Borrowed Light

by Hurley, Graham

She didn’t say anything, just nodded at his hands. They were flat on the desk, totally motionless. Faraday looked down at them.

  ‘So what does that say?’

  ‘It says you’re getting better.’ She extended her own hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure. I just wish we could have been more help.’

  Faraday shrugged. He didn’t know what to say. Inside, where it mattered, he felt far from better, but he saw no point in complicating this courtly little scene with the truth.

  The silence was becoming uncomfortable. Stanley nodded at the phone.

  ‘All these calls … anything interesting?’

  ‘Not really. We’re still in the dark about the Corsa. We’ve got nothing on CCTV and the house-to-house was a waste of time. Your guys drew a blank too. Am I right?’

  Stanley nodded. She’d called in another CSI from Shanklin. He’d spent a couple of hours crawling all over the little car but had found nothing in the way of useful evidence. For the second time in a week fire had defeated them. Another apology. Another nod at the phone.

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Only a message from the CIU. They got the billing on Difford’s mobile. The last call was to another mobile at 03.29 on Sunday morning. Since then no one’s used it.’

  For the Communications Intelligence Unit a two-day turnaround on billings was fast.

  ‘By that time in the morning Difford would have been dead.’ Stanley was trying to put this new development in context.

  ‘You’re right. Which probably puts the phone in Difford’s car.’

  ‘The Corsa.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Driven by Holman?’

  ‘That’s the assumption. There’s no other way he could have left the premises.’

  ‘And you say they’ve got the number he called?’

  ‘Yeah. They’ve traced that too. It’s a Pay As You Talk. Bought two months ago from a place in Reading.’

  ‘Credit card?’

  ‘Cash.’

  ‘Shame.’ A credit card would have left an audit trail: a name, contact details. A handful of notes for a Pay As You Talk left nothing.

  ‘Have you contacted the store?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’ve got the transaction details and the name of the girl who handled the sale, but it was just before Christmas and there’s no way she’s going to remember a face after that length of time.’

  ‘Is she still there?’

  ‘No. She moved to Manchester last week. I might get someone up there. I haven’t decided yet.’

  Stanley nodded. Something else had occurred to her.

  ‘We’re assuming Holman took off with the cocaine, yes?’

  ‘If we’re right about the cocaine, it’s certainly a possibility. The postman saw him on the Thursday. That’s when he was working round the back of the property. He had all day Friday and all Saturday to lift the stuff out. He could have taken it elsewhere at any point. He had a big old Land Rover. Plenty of room.’

  ‘I know. We boshed it.’

  ‘And found nothing. We’ve been back to the ferry companies too, checking bookings in his name for Friday and Saturday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. But that proves sod all. If there was anything in that hole, and we’re assuming there must have been, then he could have shipped it back to the mainland in any number of vehicles. We just don’t know.’

  ‘So it could still be on the island?’

  ‘Of course. That’s the whole point. If this stuff exists, it could be anywhere.’

  ‘And you think it does exist?’

  ‘Yes. The intel’s circumstantial but it’s bloody strong. Holman kept the right company. Times are hard. If you were babysitting a load of cocaine or whatever and you wanted to cash in, then now would be the time. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stanley nodded. ‘And who digs a hole for the fun of it?’

  ‘Exactly. Which leaves us with a number of questions. Number one: where’s Holman? Number two: what’s he done with the goodies? Number three: how did he remove them from the farm? Personally, I think this guy is completely away with the fairies. The intelligence tells us his brain’s shot to pieces. He’s messed up big time with his stepdaughter. His life’s in bits. I’d love to buy the theory that he’s worked all this out, that he’s planned it all, that he’s done everything in the right order, made a decision, dug up the goodies, found a buyer, shipped the stuff out, then settled his debts with the rest of the family. But that’s never going to happen. Like I say, the guy’s stuffed. For my money, events overtook him. There’s a trigger here. Something happened on the Saturday night, something that pushed him over the edge. The killings themselves seem pretty organised. At least he got that bit right. But we still don’t know why he did it.’

  ‘No intruders? No strangers in the property?’

  ‘I doubt it. Holman’s the guy we need to find.’ He paused. ‘Fifty blocks of cocaine? Could you get that kind of weight into a Corsa?’

  Stanley gave the proposition some thought. Eventually she nodded.

  ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘The back floorwell, the back seat and the boot would do it. You’d need a bit of time to fit it all in but it’s perfectly possible.’ She paused. ‘But there’s a problem here, isn’t there?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Holman’s broke. Like you say, he’s probably looking after the stash for someone else.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Who is that someone else?’

  ‘Good question, Meg.’ Faraday, for the first time in days, felt alive. ‘And one we’re eager to crack.’

  Winter put another call through to Lou Sadler. Her number had been stored on the mobile he’d lifted from Monique’s bag. The first time he phoned, there’d been no answer. Now came a female voice, someone busy, someone who resented this sudden interruption.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Winter was using his own mobile. She wouldn’t have recognised the number.

  Winter introduced himself. He said he was making enquiries for a client.

