The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘You have to be fucking joking.’

  ‘What are we talking about then?’

  ‘We’re talking about a scumbag Scouser called Terry Byrne. You’ll know young Terry. Terry’s an ambitious kid. He’s got the balls for the business but he’s stupid too. In fact he’s so stupid he puts down a whack of money for a couple of kilos from Cambados and never realises he’s got the Filth all over him. They obviously tracked the stuff to Bilbao. They were probably on the fucking ferry. They certainly knew it was coming because they pulled a guy on the road down the west somewhere and had the lot off him. Now our Rikki doesn’t care because he’s already been paid but he’s a nice man, Rikki, and when he gets a phone call this morning about a load of numpty dealers getting themselves lifted in Plymouth or some fucking place he starts putting two and two together. And you know the conclusion he comes to? You know where the finger points? At you, my old mate. Eez a cop, that man. I tell you already. I tell you before. Ee comes down here. Ee asks the questions. Ee talks to people. And then ee knows …’

  Winter shook his head wearily. Bazza’s Spanish accent was crap. So was the conclusion he’d come to.

  ‘You’re way out of line, Baz. This would be a joke if it wasn’t so sad.’

  ‘Sad? I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Well you’d better start trying, my son. Do you know what I’ve given up for you? For this charade? I’ve given up the best years of my life. I’ve given up a job I loved. I’ve given up a job I did better than any other cunt in this city. And for what? For this? To get myself in Westie’s fucking scrapbook?’

  West started to growl. Mackenzie told him to shut up. Then he turned back to Winter.

  ‘You were thrown out, mush. You were in the fucking gutter. You told me yourself. They couldn’t wait to get rid of you.’

  ‘Sure, of course I was thrown out. But you know what they’re doing now? They’re re-employing civvies, ex-coppers, on CID. Why? Because no one wants to be a detective any more.’

  ‘You’re telling me you wanted to go back to the job?’

  ‘No, I’m telling you I could have done. In time they’d have had me back. Not in uniform. Not with a warrant card. But as a civvy. I could have done that. It would have been possible. But not any longer. Not after I signed up with your lot. Once that got around I was dead in the fucking water. That’s one reason you’re just plain wrong, Baz.’

  ‘You want to tell me another?’

  ‘Yeah. You really think I’d be silly enough to blow a load of cocaine from Cambados? When I’ve talked to this Rikki? When I know he doesn’t trust a word I say? When I know he’s just itching to drop me in it? That tells me a lot, Baz. And one of the things it tells me is you should have looked harder at the goods before you bought.’

  ‘What goods?’

  ‘Me, Baz. I don’t know what game you were playing but if this is really the kind of bloke you think I am then it doesn’t say much for your fucking judgement, does it?’

  Mackenzie took a tiny step back. There was just a hint of confusion in his eyes.

  ‘You’re a disgrace,’ he said. ‘And you’re a fucking grass.’

  ‘You’re right, Baz, I am a disgrace. I’m a bent copper. And I was silly enough to believe all those promises you made.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. All the stuff about coming on board, about going legit, about the stuff we could do together, about opportunities. But it’s not about that at all, is it? It’s about you being as bent and paranoid as ever. Me? I should never have got involved. Not if I wanted to avoid drivel like this.’

  Winter tightened the belt on his dressing gown. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Mackenzie for a second. By the window, West stirred.

  ‘The cunt’s lying,’ he said.

  Mackenzie wasn’t so sure. Winter could sense his uncertainty.

  ‘If you’ve got this right,’ he said to Mackenzie, ‘then you’re talking big-time U/C, covert operations, the lot. I can see why you might think that. I can see where this phone call you got from Rikki might have led. You think I’ve stitched you up. You think I’m part of some monster fucking plan to worm my way into the organisation, to nose around, to find out where the bodies are buried. If all that was true, then one of the things I’ve got to maintain is my cover. Right?’

  Mackenzie nodded, said nothing.

  ‘So if that’s true, if that’s the case, if that’s the way it happens in real life, then what the fuck am I doing pulling a stroke like Cambados? Knowing full well you’ll find out? Is that some clever double bluff? Or might you just be looking at the wrong bloke? Go on, Baz, do yourself a favour, work it out. Of course I’m bent. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. But I’m not stupid. Or at least not that stupid.’

