The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘It depends. These things take time. To be frank, it could be a while.’

  ‘Like how long?’

  ‘Three days? Maybe longer. We’re treating your house as a crime scene, Ms Greetham. If you’ve nothing to hide, it’ll simply be an inconvenience.’ He paused. ‘In the meantime there’s something you might do for us.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I expect you’ll be talking to Charlie. Tell him we’d appreciate a word or two, the sooner the better.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m sure he remembers the way these things work.’

  Winter, still shaken, locked the door. Outside the apartment, somewhere in the depths of Gunwharf, he could hear the faint wail of a car alarm. He went into the living room, sank into the chair beside the window and stared out. From this angle he could see nothing but sky. The rain had stopped at last. If he could muster the strength to stand up, there might just be the makings of a decent sunset.

  He lay back and closed his eyes. By the time he left the Trafalgar, Brodie had gone. No briefcase beside her desk in the basement office. No cashmere coat hung carefully on the hook behind the door. Not a single indication that she’d ever set foot in the place except the key to the Fiat Bazza had lent her. Looking at the key, Winter was reminded yet again of the reality of undercover work. You ghost yourself in, he thought. And one way or another, successful or otherwise, you ghost yourself out again. Was that really what he wanted? A phantom retirement in some godforsaken former colony? Having to hide under a pile of new ID? Having to kid himself, as the years slipped by, that he’d triumphed over evil and departed in a blaze of glory? Having to watch himself every step of the way through whatever remained of his life?

  Already, deep down, he knew the answer. That’s why he’d held off telling Brodie about the ruck with the Pole. That’s why he’d done his level best to talk Bazza out of doing anything silly. Because, thanks to Parsons and then Willard, he’d finally sussed just where his real interests lay. If he somehow managed to pot Bazza, he’d be spending the rest of his days pretending to be someone else. And that, after this brief flirtation with a double life, just wasn’t going to happen.

  The phone rang within the half-hour. It was Willard. The call broke every rule in the book. He sounded extremely angry.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Brodie. She thinks you blew her cover.’

  ‘She’s right. I did. I also saved her life. Did she tell you that as well?’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, Winter.’

  ‘I’m not. That’s the last thing I’m doing. Ask Parsons about Saturday morning. Ask her what was so important it couldn’t wait until later. And ask her whether she saw a black guy with a long telephoto when she went shopping. Fucked is a good phrase. And just now I’ve had enough of it.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yeah. Brodie blew it. So did Parsons. And so, sir, have you.’

  Winter put the phone down, surprised at how simple the truth could sometimes be. He’d made a decision. Taken a stand. He felt wonderful.

  He picked up the phone again. Mackenzie answered in seconds.

  ‘Baz? It’s Paul. I owe you a bevvy. My pleasure.’

  Faraday had rarely seen Willard so angry. He’d turned up at Kingston Crescent, nine o’clock in the evening, walking into Martin Barrie’s office with barely a knock, hauling Faraday outside into the empty corridor, demanding to know what kind of sense, if any, he’d got out of Winter.

  ‘I haven’t, sir. We’ve been a bit preoccupied.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him? At all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit, Joe. I told you, I made a point of it - talk to the bloody man. What do I have to do? Send you a fucking memo?’

  Faraday began to protest, then broke off. Barrie had appeared at his office door. He and Faraday had been having an important conversation. It might be nice to finish it.

  ‘No problem, boss.’ Faraday glanced at Willard. ‘This might interest you, sir, as well.’

  Willard, with a visible effort, pulled himself together. They reassembled around the conference table in the Detective Superintendent’s office. For Willard’s benefit Faraday described once again the progress they’d made on the Mallinder killing. The prime suspects, he said, had to be Freeth and the lad O’Keefe.

  ‘Freeth was a copper.’ Willard pointed out. ‘We’re talking about the same bloke?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  Faraday went through it again. The CCTV. The faultless MO at the scene. The irresistible urge to avenge Frank Greetham’s suicide. Not Stephen Benskin at all but an ex-cop with a great deal to get off his chest.

  ‘Evidence?’ Willard repeated.