  ‘Enquiries about what?’

  ‘I’d prefer to discuss this in person.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘We can discuss that too.’

  There was a brief silence. Then she came back on the phone.

  ‘If you’re wasting my time, Mr Winter, you’ll regret it.’ She named a car park at the back of Cowes High Street. She’d be driving a red Megane convertible. Half an hour. On the dot. The phone went dead.

  Winter got to the car park with ten minutes to spare. Across the road was a parade of shops. It was getting dark by now and he found shelter from the wind in the doorway of a firm of undertakers, admiring the wicker coffin on display in the window. While he was waiting, a woman appeared at the door. She’d noted his interest in the coffin and said she had a friend in the Women’s Institute who specialised in weaving flowers into the wicker bits. Winter thanked her and pocketed the contact card. A scarlet Megane had just pulled into the car park. He wandered across.

  The woman behind the wheel opened the passenger door. Winter bent down.

  ‘You’re asking me to get in?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Winter did what he was told. She was a big woman, her face framed in a tumble of auburn curls. Despite the weather she was wearing a rust-coloured singlet that showcased her chest. An elaborate rose tattoo coiled over one shoulder, and Winter glimpsed another plunging down over her right breast. She wore a heavy gold bracelet on one wrist and the ruby on her ring finger was the size of a walnut. This woman belongs in a fairground, thought Winter. Or on the door of a nightclub with a reputation for kicking off.

  ‘What’s this about?’ She was eyeing Winter without much enthusiasm. ‘And how did you get my number?’

  ‘Misty Gallagher.’

  ‘You know Mist?’

  ‘Very well.’ Winter offered his own mobile. ‘Help yourself. Just press go.’

 
; Sadler put the phone to her ear. Winter had already primed Misty to expect the call. When she answered, there was a brief exchange. Winter felt the woman’s eyes looking him up and down.

  ‘You need him to lose weight, Mist,’ she said. ‘He’s way too fat.’

  Winter heard Misty’s cackle of laughter. Then Sadler was handing back the phone. She had ten minutes before she was due elsewhere. Whatever Winter wanted had better be quick.

  ‘Kaija Luik,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Are you the Old Bill, or what?’

  ‘Used to be.’

  ‘That’s what Mist just said.’

  ‘Then it must be true.’

  Something about Winter seemed to amuse her. She put her head to one side, narrowed her eyes.

  ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’ She was right. They’d met on the pier, one of Bazza’s boxing evenings, last year or the year before. She’d been wearing a red spray-on dress, drawing whistles of approval from the sizeable crowd, and had arrived with a huge Dobermann which had cleared a path to her ringside seat. The ageing car salesman two seats along had spilled most of his lager with the excitement of it all.

  ‘Never.’ Winter shook his head. ‘I’d remember someone like you.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ At least she was still smiling. ‘So why Kaija? You fancy it?’

  ‘This isn’t about me, love. It’s about my client.’

  ‘He fancies it?’

  ‘He wants to get in touch with her. Old times, eh?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Bit of a number, the way I hear it. Him and Kaija.’

  ‘So what’s his name? This client of yours?’ The smile had gone.

  ‘Johnny. Johnny Holman.’

  There was a long silence. Sadler was studying Winter carefully.

  ‘You know Johnny?’ she said at last.

  ‘Yes. Not as well as young Kaija, but yes.’

  ‘So why doesn’t he get in touch with her himself?’

  ‘He can’t.’

  ‘Can’t?’ Her eyes were stony. She was fiddling with the ring. ‘And why would that be?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He’s been trying since Sunday. She’s not answering.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘That’s what he tells me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When what?’

  ‘When did he tell you that?’

  ‘This morning. Over in Pompey.’

  ‘Really? But Johnny’s been missing for a while. That farm of his burned down. The Old Bill are trying to trace him. It’s been all over the news.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘But you’re telling me you know where he is?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘As of this morning, half nine, definitely.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Amazing how?’

  ‘Just …’ she shrugged ‘… amazing. You say you were Old Bill yourself?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So why not do them a favour? Grass him up?’

  ‘How could I? Johnny’s my client.’

  ‘He pays you?’

  ‘Of course he pays me.’

  ‘How come? He’s skint. Johnny’s always skint. Totally boracic.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means he’s come into money. Lots of money. Am I getting warm, Lou?’

  It was the Christian name that did it. Plus the bit about the money. Plus the matey smile, the sense of a shared secret, the acknowledgement that this coded conversation had come full circle. He could see it in her eyes, in the slight upward tilt of her head. She wanted this exchange to end. But not before she’d landed a punch of her own.

  ‘You work for Mackenzie, don’t you? That’s where Misty comes in. You’re the bent little Filth he took on board. You’re the bagman, the guy who’s supposed to keep him out of trouble. I was right all along. You were on the pier, along with his other toadies. Funny that.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘Yeah. You looked all right in a DJ.’

  Winter held her eyes for a moment or two longer, then slipped the card from the undertakers out of his pocket and propped it on the dashboard.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure.’ He shot her a smile. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  Faraday was on the point of leaving when Jimmy Suttle appeared at his open door. He’d just had a call from Parsons, good news as it turned out.

