The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘And camping? The great outdoors?’

  ‘He loved it. Absolutely adored it. He knew how to cook too, and believe me that’s almost a first.’

  Dermott, she said, had done equally well on the Junior Leader programme. Something in his life had bred a natural maturity and he wasn’t afraid of taking responsibility. On the contrary, he appeared to thrive on it.

  ‘Is the course ongoing? Does he have to come back?’

  ‘Yes. The next stage is just before Christmas. We’ll give him a bunch of kids to sort out and see how he copes.’

  ‘So how do you get in touch with him?’

  ‘At home. Through his mum. She’s sweet.’

  The coffee break was over. The kids were milling around. Jane had to get back to work. Suttle scribbled down her mobile number. Then he felt her hand on his arm.

  ‘The person you should be talking to isn’t me at all.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘You need to get hold of Charlie. Charlie Freeth. He and Dermott were very tight.’

  ‘And who’s Charlie Freeth?’

  ‘He’s our boss. He’s the one who heads all this up. In fact Positivo was his idea. And you know what he was before he saw the light?’ She smiled. ‘A cop.’

  Faraday found it impossible to look his son in the eye without thinking of the photos. He’d found more of them on another memory card, equally explicit; same woman, different poses. He’d shared this discovery with Gabrielle, glad of a second opinion. Like him, she put the woman in her mid-forties. She wore an expensive-looking diamond ring on the third finger of her right hand. She occasionally affected a Gucci watch. So why was J-J, his errant son, his gleefully reckless offspring, bedding a middle-aged, possibly married woman? And how was this liaison tied to his purchase of a half-million-pound house in fashionable W4?

  The three of them were sitting in a café-bar on Chiswick High Road. The estate agent selling the property was virtually next door. Yesterday Faraday had sent his son a terse e-mail telling him they needed to meet. He’d texted his father back within the hour. The café-bar had been his idea.

  J-J, not the least bit subdued, wanted to know what his dad thought of the property they’d just inspected. It was a Victorian terraced house, three streets back from the High Road. A recent refurb had opened out the ground floor, installed clever lighting, laid a beautifully finished oak floor and added an en-suite bathroom to the biggest of the bedrooms upstairs. The tiny back garden had been landscaped in brick with limestone insets and there was a barbecue for entertaining on hot summer nights. The whole area, said the agent, had recently become fashionable and there wasn’t a car in the road more than a couple of years old. Number 17 was, of its kind, a gem. Hence, Faraday supposed, the asking price of £495,000.

  ‘Where are you going to get the money?’ he signed.

  J-J’s face was briefly darkened by a frown. He’d clearly been expecting this question. Equally clearly, thought Faraday, he hasn’t had time to dream up an answer.

  ‘No bullshit,’ Faraday warned. ‘Just tell me the truth. Are you trying to raise a mortgage? A loan of some kind? Is that why you went to Jersey?’

  J-J shook his head. ’I opened an account.’ He signed.

  ‘In your name?’

  ‘Two accounts. One in my name. One in someone else’s.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘A Russian friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  He reached for the menu and gestured to Gabrielle. She produced a pen. On the back of the menu he scribbled two words. Faraday looked at them. The first he couldn’t read. The second looked like Tarasov.

  He was back in the bedroom again. The spread of her legs. The melting smile. How dexterous she was. How eager to please.

  ‘This is a special friend?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘How special?’

  ‘We’re very close. All three of us.’

  ‘All three of you?’ Faraday held up three fingers, trying to make sure there was no ambiguity. For once in his life, talking to his son, he cursed the boy’s muteness.

  ‘That’s right. Sergei is a businessman. He owns an oilfield. Part of an oilfield. He’s very rich. He has a house in Moscow. Another in St Petersburg. Now he wants a house here.’

  ‘And he’s married? This Sergei?’

  J-J nodded, reached for the pen again. His wife’s name was Ludmilla.

  ‘And she’s a friend, too?’

