The Price Of Darkness

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘Doesn’t matter, though.’ Faraday was still optimistic. ‘It may be enough for Freeth to realise that we’ve got the lad. The boarding-house reservation would put him on the ferry. The mobile in the boot proves he hasn’t thought of everything. The guy’s not quite as sharp as he thinks he is. That may be enough.’

  ‘Enough for what, boss?’ Ellis was never less than sceptical. ‘You really think he’s going to cough the lot? This is a guy who knows what we’re up against, understands the hoops we have to jump through. We might have shaken him a bit over the hospital but he knows it doesn’t take us anywhere really dangerous. The bloke goes for a walk in the grounds of a psychiatric hospital. So what are we doing him for? Trespass?’

  ‘Dawn’s right.’ Yates threw his pen onto the table. ‘We’re a million miles from court. You’ve got to hand it to the guy. If he was sitting here now he’d be creaming himself.’

  ‘Maybe arresting him was a bit premature.’ Ellis stole a glance at Faraday. ‘No offence, boss.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘If Gwent hadn’t nicked him, he’d be away by now. Ireland for starters. Then wherever they fancied.’

  ‘They? We’re sure about they?’

  ‘I am. I don’t think it’s anything dodgy. But yes, these two are a team. Freeth trusts the boy, rates him. It was probably O’Keefe who nicked the Escort in the first place. That’s why Freeth needed him at Port Solent. They could happily torch the car afterwards and no one would be any the wiser.’

  ‘Except we clocked them on CCTV.’

  ‘Sure.’ Faraday nodded. ‘But even then they were aware. The hoodie? The sun visors down in the middle of the night? I keep telling you. This guy’s walked the course. He’s been there. He’s done our job. He knows.’

  ‘What about the Kawasaki?’ It was Suttle. ‘You’re thinking the kid nicked that as well?’

  ‘I think he knew where to find it. The bike belonged to a uni student doing bar work in the evening. The pub is just down the road from Townhill Park, O’Keefe’s place. He’d have seen it there most nights. Funnily enough, it was nicked the night before the lad pushed off to France.’

  ‘It was locked up?’ Suttle was trying to recall the details.

  ‘Chained.’

  ‘Bolt cutters?’

  ‘Had to be.’

  Faraday caught the expression on his face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The guy who owned it.’ Suttle had produced a pen. ‘Can you remember his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he put a claim in for the bike?’

  ‘Must have done. He definitely reported it because that’s how we got to know in the first place. He’d have been after a crime number. Presumably for the insurance people.’

  ‘And this was when?’

  ‘The Friday before the hit.’ Faraday frowned, counting backwards. ‘That makes it the eighth.’

  ‘And the pub?’

  ‘It’s in Sholing.’

  ‘I meant the name, boss.’

  ‘Christ, now you’re asking.’ He shut his eyes a moment. ‘The Wheatsheaf? Something like that …’

  Suttle glanced at his watch then got to his feet. Faraday stared up at him.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I need to make a couple of calls, boss.’ He was already at the door. ‘Talk amongst yourselves, guys.’

  Twenty-seven

  WEDNESDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER 2006. 19.47

  Winter wasn’t at all sure about letting Westie in. A day on the sofa watching World War Two DVDs had left him feeling remarkably pain-free and he’d been toying with a re-run of The Cruel Sea when he’d heard a buzz from the videophone. Getting himself to the front door was still a bit of a test and one look at the big black face peering up at the camera made him wonder whether it had been worth the effort.

  ‘What do you want, Westie?’

  Grinning, West held up a bunch of flowers, then a big bag of Werther’s Originals, before stripping the tissue paper from a bottle of what looked like Black Label.

  ‘It’s a litre, mate,’ he said. ‘In case you were wondering. ’

  Winter, with some reluctance, let him in. By the time Westie closed the door to the flat behind him, Winter was back on the sofa.

  ‘Man …’ Westie was looking at Winter’s face. ‘The Pole did that?’