  ‘Scenes of Crime have been in the house since this afternoon, sir. They’re taking the place apart. So far they’ve found nothing but it’s early days.’

  ‘And Freeth?’

  ‘He’s due back tomorrow. She’ll be phoning him though. That might alter his plans.’

  ‘You think he might not show?’

  ‘I don’t know. From what I can remember, Freeth was an arrogant sod, a real loner, a hard man to have on a team. Something tells me he thinks he’s got this thing weighed up. He might even be looking forward to taking us on. Maybe we’re another debt he’s got to settle.’

  ‘And what about the young lad? O’Keefe?’

  ‘The way I see it, sir, he’s the key. I think he was there for the hit on Mallinder, I think he nicked the key to the Mercedes without telling Freeth, and I suspect he always intended to go back for the car later. Laying hands on it would be good from our point of view but finding O’Keefe would be much better. Once we’ve done that we can start taking this thing apart.’

  A new photograph of the boy, he said, had gone to the Force Intelligence Bureau for circulation nationwide. By tomorrow, with luck, there wouldn’t be a copper in the country unaware of his importance to Operation Billhook.

  ‘Press? TV?’

  ‘I left a message with Media Services this evening, sir. They’ve been copied on everything and the photo’s also gone to them.’

  Willard seemed placated. He even had the good grace to offer Barrie a mumbled apology. Barrie said times were difficult. They were all under pressure. He needed to know the latest from MI5.

  ‘They’ve got a bunch of names and faces. Apparently we’re talking a cell of four blokes, Provo-style. They seem pretty confident of the intelligence.’

  ‘But why take out this particular minister?’

  ‘For one thing he’s defence-related. For another, it seems he’s been taking a hard line in his constituency over the war. He refuses to apologise, refuses to entertain the idea of any kind of inquiry. Five say it takes fuck all to get these people going. If you can blow up a busload of total strangers, I suppose a head job on a government minister sounds almost rational.’

  ‘And you think we should be running with this?’

  ‘I’ve asked for sight of the evidence. You’re SIO, Martin. It’s your call.’

  ‘But they’re keen?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And the politicians?’

  ‘They’re irrelevant but since you ask then the answer is yes, they’re keen too. Between you and me, the whole terrorist thing is getting out of hand. This government have been blowing smoke up our arses for years. Terrorism, Provo cells, state red alerts, liquid explosives on planes, it’s just more of the same. There’s nothing these people would like more than a bunch of al-Qaeda at the end of a strike that goes wrong. If we’re left with nothing but bodies, who’ll be counting?’

  Faraday and Barrie exchanged looks. This was vintage Willard, patrolling his turf with a growl at anyone who dared trespass.

  ‘So we do nothing premature, sir?’

  ‘Absolutely not, Martin. It’s boring, I know, but evidence is a word we should all regard as a friend. Especially now.’

  Bazza an
d Paul Winter ended up in a small drinking club in the depths of Southsea. Winter had known of the place for years. It had once belonged to a pornographer with a mild drink problem. His stack of Scandinavian videos had been overtaken by hard core on the Internet and he’d wound up finding it easier to make a living with a late-night licence. His liver had exploded a couple of years later, and the last time Winter had seen him he was drifting towards a peaceful end in a hospice on the mainland. His wife used to arrive every Friday with a new copy of Hustler. It was, she’d told Winter, the least the poor man deserved.

  Bazza had known him too.

  ‘Top bloke,’ he said. ‘He sponsored us for shirts one season.’

  ‘When he was still flogging porn?’

  ‘Yeah. We had the name all over us. Private View the shop was called. One game a bloke called us all wankers. Didn’t see the joke until afterwards.’

  ‘After what, Baz?’

  ‘After they got him out of hospital. Listen, Paul. That Brodie. I’ve been thinking.’ He beckoned Winter closer. ‘You were bang-on this afternoon, what you said, but there has to be some way, doesn’t there?’

  ‘Some way what?’

  ‘Some way of sending these cunts a message. You know what really winds me up? The way they take us all for twats. As if we wouldn’t spot her. As if we’re that fucking blind.’

