The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  So far, Suttle hadn’t said a word about Bazza Mackenzie, and for that Winter was grateful. Maybe the boy’s decided I’ve retired, Winter thought. Maybe I’ve become someone he feels he ought to visit from time to time. Make sure I’ve got enough food in the fridge. Remind me to check the gas taps last thing at night. On the other hand, he’d mentioned a name on the phone.

  ‘You’re serious about Charlie Freeth?’

  ‘Yeah. Absolutely.’

  ‘How come?’

  Suttle explained. Freeth had left the job a couple of years ago and moved into social work. According to a couple of other staff Suttle had managed to talk to at Positivo, the idea that had given birth to the organisation was his.

  ‘They think he’s bloody good. Sets the bar high, lashings of tough love, all that shit, but he’s got loads of patience and apparently a lot of the kids really take to him. One of the women I talked to wanted to know what kind of copper he’d been. She said she just couldn’t imagine Charlie in uniform.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Have you met him?’

  ‘No, he’s up north somewhere at the moment. What was he like?’

  ‘As a copper?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He was good. He was a bit of a loner, not too many friends, but that’s no handicap. I worked with him on a couple of jobs … must have been eight, ten years ago. We were both on division then. It was rubbish really, volume crime, kids nicking stereos out of motors, Portsea lads lifting giros off skagged-out junkies. Charlie got in amongst them, took a few scalps. He was a good listener, I remember that. I used to kid him about it. We’d be interviewing some dosser or other down the Bridewell on a Monday morning and Charlie would be in there with me, and the thing was he had this definite way about him. He knew exactly which buttons to press. It never failed. A couple of minutes with Charlie and these wasters were talking fit to bust.’

  ‘Sounds like you.’

  ‘Yeah? I’m flattered. But the difference is I always had the impression Charlie meant it. That was his only problem really. He let some of this stuff get to him and once that happens, as we all know, you’re fucked. OK, if it’s a good cause then maybe it’s worth winding yourself up but most of these people were rubbish, real low life, total inadequates, yet Charlie still came out of that interview room banging on about the state of the world. The problem was, he always took things too seriously. In the end a job’s just that. A job. We get these numpties to put themselves on the record. Then we lock them up. Charlie? He just couldn’t see it.’

  ‘What sort of age are we talking?’

  ‘Now? He’d be late thirties. The week he jacked it in, he’d just turned thirty-five. He was late entry so to make his twenty-two he needed another ten years or so. I remember him telling me he’d be gaga by then, probably sectioned.’

  ‘He blamed that on the job?’

  ‘Definitely. He saw the way it was all going. If the people upstairs wanted to turn him into a social worker, he said, then he’d spare them the fucking trouble.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what he became. More or less.’

  ‘Exactly. None of us believed he was serious at the time. He’d been banging on for months about getting down to the roots of the problem. Most of the jobs that came our way were down to kids, you know, fifteen-to-nineteen-year-olds, often younger, and Charlie thought there were cleverer ways of sorting that stuff out without having to chase infant glue-sniffers round Somerstown or Buckland. He was probably right but coppers aren’t built that way. They love chasing people round, you know they do. The rest of it, all the compassion bollocks, is dog-wank.’

  Suttle smiled. He remembered the kids clinging to each other aboard the tiny squares of rubber matting. Maybe Freeth was right. Maybe Killer Whale was a shorter cut to a better society than a lungful of solvent fumes.

  ‘He’s gay? Freeth?’

  ‘Shit, no. Jump anything. Often did.’

  ‘Was he married?’

  ‘Twice. Blew it both times.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘None that I ever knew of.’

  ‘And do you ever see him now?’

  ‘Never.’ Winter reached for the bottle and poured himself more wine. ‘But that’s standard MO, isn’t it? You leave the job and as far as everyone else is concerned you’re halfway to the fucking grave. Bless you, son.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Charlie Freeth.’

