The Price Of Darkness
Read The Price Of Darkness Online
Authors: Graham Hurley
| The Price Of Darkness |
| Faraday & Winter [8] |
| Hurley, Graham |
| Hachette UK (2004) |
D/C Winter has gone undercover in an attempt to infiltrate the inner
circle of the city's premier drug's lord Bazza McKenzie. Isolated from
his colleagues, resenting the way his superiors have presented him the
job as a fait accompli and abroad in a world where money is easy and
respect is earned in brutally straightforward ways, DC Winter is in his
element. Worryingly so...Concerns amongst his superiors that Winter may
finally have had too much temptation put in his path are soon supplanted
by two vicious murders. First a high-profile local property developer
is shot, with clinical efficiency, in his own bed. A few days later a
government minister, on a visit to the city, is assassinated by two
helmeted motorcyclists while his car is stuck in a traffic jam. A
fevered investigation begins with Winter's erstwhile boss, D/I Faraday,
in charge. With clues hard to come by, the government panicking and the
anti-terrorist branch circling Faraday is shoved off the case and left
in charge just of the investigation into the property developer's
murder.With more time on his hands Faraday is also tasked with keeping
track of Winter and he soon discovers that Winter, the arch-conspirator,
has been set up.
As Winter begins to realize what his bosses had
in mind for him and Faraday begins to put together the pieces of a
heartbreaking story of personal and political betrayal that may well
link the two murders, the story becomes a study of the
desperate measures some people take when their friends and their society
let them down.
circle of the city's premier drug's lord Bazza McKenzie. Isolated from
his colleagues, resenting the way his superiors have presented him the
job as a fait accompli and abroad in a world where money is easy and
respect is earned in brutally straightforward ways, DC Winter is in his
element. Worryingly so...Concerns amongst his superiors that Winter may
finally have had too much temptation put in his path are soon supplanted
by two vicious murders. First a high-profile local property developer
is shot, with clinical efficiency, in his own bed. A few days later a
government minister, on a visit to the city, is assassinated by two
helmeted motorcyclists while his car is stuck in a traffic jam. A
fevered investigation begins with Winter's erstwhile boss, D/I Faraday,
in charge. With clues hard to come by, the government panicking and the
anti-terrorist branch circling Faraday is shoved off the case and left
in charge just of the investigation into the property developer's
murder.With more time on his hands Faraday is also tasked with keeping
track of Winter and he soon discovers that Winter, the arch-conspirator,
has been set up.
As Winter begins to realize what his bosses had
in mind for him and Faraday begins to put together the pieces of a
heartbreaking story of personal and political betrayal that may well
link the two murders, the story becomes a study of the
desperate measures some people take when their friends and their society
let them down.
Table of Contents
Praise for
The Price of Darkness
The Price of Darkness
‘The Price of Darkness
is Graham Hurley’s best book yet … Hurley presents a world that has lost its moral compass, where selfishness, betrayal and brutality prevail, and the rare instances of decency and kindness seem almost aberrant. Readers who enjoy convincing, well-crafted thrillers won’t go wrong with this one’
is Graham Hurley’s best book yet … Hurley presents a world that has lost its moral compass, where selfishness, betrayal and brutality prevail, and the rare instances of decency and kindness seem almost aberrant. Readers who enjoy convincing, well-crafted thrillers won’t go wrong with this one’
Guardian
‘[His] Portsmouth-based series gets better with each book … Hurley handles the two stories skilfully, with a particularly good murder mystery and, as always, vividly realised characters’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Interesting characters and two strong storylines drive the book along at high speed’
Financial Times
‘One of the most able proponents of the crime novel … Questions of loyalty and betrayal are handled with quite as much skill as the standard crime novel apparatus of violence and suspense’
Good Book Guide
‘Dark, gritty, engrossing and totally believable’
Reviewing the Evidence
‘With his customary flair for authenticity, Hurley plunges Winter and Faraday into thoughtful study of broken friendships and betrayals, wrapped up in a satisfyingly complex mystery story’
Yorkshire Evening Post
Graham Hurley is the author of the critically acclaimed D/I Faraday and Paul Winter series.
