The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Can you read the plate?’

  Dawn shook her head, inching forward a frame at a time. The camera was old, the resolution poor.

  ‘We had this same problem with the Escort,’ she said. ‘Crap lens. You think they’d do something about that, wouldn’t you?’

  She used another control to zoom in on the figure behind the wheel, but the bigger the image the grainier the detail.

  ‘Has to be,’ Faraday said softly. ‘Has to be.’

  Dawn returned the image to full frame, inched forward again. Sitting beside her at the tiny review console, Faraday was aware of how physically tense she’d become. This hunt for a tiny particle of evidence, a shape behind the wheel, even a face, had begun to matter.

  ‘There,’ she said at last. ‘He’s the small one from the Escort, I’d swear it. Might even be a kid.’

  Faraday peered at the screen. All he could make out was the grey outline of the driver, the pale disc of his face shadowed by a hoodie.

  ‘You think so?’ Faraday was trying to remember the detail on the photo she’d printed off in this same room last night. Dawn spared him the effort; she had a copy in her briefcase.

  ‘Look.’ She laid it on the desk in front of Faraday. ‘See for yourself.’

  Faraday compared the two images. There was nothing to disprove the similarity but equally he could see no clinching evidence that would survive the attentions of defence counsel in court.

  ‘People wear hoodies all the time,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Yeah, boss.’ Dawn began to spool forward again. ‘Especially kids.’

  ‘But we’re not looking for a kid. We’re looking for a contract killer, someone who knew exactly what they were doing.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘And if this guy was so careful at the house, what’s he doing coming back for the car?’

  ‘You tell me, boss.’ The Mercedes was slipping out of frame. ‘I’m just here to sort the pictures.’

  She chose another tape, gambling that the Mercedes had headed west on the motorway. Sure enough, eight minutes later a camera on a gantry beneath the Paulsgrove estate recorded the same car. This time the resolution was better, good enough to read the number plate. Faraday consulted the Mercedes’ registration details in his file. Bingo.

  Dawn had frozen the sequence again. This stretch of motorway was lit throughout the hours of darkness and it was possible to make out the driver’s hands on the wheel.

  ‘He’s wearing gloves,’ she said. ‘And he’s pulled down the visor again so we won’t get a clear shot of his face. What does that tell you?’

  ‘He’s aware. Obviously.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Dawn explained that Pompey coverage on the motorway ended at Junction 9. After that, cameras fed pictures to the control room in Southampton. She made a note of the time readout on the tape and glanced at her watch. She could be in Southampton within forty minutes or so. Did Faraday want to come?

  Faraday shook his head. He had a thousand things to do.

  ‘Give me a ring.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in the office.’

  Winter got up late. Part of him that resented Mackenzie’s call on his time was determined to make this small private point. My life is still my own.

  He wandered through to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water, all too aware that Mackenzie wouldn’t have the slightest interest in the hours he kept. The only currency that mattered in Bazza’s busy life was results.

  He struggled into the silk dressing gown he’d inherited from Maddox and fired up the kettle in the kitchen. For a brief moment he toyed with making proper coffee but then he caught sight of the percolator, still full of yesterday’s grounds, and he settled for instant instead. Next door were the notes he’d brought back from Gosport. Andrew McCall had been more than helpful.

  He began to leaf through them, trying to imagine the conversations he’d be obliged to have over the next couple of days. Key to the Mackenzie Trophy, in McCall’s view, was the support of the council. This chimed exactly with what Bazza had been saying but McCall had a couple of names to add to Mackenzie’s must-do list. One of them was a key player in the directorate responsible for tourism, leisure and sports. He’d dealt with her a number of times and promised she’d jump at a proposal like this.

  ‘Just tell her it’s world class,’ he’d said, ‘and she’ll sign up for anything.’

  Winter looked at the phone, wondering whether he was really ready for this next step of the journey. Last night’s session with Suttle had been cut short by a call from Jimmy’s current shag but an hour or so back in the company of a working copper had upset Winter more than he’d thought. The boy was right. Burying the job, leaving it behind you, was bloody hard.