  J-J nodded, giving nothing away. He’d met her, he signed, through the production company. When the location shoots were done, they’d brought the rushes back to Moscow and thrown a big party for everyone associated with the project. Sergei had been especially helpful. Away for the month in Siberia, he’d asked his wife to represent him.

  ‘Nice lady?’ Faraday enquired with a tiny raise of his eyebrow.

  J-J nodded. Soon after the party she’d invited him and some others out to her house. It was a big house in a wealthy area. She had a couple of dogs but for once J-J hadn’t been frightened. He’d been there a lot since. The husband, Sergei, had told him he was part of the family.

  ‘And you’re buying this house for these people? These friends of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re going to live here full time?’

  ‘No. Ludmilla will come for the shopping. Maybe Sergei too if he has time.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Me?’ J-J placed a hand flat against his chest, beaming. ‘I’ll look after the place.’

  After the café-bar they walked a little, heading back towards the Tube. Faraday hadn’t the heart to ask about the postcards, and the windfall $70,000. He’d always thought this was a fantasy but he’d never dreamed it might be a cover for a far larger sum of money.

  Whether or not, even now, he’d really got to the bottom of J-J’s story remained to be seen, but what little he knew about the new Russia persuaded him that oil and gas exploitation, if you had a large enough stake, could easily fund the casual purchase of a house in Chiswick. The currency implications might be troublesome, and he shuddered to think of the tax bill his son might be unwittingly incurring, but both factors were insignificant against something far more troubling.

  Years ago, on an extended visit to Normandy, J-J had got himself badly hurt over a relationship with a French social worker. That, too, had turned out to have been a threesome, though in this case the wounded party had been J-J. In Moscow, as far as Faraday could fathom, J-J had found himself in bed with someone else’s wife. Had she made the running? Did the husband know? Did J-J know that the husband knew? Or was it more straightforward? Simply a routine betrayal by a bored, wealthy housewife? With the willing assistance of his eager son?

  Faraday didn’t know. In a minute or two they would be saying their goodbyes. J-J was staying with friends in Brixton. He had someone to meet this afternoon and a Polish movie he wanted to catch tonight. Faraday, meanwhile, was desperate to steer Gabrielle into a pub, sit her down, sink a beer or two, try and coax some sense from it all.

  By the time they got to Stamford Brook Station it had started to rain. They ducked into the entrance while Gabrielle wrestled with her umbrella. Faraday had J-J’s digital camera in his pocket. The picture card with the bedroom photos was still loaded and he’d selected a particularly explicit pose to appear the moment J-J powered it up. As a precautionary tap on the shoulder it was hardly subtle, but he’d never wanted his son to take him for a fool and he didn’t intend to start now.

  J-J gave him a hug. At the sight of the camera in his father’s hand, his grin vanished.

  ‘That’s mine,’ he signed.

  ‘It is.’ Faraday gave his thin body a final squeeze. ‘Take very great care.’

  Brodie’s call took Winter by surprise. It was late afternoon. After his weekly visit to the supermarket Winter was contemplating a stroll round Old Portsmouth. He’d take the paper with him, have an
early pint or two, try and work out exactly where this new life of his was really going to lead. Brodie spared him the trouble.

  ‘We’re going for a ride.’ She said. ‘I’ll be round to pick you up.’

  ‘Where are we off to?’

  ‘Gosport.’ She named a marina.

  ‘This is about the Trophy?’

  ‘Of course.’ She laughed. ‘Isn’t everything?’

  She arrived minutes later. The Gosport marinas were just across the water. Winter could see them from his balcony. No point going by car, he insisted. Nightmare round trip. Thirty miles there and back with traffic like you’ve never seen. We’ll take the ferry and walk.

  The ferry left from the station pontoon next to Gunwharf. Winter took her up to the top deck. A thin rain had cloaked the big busy spaces of the Harbour but Winter loved this crossing, the feeling of being briefly in amongst the constant churn of ferries and fishing boats, and slim grey warships nosing out towards the open sea. It was like stepping into the picture that greeted him every morning from his balcony. It brought the view to life.