  Mackenzie was frowning now. He looked away for a moment, avoiding Westie’s glare.

  ‘You’re a clever fucker,’ he said softly. ‘I grant you that.’

  ‘Thanks, Baz. But that’s not the issue, is it? We’re talking something else here. We’re talking about me doing some kind of undercover number on you. And then you sussing it.’

  ‘Too fucking right, mush. That’s what they’re all saying. That’s what they’re all telling me.’

  ‘Then get on with it.’ Winter nodded at West. ‘Or piss off and let me get to bed.’

  There was a long silence. West was staring down at the TV. The lions had given up on the antelope. Finally, Mackenzie turned away.

  ‘Show him, Westie.’

  With some reluctance West extracted an envelope from his pocket and tossed it towards Winter. Looking at it on the carpet, Winter knew exactly what was inside.

  ‘Go on, mush. Open it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I thought you might need a little reminder.’

  Winter hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged and retrieved the envelope. Inside, as he’d expected, was a sheaf of photos. He flicked quickly through them. Mackenzie was watching his face, happy to be back in the driving seat.

  ‘Are we cushti now? Only I took the liberty of showing a couple of the best shots to Misty. And you know what she did? She laughed like a drain.’ He took a step closer. When Winter offered the envelope back, he shook his head. He had his hand on Winter’s arm now. He gave it a little squeeze. ‘They’re yours, Paul. I’ve got loads more. You OK with that? Only if you’re not, I’d hate to have to go through all this again.’

  He gazed at Winter a moment longer, then summoned West with a brisk nod. Winter was still rooted to the carpet, still holding the envelope, when he heard the front door click shut behind them. Then came the sound of footsteps disappearing down the corridor towards the lift.

  Winter closed his eyes, felt blindly for the edge of the sofa, then changed his mind. The bathroom floor was still wet. He stood in front of the basin, eyeing his face in the mirror, then the trembling in his limbs swamped the rest of his body, and he just had time for his hands to find the cold rim of the lavatory bowl before it was too late.

  Minutes later he struggled to his feet again, ignoring the trill of the phone.

  Eight

  FRIDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER 2006. 09.25

  Faraday and Barrie were driving up to Winchester. The meeting at HQ was due to start in twenty minutes’ time and Willard was extremely rough with anyone who turned up late. Barrie was behind the wheel, one eye on the rear-view mirror. His Rover was nearly as old as Faraday’s Mondeo. At 95 mph, it felt less than happy.

  Barrie glanced briefly across at Faraday.

  ‘I talked to the Duty Inspector up at Bitterne this morning. He’s had a couple of area cars out, just like we asked. Been round the whole patch, especially the more promising bits.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. People just don’t drive brand new Mercedes sports coupés in Thornhill Park. That’s him speaking, not me.’

  ‘Lock-ups? Someone’s garage?’

  ‘That’s possible, I suppose, but the more I think about it, the more I’m sure the vehicle
was nicked for resale, maybe a dealer, maybe a private buyer, someone already lined up. But are we really trying to put this same guy alongside Mallinder? I just don’t see it.’

  Faraday’s attention was caught by a kestrel hovering over the scrubland at the edge of the motorway. A second later it was behind them.

  ‘So how do we explain the CCTV sightings on Monday night and Tuesday morning?’ he said at length. ‘We’re talking the same kid, as far as I can see. The one in the hoodie.’

  ‘That’s a supposition, Joe. There’s no proof, no hard evidence, and even if there was I’m still not convinced.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ He squeezed another five mph out of the Rover, and then crossed two traffic lanes, braking for the exit to Winchester. ‘Say this kid, whoever he was, had been looking around Port Solent, doing a recce, sorting out what was on offer? Monday night, the night of the murder, he spends some time making himself a list. The Mercedes obviously figures on that list. He pre-sells, finds himself a buyer, maybe even lays hands on some keys from a bent dealer. Whatever. A couple of nights later he pays a return visit, has the car away in the middle of the night and flogs it before we have a chance to get anywhere near him. Who knows, maybe he even knew about Mallinder from the papers or the telly. There were shots of the house everywhere by Wednesday night and the Mercedes was in all of them. Nicking it would have been easy.’