  He rang the council number on his notes and finally got through to a secretary. Ms Hammond, she said, was in a conference. She’d be available to talk on the phone in about an hour. After that she was off to London.

  Winter gave the secretary his name and number. When the woman asked which organisation she represented, he stared blankly at the wall.

  ‘Beaver UK,’ he said at last.

  ‘And you specialise in what, Mr Winter?’

  Winter tried hard to come up with something plausible. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror at the end of the lounge. Maddox’s scarlet gown brought back all kinds of memories.

  ‘Adult entertainment,’ he said, feeling instantly better.

  The phone began to trill less than twenty minutes later. Winter was soaping himself in the bath. He reached out for the portable, demanded to know who it was.

  ‘Celia Hammond. You called.’

  ‘Ah …’ He struggled upright in the bath, wiped the suds from his eyes. ‘Andrew McCall gave me your name. I’ve got a proposal I think might interest you. I thought I might pop over for a chat.’

  ‘What is it? This proposal?’

  Winter gazed at the phone for a moment. He wasn’t used to being bossed like this. He liked things nice and casual. That way he could make the running.

  ‘It’s about jet skis …’

  He shut his eyes, lay back in the bath, tried to imagine this woman’s office, the view from her window, the size of her desk, the crescent of sofa she’d keep for special guests. The key to the next ten minutes, he’d decided, was bullshit. He told her that clients of his had approached him with a view to organising the first in a series of annual jet ski Grand Prix. They had access to major sponsorship funding. Comprehensive television coverage was virtually guaranteed though negotiations were at a critical stage and he couldn’t reveal details. An international list of top riders had already expressed interest. Various commercial spin-offs were in development. And the best news of all was the preferred location.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Here. In Portsmouth. My clients have looked at venues all over the UK. They’ve even been out to Spain and Portugal. But nothing - nothing - in their view can compare to Spithead. They’re mad for it. And so, if you take my advice, should you be.’

  ‘So when you anticipate this happening?’

  ‘Next summer.’

  ‘You mentioned sponsorship. Are we talking prize money? Or is this event entirely self-funding?’

  ‘It pays for itself. It won’t cost you a bean.’

  ‘And your clients can deliver? You’re confident about that?’

  ‘Absolutely. I trust them with my life.’

  There was a brief silence. Winter gave his plastic duck a poke with his big toe. Then Ms Hammond came back on the phone, no less businesslike.

  ‘And what’s your role in this, Mr Winter?’

  ‘Me?’ Winter was enjoying himself now. ‘I’m a facilitator. I put people together. Get the chemistry right and the most amazing things can happen. I’ve lived in this city all my life and, believe me, I recognise potential when I see it. We’re talking world class here. Anything less, my love, and I wouldn’t be wasting your time.’

  Faraday was in conference with De
tective Superintendent Barrie when Suttle knocked on the door. He apologised for the interruption but he had Dawn Ellis on the phone.

  ‘And?’ It was Barrie.

  ‘She’s got a couple more hits on the Mercedes, sir. It came off the motorway at …’ he glanced down at his pocketbook ‘… Junction 7. A camera at West End tracked it at 04.23. After that it disappeared. She thinks we’re probably looking at somewhere in Thornhill or Bitterne. She seems to know the area pretty well.’

  So did Barrie. He’d been a D/I there on division. He offered a nod of thanks to Suttle and waited for him to shut the door. Then he asked Faraday for his assessment.

  ‘I think it’s extremely significant, boss. Force Intelligence have circulated details but Southampton should be blitzing this.’

  ‘I agree. There’s a dodgy estate in Thornhill. Kids round there get into all kinds of mischief. I’ll give the Duty Inspector at Bitterne a ring for starters.’

