’s terrible, Cath,’ he muttered. ‘I’d have been a definite for that squad. I know I would. You’re right about chasing after Geech. If I’d known earlier about Rookie dying, I’d have let the little bastard go.’

It was gone seven by the time Faraday left the Major Crimes suite and clattered down the back stairs to the car park. The tickets had come through for the Gibraltar flight – 06.25 out of Gatwick – and he had a mountain of calls to make before he could even think about packing a case. Normally he’d stay at the office to finish the day’s work, but he’d promised J-J a prawn curry and a decent look at the prints he’d finished on the job for Eadie Sykes, and he knew he could sort out the calls in his office at home.

Hurrying across the car park, he spotted a familiar figure. Scottie was getting out of a battered Fiat with an armful of documents. For a moment, Faraday thought that the bundle of files was for him. The last thing he wanted just now was yet more paperwork.

‘These are for Nick. Stuff on the rape case.’

‘Thank Christ for that.’

‘You busy? Time for a drink?’ Scottie nodded up towards the top-floor bar.

Faraday made his excuses, fumbling in his pocket for his car keys. Then he paused.

‘That file you left me this morning, Coughlin’s naval records. I should have rung you.’

‘Any use, was it?’

‘Yeah. Guy really was a loner, wasn’t he?’

‘He was,’ Scottie said, then beckoned Faraday closer. He’d had a spare hour or two this afternoon and he’d taken a peek at a couple of other files, stuff to do with
Accolade
. Something had rung a bell, something from way back.

‘
Accolade?
’ Faraday knew this conversation had been a mistake.

‘Coughlin’s ship in the Falklands. The one that went down.’

‘Ah, yes, yes, sorry.’ Faraday forced a smile. ‘And?’

‘Turned out I was right. You sure you don’t want that drink?’

For a moment Faraday was tempted. Then he thought about J-J waiting at home, and Pritchard, down in Gibraltar, and everything else he had to cram into the handful of hours in between. Reaching out a hand, he patted Scottie on the shoulder.

‘Next time,’ he said. ‘And the first pint’s on me.’

FRIDAY
, 7
JUNE
, 2002,
09.05 bst

Faraday was asleep when the British Airways 737 banked low over the Bay of Algeciras, readying for the final approach into Gibraltar. Bev Yates, who’d lost the toss for the window seat at Gatwick, abandoned his copy of
Jet-Ski Monthly
and gave Faraday a shake.

‘Gib,’ he muttered. ‘Pilot says it’s raining.’

Faraday did his best to stretch his legs beneath the seat in front, then pressed his face to the cold perspex. Through rents in the cloud he glimpsed the sea, gun-metal grey, the long Atlantic rollers capped with foam. The aircraft bumped down through turbulence and yawed wildly before steadying again. Streaked with raindrops, the view was suddenly full of breaking waves. Then came a second or two of scruffy beach, a pile of boulders and a heavy lurch as the plane settled on the racing tarmac. Out beyond the airport, beneath the lid of cloud, Faraday could see the sprawl of the dockyard, grey again, at the foot of the towering Rock. Pompey, he thought, reaching down for his seat belt.

Frank Melia was waiting for them inside the terminal building. Back at Kingston Crescent, Nick Hayder had dubbed him Mr Smiley and now Faraday could see why. A small, round man with inspector’s pips on the epaulettes of his crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt, he pumped Faraday’s hand and led them across the concourse towards the big glass exit doors. He’d obviously done his homework because the first news he gave Bev Yates was the final score in the Kobe game.