  ‘So who are we seeing?’

  ‘Willard. Apparently he’s got a boat in the marina over there. It’s a Navy place. Used to be called HMS Hornet. Don’t ask me why but he’s very keen to see us.’

  ‘And you’re telling me this is secure?’

  ‘He seems to think so. I imagine we wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.’

  Winter shrugged, resigning himself to the next couple of hours. He could have been in the Pembroke by now, he thought glumly. He could have been reviving an old friendship or two, touching base with familiar faces, swapping gossip, getting peaceably drunk. Instead he was back in a world that seemed to offer nothing but the ever-growing likelihood of catastrophe.

  ‘This U/C game, you’re never off duty.’ He glanced across at Brodie. ‘You ever find that?’

  The marina was tucked into the mouth of a creek behind the Harbour entrance, protected from wind and current by the defunct remains of the Navy’s nearby submarine base. Access to the pontoons was controlled by security personnel at the gatehouse. Willard was using the cover name Peterson. He’d left instructions for Winter and Brodie to join him in the clubhouse. The secretary’s office lay on the same corridor that led to the bar. He didn’t anticipate the meeting taking long.

  The office was bigger than Winter had expected. Willard was sitting behind the desk reading a copy of Navy News. He was wearing a roll-neck sweater with oil stains on one sleeve and the anorak draped over the back of his chair was still wet. There was a teacup at his elbow and crumbs on the plate beside it.

  He nodded at the two chairs readied beside the desk. He wanted to know about the Pole, Cesar Dobroslaw. A slight cold made him even gruffer than usual.

  ‘Brodie tells me you and Mackenzie went across to Southampton to see him yesterday.’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. We talked. That was about it.’

  ‘You’re aware we have an interest in Dobroslaw?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does Mackenzie know that?’

  ‘Mackenzie knows the man’s a villain. He knows he deals in trafficked women. That would make him a target for us, obviously.’

  ‘I understand Dobroslaw’s backing this rival event. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s put money in. He wouldn’t say how much.’

  ‘And Mackenzie’s reaction?’

  ‘He’s keen the two events don’t clash.’

  ‘How keen?’

  ‘He wants a clear run. For his brother’s sake.’

  ‘And Dobroslaw?’

  ‘He sympathised. Poles are very tight with each other. Big on all that family stuff.’

  ‘A meeting of minds then? Peace and love?’

  ‘Absolutely. Much to Bazza’s surprise.’

  ‘Bazza?’

  ‘Mackenzie, sir. We’re mates these days.’

  ‘So I gather.’ Willard took a mouthful of tea. ‘I have to be frank with you, Paul. We need to be very clear about where this operation is going.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘My presumption has to do with Mackenzie. He’s easily needled. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So, given the right circumstances, we might find ourselves dealing with someone who’d lose control. Is that fair?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Brodie?’

  ‘I agree, sir. Mackenzie’s a firework. Point him in the right direction and anything could happen.’

  ‘And Dobroslaw?’ Willard was still talking to Brodie.

  ‘I’d have said that was the right direction. In fact I’m sure it’s the right direction. I was at the hotel yesterday evening, Mackenzie’s place, the Trafalgar. People couldn’t stop talking about it.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Dobroslaw. What Mackenzie wanted to do to him. How he wanted to teach him a lesson or two. Break up his business empire and help himself.’

  ‘And this was after yesterday’s meet?’

  ‘Has to be.’

  ‘But you just told us fuck all happened.’ Willard was looking at Winter again. ‘Didn’t you?’

  Winter said nothing. He’d taken Brodie’s question on the phone last night at face value. She’d asked about the meeting with Dobroslaw and he’d been careful to play the whole thing down. Now this.

  ‘Well?’ Willard wanted an answer.

  Finally Winter stirred, shifting his weight in the chair. He said he had a question to ask. Not so much a question, more a statement of fact.

  ‘Facts would be good.’ Willard wasn’t smiling. ‘We like facts.’