Blood and Honey
and
One Under
have been shortlisted for the Theakston’s Old Peculiar Award for Best Crime Novel. A one-time award-winning TV documentary maker and a committed competitive open-water rower, Graham writes full time. He lives with his wife, Lin in Exmouth.
Blood and Honey
and
One Under
have been shortlisted for the Theakston’s Old Peculiar Award for Best Crime Novel. A one-time award-winning TV documentary maker and a committed competitive open-water rower, Graham writes full time. He lives with his wife, Lin in Exmouth.
The Price of Darkness
GRAHAM HURLEY
Orion
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Orion
This ebook first published in 2010 by Orion Books
Copyright © Graham Hurley 2008
The moral right of Graham Hurley to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 1 4091 2350 7
This ebook produced by Jouve, France
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
To Peggy Hurley
1916-2007
Cherished and Missed
1916-2007
Cherished and Missed
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to the following for their time and advice: Stuart Ainsworth, John Ashworth, Martin Chudley, Laura Caton, Roly Dumont, Martin Evans, Neil Farnham-Smith, Pat Forsyth, Diana Franklin, Lyn Hoptrough, Richard John, Martin Laws, Andrew McCall, Mike Mortimer, Phil Parkinson, Tim Pepper, Nick Quantrill, Brett Rennolds, Dave Sackman, Jonathan Sands, Danielle Stoakes, Barry Walker, Tara Walker. My editor, Simon Spanton, beat the editorial drum with his usual flair, while Gillian Redfearn kept us magnificently in step. To my wife, Lin, a promise: the rest of the journey starts here.
When we are not sure, we are alive.
Graham Greene
Prelude
MONDAY, 4 SEPTEMBER 2006. CAMBADOS, SPAIN
Uncomfortable in the heat, Winter followed the funeral cortège as it wound up the path towards the cemetery. From here, high on the rocky hillside, he could sense what had drawn the dead man to Cambados. Not simply the lure of Colombian cocaine, delivered wholesale across the Atlantic. Not just the prospect of ever-swelling profits as he helped the laughing powder towards the exploding UK marketplace. But the chance to settle somewhere remote, somewhere real, to make a life for himself amongst these tough, nut-brown Galician peasants.
The cortège came to a halt while the priest fumbled with the gate of the cemetery and Winter paused, glad to catch his breath. The view was sensational. Immediately below, a tumble of houses crowding towards the waterfront. Further out, beyond the estuary, the aching blueness of the open sea.
Last night, after an emotional tour of his brother’s favourite bars, Bazza had ended up locked in an embrace with Mark’s girlfriend’s mother. Her name was Teresa. She was a plump, handsome woman who walked with the aid of a stick and, as far as Winter understood, the funeral arrangements had been entirely her doing.
The priest had accepted her assurances that Mark had been a practising Catholic. The friends he’d made had secured a plot in the cemetery. God had doubtless had a hand in the jet ski accident, and Mark’s death doubtless served some greater purpose, but the only thing she understood just now was that her daughter’s life would never be the same. Bebe had been only months away from becoming Mark’s wife. There would have been children, lots of children. God gives, and God takes away, she’d muttered, burying her face in a fold of Bazza’s linen jacket.
The mourners began to shuffle upward again, and Winter caught a whiff of something sweet, carried on the wind. Beside him, still hungover, was a lifelong friend of Bazza’s, a survivor from the glory days of the eighties. The last time Winter had seen him was in court, a couple of years back. He’d been up on a supply charge, coupled with accusations of GBH, and had walked free after a key witness had changed his mind about giving evidence. Last night, by barely ten, he’d been legless.
‘What’s that, mush?’ He had his nose in the air.
‘Incense.’ Winter paused again, mopping his face. ‘Gets rid of bad smells.’
Late evening, the same day, Winter was drinking alone at an empty table outside a bar on the waterfront. The bar belonged to Teresa. According to Bazza, she’d won it as part of a divorce settlement from her husband, an ex-pro footballer, and for old times’ sake it was still called the Bar El Portero
,
the keeper’s bar. Winter had been here a lot over the last couple of days, enjoying the swirl of fishermen and high-season tourists, conscious of the black-draped photos of Mark amongst the gallery of faces from the goalie’s past.