  ‘So what do we do about it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking. You’re the one, Paul. You know the way these tossers think. What would really make their eyes water? Only it’s a liberty, isn’t it? Sending in a piece of fanny like that? Assuming none of us look further than the end of our dicks?’

  Winter laughed. He’d bought a second bottle of champagne, another forty quid that prompted Bazza to ask what the fuck they were celebrating.

  ‘Nothing, Baz. Just this.’ Winter had waved vaguely at the space between them. ‘You get to an age, you know that?’

  ‘Get to an age what, mush?’ He was genuinely interested. Winter could see it in his eyes.

  ‘An age when stuff starts sorting itself out. You’re way too young, Baz, you won’t have a clue what I’m talking about. And between you and me I’m far too pissed to explain. Except it’s nothing but good news. Drink to that?’

  They had. And the second bottle, with a wave of Winter’s credit card, had given way to a third. Now, with the crowd at the bar beginning to thin, Bazza suggested an expedition to Misty Gallagher’s.

  ‘It’s two in the fucking morning, Baz.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. She’s an owl, that woman. Be a laugh.’

  He ordered a cab. It was waiting at the kerb within minutes. At the top of the island, where the motorway divides, Bazza told the cabbie to take the left fork.

  ‘Port Solent, mush.’ He gave him an address.

  The cabbie laughed. ‘Lottery win, is it?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The escort agency lay in the genteel clutter of £400,000 houses fringing the marina. Telling the cabbie to wait, Bazza steered Winter up the front path. The woman who opened the door recognised Mackenzie at once.

  ‘You should have phoned earlier, Baz. She’s busy right now.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, love. It’s my mate here. We’re talking an all-nighter. What have you got left?’

  ‘Has he got a tongue in his head, your mate?’ The woman was eyeing Winter. ‘Only he can choose for himself, can’t he?’

  Inside, Winter found his way to an over-furnished lounge. Three girls were sprawled in various states of undress, watching a DVD. It was unbearably hot.

  Bazza nodded at them. ‘Freebie, mate. Call it a thank you. Help yourself.’

  Winter took his time. All three girls ignored him. Finally, he chose a shapely blonde with dead eyes. She looked easily the oldest but even so could have been his daughter.

  Bazza tapped her on the shoulder. ‘You got a name, love?’

  ‘Dawn.’ She was chewing gum.

  ‘Dawn, this is my mate Paul. I want you to be very nice to him. You listening to me?’

  He disappeared from the room without waiting for an answer. Winter wanted more champagne. Badly. He nodded at the huge plasma screen.

  ‘Like him do you, love? Tom Cruise?’

  ‘It’s Kevin Costner.’

  ‘Costner then.’

  ‘I think he’s a wanker.’

  ‘Really? Ever see Top Gun?’

  ‘Top what?’

  Bazza was back. He’d sorted a deal for the night and promised to have young Dawn back in time to get breakfast for her nipper.

  ‘Nipper?’ Winter was lost.

  ‘Little girl. Dawn’s mum stays over nights but she has to be at work by seven. Ain’t that right, Dawn?’

  Dawn wasn’t paying attention. Bazza walked them all out to the cab. The three of them sat in the back with Dawn in the middle. Bazza had his arm round her. From time to time he nuzzled her ear and whispered something Winter couldn’t catch. After a while she started to scratch herself.

  Winter leaned across, poked Bazza on the knee.

  ‘She’s a junkie,’ he said. ‘I can tell.’

  ‘No way, mush. I asked. It’s just a habit. The girl gets nervous. Mist’s got a fridge full of Moët. She’ll warm up a treat.’

  Misty was in bed when they arrived. Winter caught sight of her in one of the upstairs windows, trying to check out the noise at the gate. Bazza paid off the cabbie and found the key to the front door. By the time they were inside, Misty was halfway downstairs. The sight of Winter, the state of the man, put a smile on her face.

  ‘Company, Mist. Paulie here’s played a blinder. Thought he deserved a little prezzie. Say hello, Dawn. Pretend you’re a fucking human being.’

  Dawn ignored him. Misty, laughing now, took Winter by the hand.