  ‘OK, sir. Fact number one. Of course Bazza is pissed off. Fact two, the Pole won’t shift. Fact three, Bazza’s liable to do something about it. Fact four, whatever he does will almost definitely be illegal. Presuming we arrest him, and presuming he’s made some kind of criminal gain, that takes us, in the end, to court. So what happens then? Bazza will have sussed us. His brief will take us apart. Why? Because the whole thing, the whole situation, was a sting. We set it up. We set them at each other’s throats. End of story. Case thrown out.’

  ‘You’re telling me you’ve lost faith in the operation?’

  ‘I’m telling we’re in danger of fucking up, sir. The last thing we need is a knock-back in court.’

  ‘And you really think there’s a danger of that?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Inciting Mackenzie to violence. Case closed.’

  ‘But we haven’t, have we? That’s exactly what we haven’t done. It wasn’t us that killed Mackenzie’s brother. It wasn’t our idea to organise this jet ski thing. And neither did we have anything to do with the Pole’s event. This has fallen into our laps. Take our interest away, our involvement, and these two guys would still be head to head. We’re lucky, not complicit.’

  ‘I don’t agree, sir.’

  ‘I can see that. But factually, Paul, you’re wrong. And legally too. As I understand it, this situation has acquired momentum. The snowball’s rolling down the hill. All we have to do is keep the bloody thing in sight. When it comes to the crunch we need to know when and where it’s going to kick off and then the rest is down to us. Facts, Paul. Is that asking too much?’

  Winter was robbed of a reply. Willard had thought this thing through. Was this a pep talk or a warning? Winter didn’t know.

  Brodie was looking at Winter. There was alarm in her face.

  ‘You say Mackenzie will have sussed us. How would he do that?’

  ‘Because we’d end up as witnesses,’ Winter said.

  ‘Sir?’ She turned to Willard.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Willard shook his head. ‘And that’s the beauty of the operation. Mackenzie and the Pole have a ruck. We let it run a bit and then nick them both. After that the pair of you gently disappear. You, Brodie, go back to ordinary duties while Paul here …’ Willard shot Winter a chilly smile ‘… starts a w
hole new life.’

  Winter took the call from Suttle when he was back on the Harbour ferry heading for Portsmouth. Suttle had a name for him.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Bloke called Charlie Freeth. Thought you might know him.’

  ‘You’re right, I do. Or did. Why?’

  ‘I need a bit of a steer. Are you in tonight?’

  Winter checked his watch. Nearly seven. He’d have to bin the early pint.

  ‘Make it eight o’clock,’ he said.

  Brodie glanced across. They’d barely said a word since leaving the marina and Winter felt no inclination to put that right. She’d sussed last night that Winter was playing a game of his own and she’d promptly passed the message on. No wonder Willard had been so quick in demanding a meet.

  ‘Friend?’ Brodie nodded at the mobile.

  ‘Yeah. Bloke in the job. Trust him with my life.’

  Jimmy Suttle turned up early. He’d brought a bottle of wine with him and a couple of Elton John CDs his sister was chucking out. Winter already had them both but appreciated the gesture.

  ‘Are we settling in or what?’ Winter was looking at the wine.

  ‘I’m driving. Help yourself.’

  Winter opened the bottle. Suttle asked for a soft drink.

  ‘In the kitchen, son. There’s Coke in the bottom of the fridge. Bring a couple of glasses while you’re at it.

  Suttle did Winter’s bidding, telling him about the circus that Operation Polygon had become. A small army of SB were camping out in Kingston Crescent, and as well as Special Branch there’d been regular state visits from a succession of high-ups in MI5. His own inquiry, Billhook, had been banished to the satellite MIR at Fareham nick but on balance he was glad to get out of Pompey. Sharing an office with Faraday, he said, was a bit of a novelty, but after a couple of days he’d even warmed to that.

  ‘How do you get on with him?’

  ‘Fine. He’s a funny bugger. If he didn’t trust you, I get the feeling he’d make life bloody difficult. Put in the hours, keep your nose clean, and he pretty much leaves you to it.’