  Faraday nodded. They’d slowed now on the long approach to headquarters. Forty-five mph felt like walking speed.

  ‘There’s another possibility,’ he said at length. ‘There was something in the Mercedes that was important. Important enough to risk going back and nicking the car.’

  ‘So why didn’t they nick it when they did Mallinder?’ Barrie still wasn’t convinced. ‘Or are these guys just forgetful? This isn’t amateur night, Joe. This is a class job.’

  Faraday conceded the point with a nod. Then grabbed the door handle as Barrie lurched into the turn off the main road.

  ‘So what happened to Mallinder’s car keys?’ He shot Barrie a look. ‘Or is that another coincidence?’

  The office of the Head of CID lay on the third floor of the big headquarters building. Willard was already in the chair at the head of the conference table. Faraday recognised the civvy who headed the Media Department, and offered a nod to the D/I in charge of forensics force-wide.

  ‘Gentlemen … ?’ Willard gestured at the two remaining seats. His physical bulk lent him an air of slight intimidation. He was loyal when it mattered but he never suffered fools and Faraday knew officers way above his own rank who’d quailed at the thought of taking him on. Neither was Willard a man without ambition. After a couple of years in charge of CID, he was already rumoured to have his eyes on an ACPO job.

  Faraday and Barrie slipped into their respective chairs. As far as Faraday could tell, the meeting was already under way. The civvy from Media picked up his thread again. He’d been fending off a great deal of media interest from the national press over the Port Solent killing. Jonathan Mallinder, it seemed, had friends in high places.

  ‘How high?’ It was Willard.

  ‘As high as it gets. He was tucked up with New Labour. They’d approached him for a couple of sizeable donations and recently there’d been rumours that he was on their list to back one of Blair’s City Academies.’

  ‘That’s serious money, isn’t it?’

  ‘Couple of million quid. For that you might end up with a peerage. Apparently Mallinder was keen.’

  ‘Did we know about this?’ Willard was looking at Barrie.

  ‘No, sir. I don’t believe we did.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  Barrie said he wasn’t entirely sure. He’d authorised Mallinder’s laptop for fast-track analysis but they were still waiting on the results. Production Orders had been served on the two banks that Mallinder had used but details of his various accounts had yet to arrive. Orange, meanwhile, were being unusually slow with his billing data.

  ‘But what about intel? Who’s driving that?’

  ‘D/C Suttle.’

  ‘Anyone with him?’

  ‘Not at the moment, sir.’

  ‘Get a D/S in there.’ Willard was looking at Barrie again. ‘Someone who knows what they’re doing. This is ridiculous. The fucking red tops will be telling us who to arrest next.’

  ‘With respect, sir—’

  ‘With respect nothing, Joe. Billhook’s been operational since Tuesday. It’s now Friday. What else don’t we know?’

  He let the question hang in the air, then asked Barrie for an update on promising lines of enquiry. The Scenes of Crime report, as far as Willard could judge, had led nowhere.

  ‘On the contrary, sir.’ Barrie had got his second wind. ‘It tells us a great deal.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Like it gives us a very firm steer on MO. How many Pompey criminals could pull off a killing this efficient?’

  ‘But that’s my point exactly. Something like this, we need to be looking to London. That’s where these people come from. That’s where they’ve made their money. That’s the kind of circles they move in, New Labour or otherwise. This is an intel job, Martin. It’s got intel stamped all over it. We need to be talking to people in the Met, maybe the Fraud Squad, maybe even SOCA. Someone’s called a debt in. Someone’s a got a grudge. We need to nail down a motive here. And you’re not going to find it in Fratton.’ He paused. ‘Or have I got this wrong?’

  Barrie said nothing. The new Serious and Organised Crime Agency had taken over from the National Crime Squad, tackling class ‘A’ drugs and human trafficking. The Detective Superintendent glanced at Faraday, sitting beside him. They’d already discussed yesterday’s interview with Fraser Gibbon, the estate agent.

  Faraday summarised the new direction Billhook might take. Now, he suspected, wasn’t the moment to speculate about teenage car thieves in deepest Thornhill Park. Willard, as ever, wanted a headline or two.