,
the keeper’s bar. Winter had been here a lot over the last couple of days, enjoying the swirl of fishermen and high-season tourists, conscious of the black-draped photos of Mark amongst the gallery of faces from the goalie’s past.
Tonight, though, was different. Bazza and his entourage had disappeared to a restaurant, and to be honest Winter was glad of an hour or two on his own.
The first he knew about company was a hand on his shoulder, the lightest touch. He looked up to find a tall, slim Latino helping himself to the other chair. He was older than he looked. He had the hands of a man in his forties, and there were threads of grey in his plaited hair. The white T-shirt carried a faded image of Jimi Hendrix.
‘You’re a cop,’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sí.’
‘Who says?’
‘Me. I know cops. I know cops all my life. You tell me it’s not true?’
‘I’m telling you nothing. Except it’s none of your fucking business.’
There was a long silence. The Latino produced a mobile and checked for messages. Then he returned the mobile to his jeans pocket, tipped his head back against the chair, and stared up into the night sky.
‘We’re wasting time, you and me, Señor Winter. I know who you are. I know where you come from. I know …’ He shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Winter leaned forward, irritated, pushing his glass to one side.
‘So why bother checking? Why all this drama?’
‘Because we need to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘About you.’
‘Yeah?’
‘
Sí …
you want to tell me what you’re doing here? In Cambados?’
Sí …
you want to tell me what you’re doing here? In Cambados?’
‘Not especially.’
‘You’re a friend of Señor Mackenzie.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’ve come over because of his brother.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Because you and Señor Mackenzie are …’ he frowned, ‘… friends.’
‘Spot on, son. Bazza and me go back a while. And it happens you’re right. I am a cop. Or was. I’m also a mate of Bazza’s. A family friend. Here to support the lad. Here to help. Here to do my bit.’
‘But cops never stop being cops. And that could be a problem.’
‘Yeah?’
‘
Sí.’
His gaze had settled on Winter’s face. ‘I have a question for you, Mr Winter
.
It’s a very simple question. As it happens, I know about your friends, about Señor Mackenzie, and I know about you. This man is a cop, I tell them. It’s all over his face, the way he talks, the way he moves, his eyes, who he watches, how he watches, everything. Sure, they tell me. The man’s a cop. And a good cop. A good cop turned bad. But clever. Useful. Me? I tell them they’re crazy.
Loco.
And wrong, too. Why? Because like I say cops never stop being cops. Never.
Nunca.
Not here, in Spain. Not in my country. Not in yours.
Nunca.
Whatever they say.
Nunca.
’
Sí.’
His gaze had settled on Winter’s face. ‘I have a question for you, Mr Winter
.
It’s a very simple question. As it happens, I know about your friends, about Señor Mackenzie, and I know about you. This man is a cop, I tell them. It’s all over his face, the way he talks, the way he moves, his eyes, who he watches, how he watches, everything. Sure, they tell me. The man’s a cop. And a good cop. A good cop turned bad. But clever. Useful. Me? I tell them they’re crazy.
Loco.
And wrong, too. Why? Because like I say cops never stop being cops. Never.
Nunca.
Not here, in Spain. Not in my country. Not in yours.
Nunca.
Whatever they say.
Nunca.
’
‘And the question?’
‘Tell me why you’re really here.’
‘You’d never believe me.’
‘I might.’
‘OK. And if you don’t?’
‘It will be bad, very bad. For you. And maybe for us, also.’
‘How bad is very bad?’
‘The worst.’ He smiled.
‘Lo peor
.
’
‘Lo peor
.
’
Winter took his time digesting the news. Bazza had pointed out this man twice in the last couple of days. His name was Riquelme, though everyone seemed to called him Rikki. He was Colombian. He was said to hold court in a four-star hotel along the coast. Not a gram of cocaine came into Cambados without his say-so.
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