  ‘Are we up for a foursome?’ she said to Mackenzie. ‘Or what?’

  ‘Piss off, Mist.’ He grinned back at her. ‘You’re the prezzie.’

  Twenty-three

  TUESDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2006. 07.16

  Winter surfaced to a cackle of laughter. For a moment he lay there, semi-conscious, neither asleep nor truly awake. The bed was enormous. It smelled musky with an edge of something sweet. The space beside him was still warm and when he summoned the courage to move his head on the pillow he found himself looking at the top of the bedside cabinet. Objects swum in and out of focus. Two empty champagne glasses. A paperback with a pink cover. An alarm radio. A bottle of body lotion. A packet of condoms. He blinked, told himself the thunder in his brain would go away, urged himself to resist the temptation to throw up, wondered where he’d find the nearest lavatory. There was an en suite through the half-open door beyond the wilderness of deep-pile carpet. He made it just in time.

  Afterwards, forcing himself to his feet, he reached for the support of the big white basin. Then, very slowly, he soaped his face, rinsed his mouth and inspected his face in the mirror. Pale, jowly, thin on top, but still - somehow - intact. He held the gaze of this stranger for a moment or two, staring him out. The wink made him feel slightly better.

  Misty was back in bed by the time he emerged from the shower. She’d poured herself a cup of coffee from the cafetière beside her and was leafing through a copy of the Daily Mail. Wrapped in her towelling robe, Winter eyed the front page. Police patrols had been stepped up around hundreds of mosques and churches after the Pope laid into Islam.

  ‘How was I, Mist?’ He was genuinely interested.

  ‘You were fine. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Just the once then?’

  ‘Yeah. I like a man who can do it in his sleep. Saves me making conversation.’

  ‘Are you up for another one?’ He loosened the knot at his waist. ‘Only I’m awake now.’

  ‘No, love.’ She finally emerged from behind the paper and patted the sheet beside her. ‘You want a coffee?’

  Winter stepped out of the robe and slipped in beside her. She was naked under the sheet and her body was warm to
his touch. She caught his hand as he found her nipple. She had paracetamol if he needed it and she’d make him breakfast later to put something solid in his stomach. Winter frowned. He’d prefer a fuck.

  ‘I know, love. But you can’t.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Yeah. But then we all get one go in life, don’t we? Listen, Paul, you can have one look, just one, OK?’

  She nodded at the sheet, an invitation for him to pull it back, but he shook his head.

  ‘Where’s Baz?’

  ‘Gone. Took his little friend home half an hour ago. She had coffee too. I’ve put the mug in bleach.’

  ‘Did she piss you off, turning up like that?’

  ‘Nothing pisses me off, Paul. Be around Bazza as long as me, and you get used to the odd surprise. It’s part of his charm. It’s also his way of telling me never to take him for granted. He’s subtler than you think, Bazza.’

  ‘That was subtle?’

  ‘This bit was.’ She glanced across, then kissed him on the lips. ‘He’s never done that before.’

  ‘Doesn’t that worry you?’

  ‘No. He knows I’m fond of you. It was a prezzie for me really.’

  ‘Then we can fuck.’

  ‘I said fond, Paul. Most of the men I’ve shagged in my life were animals. Why ruin a good friendship?’

  Winter frowned. Maybe it was the hangover but he couldn’t follow the logic. Neither would his erection go away. He lay on his back, tenting the sheet, trying to think of something plausible, something that would coax Misty to put aside her reservations and straddle him.

  ‘Couple of minutes, Mist. That’s all it’d take.’

  ‘I know, love. I was there. That was me.’

  ‘Baz needn’t know.’

  ‘It’s not about Bazza. It’s about me.’

  ‘Shut your eyes then. If I’m that ugly.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘Good word, Mist.’

  She eyed him for a moment. ‘Have I upset you, love?’ She sounded genuinely concerned.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK then.’ She exposed one breast before her hand slipped under the sheet. Winter felt the lightest scrape of her nails over the swell of his belly. Then a touch. Then another. Then a playful frolic underneath before her hand circled him for the briefest moment. ‘There,’ she said. ‘All done.’