  Twenty-one

  MONDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 2006. 08.55

  Revived, Suttle thought. Either a couple of days off or the new French girlfriend Faraday barely ever mentioned, or some exotic combination of both. Whatever the reason, the clouds seemed to have parted. There was a lightness in his step, a brightness in his eyes. He was even, for a brief moment or two, humming to himself.

  ‘Good weekend, boss?’

  ‘Excellent. We went up London, had a bit of a celebration, ended up at a concert on the Saturday night. There was a Palestinian singer Gabrielle wanted to see. She said she was really good and she was right. The woman was phenomenal. Reem Kelani. Incredible presence, almost operatic.’ He dumped his briefcase on the desk and reached for the Policy Book. He wanted to know about Tile Barn, about Dermott O’Keefe, about developments regarding Stephen Benskin - about everything.

  Suttle briefed him, aware of Faraday scribbling himself the odd note.

  The warrants for Benskin’s flat and the offices in Croydon had both been executed and Suttle had just received an angry e-mail from his solicitor to prove it. The seized paperwork and the expected billings records remained to be analysed but in the meantime he’d been chasing another lead. When he mentioned Charlie Freeth, Faraday’s head came up.

  ‘There was a copper called Freeth.’

  ‘That’s right, boss.’

  ‘Same bloke? Long spell in CID? Nearly made D/S?’

  ‘Yeah. Though Winter never mentioned promotion.’

  ‘You talked to Winter about Freeth?’

  ‘Yes. He said he was good. Effective. Wanted to make a difference. I think he approved of the guy.’

  ‘He would. Freeth was Winter with a conscience.’ Faraday paused. ‘And you say Freeth and the youngster were close?’

  ‘That’s what people tell me.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Hard to say, boss. It was Freeth who spotted O’Keefe’s potential when he was sent on the course in the summer. It’s Freeth who has the final say on who makes it onto the Junior Leader scheme. Everyone seems to think O’Keefe was a foregone conclusion. Partly because he was so switched on. Partly because he’d caught Freeth’s eye.’

  ‘What did they mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing dodgy, boss. I asked the same question myself. Freeth’s got a partner, a woman called Julie. She’s a teacher. Apparently she helps out sometimes with the kids on the courses.’

  ‘They live together? She and Freeth?’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here somewhere. I’ve got a number for her. She says Freeth’s away just now. Back tomorrow.’

  ‘Good.’ Faraday was deep in thought. ‘We’ll need an address. Sort it. Is Dawn Ellis around?’

  ‘I’ll check.’

  Suttle left the room. Seconds later Ellis appeared at the door. Glen Thatcher, she said, had just given her a list of actions. Fingers crossed, she might be back by close of play.

  ‘Forget it. I’ll talk to Glen in a minute. You and I need to lay hands on the CCTV footage. The stuff with the hoodie kid. You seized the tapes?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They’re in the lock-up.’

  ‘You’ve got a copy on VHS?’

  ‘DVD.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Faraday peered over her shoulder, looking for Suttle. ‘Phone Winter,’ he told him. ‘Make sure he’s still at home.’

  He was. Faraday pressed the buzzer on the entryphone, stationed his face in front of the video camera, waited for the lock to release on the big main door. Dawn Ellis, who’d never been to Blake House before,
wanted to know where Winter had raised the money.

  ‘He went half shares with that woman of his.’ Faraday was still eyeing the camera. ‘You remember Maddox?’

  Ellis nodded. Maddox, a couple of years back, had been the talk of the upstairs bar at Kingston Crescent. Why on earth was an intelligent, well-connected, twenty-something hooker shacked up with the likes of Paul Winter? The answer, it turned out, was as complex as everything else in Winter’s life, but by the time the relationship ended he’d won himself a brand new address.

  ‘And he’s really working for Mackenzie now?’ They were waiting for the lift.

  ‘As far as anyone knows, yes.’

  ‘Our loss then.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Winter was waiting for them upstairs, the door to his flat open, the smell of burned toast in the air. The sight of Dawn Ellis put a big smile on his face. He gave her a buttery kiss.