  Faraday was wrestling with the word ‘kids’. Try as he might, he still had difficulty tying a hit as efficient as the Port Solent job to some toerag tearaway from the wrong side of the tracks. No kid he’d ever met was this organised, this careful. They always made mistakes, left a calling card or two. And part of their MO was they never seemed to care.

  Barrie wanted to know about last night’s enquiries around the marina. Outside Enquiries had put a team of D/Cs into every café, bar and pub that would have been open on Monday evening. The fact that CCTV had caught two men returning to the Escort at 00.28 should have been an enormous help.

  ‘That time of night, the stragglers tend to stand out. They’d be noticed. Am I right?’

  Faraday shook his head. In all, the Outside Enquiry team had visited nine premises, mainly bars and restaurants, and on every occasion they’d drawn a blank. Only in the multiplex had there been any prospect of a sighting.

  ‘They were having a late-night showing at Screen One,’ he explained. ‘The movie had drawn a pretty thin crowd and one of the attendants thought he’d seen a couple of blokes who might fit.’

  ‘Descriptions?’

  ‘He said one was much older, middle-aged. Fit-looking guy. Wore jeans and some kind of jacket.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘A kid. That’s what drew his attention. They looked odd together.’

  ‘What did he mean by kid?’

  ‘Fourteen, max. Skinny. On the small side. Wore a hoodie. Bit of a shrimp.’

  ‘And the colour of the hoodie?’

  ‘Grey.’

  ‘So where does that take us? Assuming it’s the same couple?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir, but we’re not exactly spoiled for leads, are we?’

  Too right. Back in his office Faraday stared glumly at the notes he’d made earlier, debriefing the D/Cs who’d paid a visit to the Halal Grocery and the Taj Mahal restaurant. On both occasions they’d had some difficulty locating the owners of the respective businesses. When they’d finally nailed down a name and a phone number for the Bengali entrepreneur behind the Taj Mahal operation, he’d been less than helpful. Yes, he’d had some dealings with a Mr Mallinder. Yes, he’d even consented to give the man half an hour of his time. But when he’d been patient enough to listen to what the man had to say, he’d had no hesitation in showing him the door.

  Pressed by the detectives for details, he’d refused to discuss figures. This man, he said, had wanted to steal his business from under him. Of course he owned the freehold of the premises. He had legal documents to prove it. But nothing in the world would persuade him to sell up for the figure mentioned in their extremely brief discussion.

  One of the D/Cs had enquired why Mallinder would have been interested in the restaurant. Was he moving into the curry business? At this the Bengali had roared with laughter. Of course not, he’d said. These people come down from London. They buy my place. The place next door. And the place next door to that. Come back in a year and you’re looking at a block of flats. Who gets the profit? Who makes the money? Not me, my friend.

  Before they left, the D/Cs had asked about Aliyah Begum. The Bengali, according to the detective debriefed by Faraday, had looked genuinely perplexed. He knew plenty of Aliyahs, and hundreds of Begums, but he knew no girls answering to the description they’d given him. If such a girl existed, she should answer to her family and to the Prophet. In a society as faithless and debased as this one, she was just another speck of dirt. She was worth nothing.

  Faraday was still wondering quite how far to pursue this line of enquiry when his phone began to ring. It took him several seconds to place the name. Gina Hamilton? A fellow D/I?

  ‘Devon and Cornwall.’ She was laughing. ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

  Faraday bent to the phone, trying to hide his embarrassment. The woman who turned up earlier in the week, he told himself. The out-of-town surveillance team who were sitting on Terry Byrne.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  ‘Brilliant. Total result. I’m just phoning to say thanks.’

  Her team had tracked the courier back along the coast, crossing the Devon border just west of Lyme Regis. They’d followed the target as far as Honiton and HQ had taken the decision to call the strike minutes later. Three traffic cars had penned him in a lay-by, and he’d been singing like a birdie ever since.

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Arrests?’

  ‘Half a dozen.’ She laughed again. ‘And counting.’