  Suttle, scenting some kind of breakthrough, wanted to know more.

  ‘She’s called me back for the forensic management meeting tomorrow. Half ten at Fratton. She’s in the chair, of course, but after that she’s coming across to hold the fort until Monday.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning I get the weekend off.’

  ‘Great.’ Suttle sank into the chair. He loathed Parsons. ‘So how does that all work?’

  ‘She got a call from Personnel. Apparently they told her to go easy with me. She’s good at risk assessment. She had no choice.’

  ‘And you’re the risk?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘So you’re off Gosling completely? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Not at all. Back Monday. Sparrow fart.’ He got to his feet and shot Suttle a grin. He felt immeasurably better. Then he realised that his intel D/S might have something to tell him.

  Suttle nodded. He’d just had a call from Nadine Lorrimer, Kim Crocker’s friend. Nadine, it seemed, had been brooding about Robbie Difford. The fact that Robbie’s was one of the bodies recovered from the farm had changed everything. When she’d talked to them before, she’d missed one or two things out. Just in case she landed Robbie in trouble.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what really happened on the Saturday night.’

  Faraday sat down again. He needed to hear this.

  ‘And?’

  ‘The police came round after the treble nine, just like Nadine told us. Robbie was already there. The uniforms did what they could then fucked off on another call. Which left the three of them again.’

  ‘Remind me. Where was Mum and the sister?’

  ‘Out somewhere. The point is, boss, that Holman got really stroppy, told Robbie to fuck off, told him he was an interfering little cunt, said he was making Kim really unhappy.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘Of course he wasn’t. Not according to Nadine.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Holman lost it completely, took a swing at the lad.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Robbie decked him. Kneed him in the nuts and gave him a kicking.’

  ‘Nadine’s sure about this?’

  ‘She’s telling me it’s gospel.’

  ‘She’d be happy to repeat it in court? If she has to?’

  ‘Better than that. She’s saying it’d be a pleasure.’

  Faraday nodded, pulled a pad from a drawer, wrote himself a note. This, he knew, was the trigger, the single episode that had – in all probability – set in motion everything that had followed.

  ‘Can she remember the exact date?’

  ‘It’s on the file, boss. The uniforms logged it.’

  ‘Of course they did. Remind me.’

  ‘Monday 2nd February. That’s ten days ago.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He wrote down the date, leaned back in the chair, went through the timeline. ‘Monday, Holman has the ruck with Difford. Gets a kicking for his troubles. And all this in front of the stepdaughter. He’s made a dick of himself already as far as she’s concerned, but this makes everything worse. Next thing we know, he’s up in London at a clinic for sexual dysfunction. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he’s back down again, back at the farm, desperate to get at whatever’s in that hole of his. The Friday’s still a blank. Saturday night the younger daughter goes into Newport. She’s going to be kipping over with a mate but something kicks off and she wants to come
home. Mum says no. Stay where you are. So we can reasonably assume things are getting tricky again at the farm.’

  ‘Holman’s pissed, bound to be.’ Suttle took up the running. ‘Difford’s up there, playing the white man, keeping an eye on Kim, maybe Mum as well.’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. And by now we can assume that Holman has dug up whatever he needs to dig up.’

  ‘Right.’ Suttle nodded. ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘We don’t know. Not for certain. But Holman’s got access to a couple of shotguns. He’s pissed again. He’s had all week to stew about what kicked off on the Monday. These aren’t his kids. Difford’s humiliated him. Julie thinks he’s a pervert. It writes itself, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Four bodies, boss? You really think that’s enough for four bodies?’

  ‘Maybe not. But add whatever was in that hole and it starts to look plausible, n’est-ce pas?’

  Suttle tipped his head back. One of the reasons Faraday rated him so highly was the kind of attention he gave to propositions like this. He never took short cuts. He always asked himself the harder questions.

  ‘It’s still not enough,’ he said. ‘You’re Holman. You’re about to kill four people. You’re about to torch the house of your dreams, everything you possess in the world. There has to be hope. There has to be light at the end of the tunnel. I know he’s a fruitcake but he has to have a plan.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like Kaija Luik.’

  Winter sat in a pub round the corner from the car park where he’d met Lou Sadler. She’d driven off without a backward glance, ignoring his cheerful wave of farewell. A working lifetime in the Job had taught him a great deal about guilt – what to look for, what it smelled like – and he had absolutely no doubt that Sadler had played some kind of role in what had happened at the farm. Jimmy Suttle had been right. A woman like that would have seen him off without breaking sweat. Quite what had happened to Kaija Luik was anybody’s guess but Winter had found another stored number on Monique’s mobile and was determined to find out.

  The number, 07854 633524, was badged K. He’d tried it twice already. Both times it had rung and rung before the answering service cut in. Now he dialled it again, reaching for his bottle of Stella, wondering if pubs in Cowes were always so empty.

  He was about to hang up when he heard a voice. It was an old voice, a woman’s voice, an air of faint confusion.