  ‘A deputation,’ he said. ‘Either that or you’ve come to fucking arrest me.’

  Ellis was touring the big living room. She’d always had a soft spot for Winter, recognising just how effective he could be in situations most of her colleagues would have dismissed as impossible, and years of working alongside him had taught her a great deal. She paused beside the window.

  ‘These curtains are crap, Paul,’ she said. ‘And so is the colour scheme. You need a good woman in your life. Magnolia’s for wimps.’

  ‘Help yourself, love. Come round any time. I’ll give you a paintbrush.’

  Faraday was on his knees beside the DVD player. Ellis gave him the disc and he posted it into the machine.

  ‘What’s all this then?’ Winter was intrigued.

  Faraday didn’t answer. He began to skip through the disc until he found the first of the traffic sequences that showed the Escort on the night of the murder. En route into Port Solent, the camera had only offered a rear view of the Escort. Hours later, leaving, there was a glimpse of two people in the front.

  ‘There.’ Faraday froze the image and pointed at the smudge behind the wheel. ‘Who’s that?’

  Winter peered at the screen. The resolution was terrible.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ he said.

  ‘OK.’ Faraday inched forward. The next sequence came from one of the motorway cameras, the quality infinitely better. Winter was on his knees now and Ellis had pulled the curtains to shut out the light. ‘Same question,’ Faraday said. ‘We’re interested in the driver.’

  This time the quality of the image was infinitely better but both visors in the front of the Escort were down and only the lower half of each face was visible.

  ‘Sorry.’ Winter shook his head. ‘Do I get a clue at all?’

  ‘Afraid not. How about this one?’

  Faraday asked Ellis to find the sequence from the car park at Port Solent. This had been recorded earlier on the Monday night, before the murder took place, but had come from a totally different control room.

  Winter watched the two figures walking across the near-empty car park. The camera was mounted high, probably on a pole of some kind, and the angle only offered a quarter-profile from behind, but something caught Winter’s attention. Ellis froze the action as the two figures paused beside the Escort. At this distance details were indistinct.

  ‘You’re asking me about the big guy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Play it again.’

  Ellis did so. Then a third time. Finally Winter nodded. The name was fresh in his mind.

  ‘Charlie Freeth,’ he said. ‘Exactly the same build. Exactly that same slight roll when he walked. Yeah?’ He looked up at Faraday. ‘You spotted it too?’

  Faraday was back at Fareham within the half-hour. He’d been tempted to accept Winter’s offer of breakfast, mindful of Willard’s instructions to sound the ex-D/C out, but he knew this wasn’t the moment. Suttle was waiting in the office. He had an address for Freeth’s partner but a couple of calls had failed to raise her.

  ‘She’ll be at school, boss. They normally knock off around three.’ He paused. Ellis had just left the DVD on his desk. ‘You showed this to Winter?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He thinks it could be Charlie Freeth.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So where does that take us?’

  Suttle pushed his chair back from the desk, stretched his legs. He’d rarely met anyone as unemotional as Faraday but Suttle was aware that even the D/I was finding it difficult to mask his gathering excitement. At last, after two weeks of largely fruitless effort, here was something that smacked of a breakthrough.

  ‘Think about it, Jimmy. Here’s a guy who’s forensically aware. He knows what we look for at a crime scene. He knows the mistakes people make. No wonder he didn’t put a foot wrong.’

  Suttle was grinning. Faraday had never called him Jimmy before.

  ‘Is Winter positive about the ID?’

  ‘No. The image isn’t good enough. But he’s three quarters there so just think it through. It’s odds-on that the kid in the hoodie is O’Keefe. It’s definitely O’Keefe who comes back on the Wednesday night to pick up the car. Why? Because he’s lifted the keys the night Mallinder got shot. That means he was inside the house. And that means Freeth was with him. Fits, doesn’t it? Game, set and match?’