  She thanked him for the second time and brought the conversation to a close. Moments later, Faraday was looking ruefully at the phone. Half a dozen bodies in the holding cells? Two kilos of cocaine in the lock-up? No wonder she’d made D/I so young.

  It was early afternoon when Bazza Mackenzie arrived at Blake House. He’d phoned a couple of hours earlier, telling Winter to expect him, but he hadn’t mentioned company.

  Now, Winter stood in the hall, eyeing the videophone. Esme was wearing a T-shirt she must have picked up in the Caribbean. Treasure the Virgins read the logo across her ample chest. Behind her, dwarfing his boss, stood Brett West.

  Winter triggered the door release downstairs. Westie was the most inventive of Bazza’s heavies. He’d put on a bit of weight since his days as a young pro on Aston Villa’s books, and he had a huge appetite for the laughing powder, but his poise and dress sense had never left him and he still turned heads in the pricier Gunwharf café-bars. For a black guy, he was readier than most to take a joke but blokes who knew him well never underestimated the pleasure he took in dishing out serious violence. Mackenzie kept him on a retainer for use in extreme situations and Winter was inclined to believe the stories he’d heard about Westie’s collection of trophy snaps. Before the ambulance was called, he evidently liked to take a photo or two.

  The four of them gathered in the big living room. Mackenzie helped himself to a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. Esme ignored the invitation, making herself comfortable at the table by the window. She was wearing a shortish skirt with high leather boots. She had a tan suede briefcase with a Virgin Atlantic tag on the handle. It looked brand new.

  ‘Ezzie’s going to be driving this little project,’ Bazza announced. ‘I’ve put her in charge because we’re going to get ourselves involved in all kinds of legal bollocks. You OK with that, Paul?’

  Winter signalled his agreement with a nod. He didn’t care where the buck stopped, as long as it wasn’t with him.

  ‘No problema,’ he said. ‘Very wise.’

  Esme was looking more sour by the minute. In Cambados Winter had sensed that she didn’t much like him.

  ‘We’ll need to sort out a new company, a stand-alone job. Ezzie’s got it in hand.’

  ‘Not Beaver UK, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that.’ Winter thought briefly about describing this morning’s exchange with the city council but decided against it. Esme, for one, wouldn’t see the joke.

  ‘Go on
then.’ Bazza was looking at his daughter. ‘Show him.’

  Esme unzipped her briefcase and slipped out a folder. Winter wandered across and picked it up. It was shiny and white, good quality card, and embossed on the front were the words The Mackenzie Trophy. Inside, nicely framed on the left-hand page, was a small head and shoulders photo of a middle-aged man, heavily tanned, with a loop of red beads round his neck. He was grinning at the camera. Behind him, beyond a line of moored boats, the blueness of the sea.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Winter was still looking at the photo. Beneath it, the simple legend Mark Mackenzie, 1961-2006. For Bazza, he thought, the design showed signs of serious restraint.

  ‘It’s class,’ he said. ‘But what’s it for?’

  ‘You put stuff in it. Press releases, invites, cuttings, schedules, whatever. It’s branding, Paul. We do it with the hotel. With bits of the property business. It sets a tone. Tells people to watch their manners. That’s just a mock-up. I thought I’d run it past you first.’

  Winter nodded. Was this the moment to be picky? To argue for silver embossing rather than gold? Esme saved him the trouble.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ve told the printer to go ahead.’

  She took out a leather-bound notebook, silencing her father’s protests with a look, and then began to go through the next steps that she and Winter would need to take. This was a carbon copy of Bazza’s master plan but she dressed it up in management-speak. There was talk of time-sensitive delivery dates and the probable need for an environmental impact audit but Winter wasn’t fooled for a moment. She was staking out her territory, establishing her role. Winter was the lamp post. She was the dog.

  The list complete, she looked up.

  ‘We need to get on with this,’ she said. ‘Nine months might sound a long time but believe me we’re pushing the envelope already. The council are obviously key, Paul. You and I need to formulate an approach strategy. Like now.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘What?’