Deadlight (47 page)

‘Don’t know, sir. I imagine we go back to square one.’

Streatham High Road was thick with traffic when Faraday finally made it from Balham tube. Buses and lorries were backed up as far as he could see, and the air tasted foul. It was still hot, hotter than Portsmouth, and he was glad of the air-conditioning when he finally ducked into the wine bar.

To his surprise, the DI was already there, perched on a bar stool beside the coffee machine. The green anorak was folded on her lap and she was leafing through a copy of the London
Evening Standard
.

‘You’re early,’ Faraday said.

She glanced up. She had a striking face – blue eyes, wide mouth, fringe of blonde curls – but her complexion was pallid and she looked like she needed a good night’s sleep. She made space between them, pushing back the adjacent stool with her foot.

There was an open bottle of red beside the ashtray on the counter. She indicated the other glass.

‘It’s a Merlot,’ she said. ‘I took the liberty of putting it on your tab.’

‘No problem.’ Faraday reached for the bottle. ‘Do you have a first name?’

‘Chris. And yours?’

‘Joe.’

They sparred uneasily for several minutes, Faraday waiting for the wine to kick in. She’d been on division as a DI for the best part of two years, trying to stopper the usual bottles. They agreed that shoplifters were a pain, kids worse and nuisance jobs worst of all. By the time she got to her recent intelligence posting, Faraday was glad he didn’t live in South London.

‘So how long have you been on intelligence?’

‘Three months. Moved over early spring.’

‘Like it?’

‘Love it.’

Faraday knew that now was the moment they’d get down to business. It wasn’t that this woman begrudged him a decent conversation. It was just that her job was hectic enough already without having to make room for some provincial dipshit from the sticks.

‘This is off the record, right?’

‘Absolutely.’ Faraday had expected nothing else.

‘OK. We’ve been interested in Davidson for a while. We followed him through the prison system and we knew his release date before he did. Though he even tried to fuck with
that
.’

She didn’t bother to hide her irritation. Ainsley Davidson had plainly been a handful, with his relentless campaigning to win himself an appeal.

Faraday poured himself some more wine. Pannell covered her glass with her hand.

‘Did you see him inside at all?’

‘Never.’ She shook her head. ‘I was tempted sometimes but no, we waited.’

‘And?’

‘Made contact when he came out. Davidson had been driving for some serious criminals, made quite a name for himself. Odds on, he’d be back in the same company. Criminals are like anyone else, creatures of habit. Don’t you find that?’

Faraday nodded. Too right, he thought.

‘You ran Davidson yourself?’

‘No. I’ve got a team of DCs, nothing massive. One of them looked after Davidson.’

‘And Davidson was happy to go along with you?’

‘Yeah. More than happy. That should have wised us up, really, but you get a result and you just want to keep the stuff coming in. It was good quality, too, intelligence we could check out, names we recognised. It seemed more than promising.’ She paused, staring down at her empty glass. ‘I suppose that was a clue, too.’

‘Clue to what?’

‘Clue to Davidson’s little game. He’d taken decent money off us by this time, four figures, the little shit, and then we got a whisper from another source and we realised what he was up to.’

‘Both ends against the middle?’

‘Exactly. There was no question he was back in bad company. Christ, we’d encouraged that and had the videos to prove it. No, turned out he’d been straight with them from the off, blown himself completely, and everything we had down on tape – jobs they were planning, dates, times, locations – was all fiction. It sounded great, really kosher, but they’d probably rehearsed it all a million times. Straight fucking pantomime.’

‘You’d wired Davidson?’

‘Of course. Little bastard even flogged the mike and transmitter. Hi-spec kit. Cost us a fortune to replace.’

‘And nothing at the end of it?’

‘Absolutely fuck all. The targets must be pissing themselves.’

‘And Davidson?’

‘Disappeared.’

Faraday permitted himself a chuckle. It was a good story, the stuff of wry CID legend, and even Pannell had the grace to smile. Entrapment turned inside out. Game, set and match to Mr Davidson.

‘You know why he screwed you around?’

‘Yeah.’ She’d just checked her watch. ‘He hated us. Hated the screws inside. Hated anything in a uniform. Thought he’d been fitted up.’

‘My understanding was he
had
been fitted up.’

‘You’re right. But not by us. He went down on a GBH charge, ran down a woman on a crossing, lucky she didn’t die. Only he wasn’t the bloke at the wheel. The guy driving was the brother of the bloke who runs the firm. Davidson had nicked the car in the first place and his prints were all over it. They were happy to let him take the fall.’

‘And he was back with these guys?’

‘Yeah, but not happy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they wouldn’t come across. No down payments on future jobs. No compensation for seven years of his life. Nothing to say thank you for letting them into our little secret. They knew we were paying him and they left it at that.’

‘How come?’

‘They didn’t trust him. They knew they’d fucked him about over the GBH charge and they thought he was setting them up. So it was wait and see time.’

‘Absolutely no money?’

‘None.’

‘Or favours?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like sorting out a screw he hated? In Portsmouth.’

‘You’re joking.’ Pannell laughed at the thought. ‘These guys are careful like you wouldn’t believe. Whacking screws is bad shit. Whacking screws brings half the bloody police force round your neck. Why would they want that kind of grief?’

Good question, thought Faraday. He swallowed a mouthful of the Merlot. Now the tricky bit.

‘There’s a DC called Andy Corbett,’ he said. ‘You’ll know him.’

Pannell nodded. The laughter had left her face.

‘What about him?’

‘He’s been back recently, talking to some of your guys, maybe even talking to you. He’s used your intelligence to make a case against Davidson. A screw Davidson loathed got murdered. Corbett’s keen to put Davidson away for it, or at least Davidson’s buddies. You must know all this. That’s why you’re here.’

Pannell had produced a packet of Marlboro Lights. Faraday shook his head when she offered. She lit the cigarette and then ducked her head behind the cloud of smoke.

‘This is difficult,’ she said at last.

‘Why?’

‘Because it isn’t something I should be telling you.’

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.’

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.