  ‘Sure. Except this guy’s really careful, so careful he doesn’t leave a single clue. So if he’s that bloody good, what’s he doing letting O’Keefe come back for the car?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe O’Keefe just spotted the keys on the Monday night and lifted them. His family’s living on bugger all. A car like that buys a lot of groceries.’

  Suttle was still thinking, still trying to test Faraday’s thesis, still trying to slot the pieces together.

  ‘OK, boss. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say it was Freeth in the Escort, Freeth in the house. Why on earth would he want to kill Mallinder?’

  Faraday eyed him for a moment.

  ‘Good question,’ he said.

  Lunch was Misty Gallagher’s idea. She’d phoned Winter mid-morning. She had some shopping to do in Gunwharf. A Chinese at the Water Margin would make a nice break. Would Winter fancy joining her?

  Winter agreed at once. Misty, like Bazza, never did anything without at least three ulterior motives. She obviously had something she needed to talk about. Just what was on her mind?

  ‘It’s Baz,’ she said at once. She’d arrived late, heaping her bags round her chair and calling for a Bacardi and Coke. ‘He turned up last night. I’ve never seen him like that before.’

  ‘Like what before?’

  ‘So upset. He was practically frothing at the mouth.’

  It had been late, she said. She was still downstairs, playing online poker. She was about to call a guy in Vancouver when she heard a thump at the back door.

  ‘That time of night it could only have been Baz, but he’s got a key so I was starting to wonder. Then he obviously found it because the next thing I know he’s walking mud all over my new carpet and telling me everything’s turned to ratshit.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Some bloke in Southampton. Polish guy. He called him Caesar but that doesn’t sound right. You know about any of this, Paul?’

  Winter told her what had happened.

  ‘And is that all? A little tiff about this jet ski race?’

  ‘Baz thinks that’s plenty. To be fair, Mist, it’s not about the race any more, at least I don’t think it is. He’s just got everything out of proportion. You know the way he is. All he’s got to do is imagine an insult. Maybe he needs a regular supply of enemies. Maybe that’s it.’

  ‘So there wasn’t an insult?’

  ‘The guy patronised him. I was there. I saw it happen. But it was no big deal. To tell you the truth, we should never have gone in the first place. Once we’d got past the door, we were doomed. The guy ate us alive. And we made it easy for him.’

  ‘
We?’

  ‘Baz especially. He thinks the whole world’s like Pompey. It isn’t. You know that, I know that, but if it doesn’t suit Baz to listen, then he won’t. It’s his way or nothing and if you have a ruck about it then he’ll just batter you. I’m not talking violence. It needn’t be physical. He’ll just tell you the way he thinks it is. Twenty million quid says he must have done something right so maybe we’re all out of order even talking about it.’

  ‘That’s crap, love. Of course we can talk about it.’

  ‘Sure, but what do we do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Last night I tried everything. Believe me, Paul, I know that man inside out. Every nook, every cranny. He’s a pussycat, really. Tickle him in the right places and he’ll roll over for you. I’ve done it a thousand times, never failed.’

  ‘And last night?’

  ‘Last night was hopeless. It took me a while to get there, to realise, but the truth is he’s bloody unhappy. That’s not Baz at all. Reckless, yes. Daft sometimes, definitely. But underneath he’s a pretty well-adjusted guy. Something’s got to him and I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘Maybe. But they were never really close. You know that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. That’s the whole point. Except …’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘He mentioned a woman he seems to have taken on. In fact he mentioned her twice. Brodie?’

  Winter nodded. Brodie was a media agent, he explained. Bazza’s passport to the world of TV deals and five-page spreads in Hello! magazine.

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Very pretty. He fancies her, Mist. In fact he’s installed her at the Trafalgar. She’s got an office of her own in the basement.’

  ‘And a bedroom upstairs? Surprise me.’

  ‘I couldn’t, Mist. You know the bloke he is. What he wants, he gets.’

  ‘And she’s come across? Be honest. Pretend I don’t care.’

  ‘I doubt it. I think she’s too canny for that.’

  ‘So she’s giving him the bum’s rush? Only that might not be a great career move.’