  ‘So what are you saying, Joe?’

  ‘I’m suggesting, sir, that we need to take a much closer look at Benskin. He and Mallinder worked hand in hand. According to Gibbon, something went badly wrong. One moment they were the golden couple, the name on everybody’s lips, the next Mallinder’s trying to carve out a new business career for himself on the south coast. Gibbon says Benskin may have known nothing about his plans to go solo but I find that extremely hard to believe.’

  ‘And if he knew?’

  ‘Then there might have been a big problem.’

  ‘Big enough to justify …’ Willard’s beautifully manicured nails tapped the Billhook file ‘… something like this?’

  ‘Possibly, sir. But we keep an open mind …’ he offered Willard a thin smile ‘… as ever.’

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘I agree, sir. Joe and I have been wondering about Mallinder’s missus. She’s pregnant. Maybe the baby’s Benskin’s. These tight little business partnerships get very claustrophobic. It wouldn’t be the first time. And if there was a financial problem on top of that, with Mallinder wanting his money out of the business, then you begin to see every reason why Benskin might be getting a bit edgy.’

  ‘So where was he on Monday night?’

  ‘At home, sir.’ It was Faraday. ‘He’s got a place in Limehouse. Down by the river.’

  ‘And he was there alone?’

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  ‘No one to stand it up? No corroboration?’

  ‘Only his PC. He claims he was on the internet until gone midnight, preparing for a meeting he had in Barcelona the following day. Then he sent a load of e-mails. He’s quite happy for us to check it all out.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I’d say he’s probably telling the truth. But that’s not the point. Benskin isn’t short of a bob or two. What’s the going rate these days? A hit as clean as this one? Ten grand? Fifteen? If Mallinder’s really rocking the boat, and if the new baby was Benskin’s in the
first place, then that kind of money starts looking cheap.’

  ‘OK…’ Willard opened the file and scribbled himself a note.

  Barrie wanted to add something else. He was looking at the civvy from Media.

  ‘If this New Labour thing is kosher,’ he began, ‘that could be a factor too. Maybe Benskin’s a Tory. Or maybe, like the rest of us, he thinks politics is a waste of time. Having his partner making rash promises about a couple of million quid could be a problem …’ He spread his bony hands wide. ‘No?’

  ‘That suggests the money might be coming from the business.’ The civvy was looking dubious. ‘The way I’m hearing it, Mallinder had private means.’

  ‘That I doubt.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘According to Gibbon, he was scraping the barrel. Selling his place in Wimbledon would have bought him something very respectable in Old Portsmouth, but if he was suddenly living alone with a divorce on his hands he’d have been stretched. Gibbon says he was a bluffer.’

  ‘Has to be.’ Willard, for the first time, had a smile on his face. ‘New Labour? Bunch of control-freak wankers.’

  There was a ripple of laughter around the table. Willard had absolutely no patience with the bright-eyed Downing Street zealots who had turned the Home Office into a rod for every senior copper’s back. Only now, after months of savage trench warfare, had the force managed to resist a shotgun marriage with neighbouring Thames Valley.

  He began to muse afresh about the political angle. Faraday scented revenge in the air. Finally, he closed the file and addressed himself to Martin Barrie.

  ‘Billhook’s intel cell is key to all this,’ he said again. ‘You need to sort out an extra face or two. Suttle’s a good lad but he’s young. Let me know who you come up with.’

  Winter was on the train by ten o’clock. He checked carefully along the platform at the Harbour station seconds before the guard closed the doors, confirming that the heavy in jeans and a leather jacket had got on the train. He’d seen him before, months back, when Bazza had taken a table for the CID boxing benefit on South Parade Pier. That night, pissed, this same face had shed his tuxedo and threatened the referee with a battering unless he reversed his decision against a young black lad from Stamshaw. The referee had told him to shut it and even Bazza had mustered the grace to look embarrassed, but the double chin and the savage grade one had lodged in Winter’s brain. This morning, leaving Blake House, he’d clocked him on the promenade overlooking the Harbour. Minutes later, as Winter plodded through the rain to the station, he’d still been twenty metres behind. Bazza, he realised, was taking no chances.