  ‘Him and his oppo, yeah. It’s worse than it looks. And you should see the state of them.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I am. If you want the full story, they kicked the shit out of me. And you know why? Because you, my friend, didn’t—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah …’ Westie put the flowers down and wandered into the kitchen in search of a glass. He hadn’t come here for a lecture. Winter, up on one elbow, told him to look in the cupboard over the sink.

  ‘Nice pad.’ Westie was back, bending to charge Winter’s glass. ‘Man, I’ve come to apologise.’

  ‘Because Bazza insisted?’

  ‘Because I got you wrong. No one insists. Not with me. Not even Mr M.’

  ‘Wrong?’ In spite of himself, Winter was intrigued. He’d never associated Brett West with contrition. ‘Wrong how?’

  ‘Wrong because I still had you down as Filth. I didn’t buy all the bitterness shit for a second. What does it take to put yourself a couple of times over the limit and then get nicked? Fuck all. The drink-drive charge was a stunt. It was a fairy tale. It was Mr Paul fucking Winter blowing smoke up our arse. I don’t know who dreamed all that up but I told Mr M he was crazy even giving you the time of day. The guy’s still Filth, I told him. He talks a good war. He’s coming on as your best fucking mate. But give it a month or two and you’ll wake one morning and find his mates all over you. That’s how these cunts work. And Mr W’s the biggest cunt of all. Suck you in and spit you out. Good fucking luck.’ He grinned, patted Winter on the arm. ‘Turns out I was wrong.’

  Winter was trying to look relieved. It wasn’t hard.

  ‘Good of you to say so, Westie.’ He raised his glass. ‘So why did it take so long?’

  ‘Because it turns out you’ve got a very good friend. And if she says you’re kosher even I’m going to sit up and take notice.’

  ‘Mist?’

  ‘The one and only.’ He touched his glass to Winter’s. ‘And in my book that makes you the luckiest cunt on God’s earth. Am I jealous? Yeah, too right. Am I sorry about the Pole? No, not really. Do I still think you’re Filth? No, I don’t. And you know why? Because you stuck it to that woman Brodie. I was watching, man. I was watching really hard. That was your test, man. If you’d flunked it in that hotel room, Mr M was going to give me a free hand. But you didn’t hesitate. Not a flicker. You blew it for her and you did it without a clue about what was coming next. Cool as you like. I admired that, man. And I admired you standing up to Mr M. That was quality. That was real class. No way were you still Filth. So, Mr W …’ he drained his own glass and picked up the Black Label ‘… are we doing this bottle, or what?’

  The interview with Charlie Freeth began at 20.47, delayed while Faraday took a phone call from Suttle and then conferenced with Yates and Ellis. Settling himself in front of the video screens, Faraday was glad to see that Yates still had a smile on his face.

  The preliminaries over, Yates gestured to Ellis. Ladies first. Help yourself.

  ‘Dermott O’Keefe, Mr Freeth. You told us that you have no dealings with the lad outside Positivo.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You never see him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have no contact with him?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘You never talk to him on the phone?’

  ‘Never.’

  Ellis glanced at Yates. Yates leaned across the desk.

  ‘How many mobiles do you have, Mr Freeth?’

  ‘One. You seized it.’

  ‘Do you own a red Toyota Avensis? Registration LB17 GHD?’

  ‘You kn
ow I do.’

  ‘That’s a yes, then.’

  Freeth nodded, said nothing. He’d hunched a little in his chair. Yates read out the phone number retrieved from the scrap of paper in the Toyota.

  ‘Do you recognise that number, Mr Freeth?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘It’s a boarding house in Fishguard. It’s called Harbour View. It’s where you might stay if you were thinking of taking a ferry to Ireland.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Are you telling me you didn’t know that?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because we think you booked a room there. In the name of Smith. As you do.’

  ‘Nice one.’ He seemed to relax a little. ‘And you think I’ve got plans to leave the country? You think that’s why I was carrying my passport? Maybe you should check the ferry bookings.’

  ‘Good idea. Except this time of year you wouldn’t need a booking. Six sailings a day from Fishguard? You’d just turn up and drive on.’

  ‘Yeah …’ Freeth smiled. ‘Except I didn’t, did I?’

  ‘No. Because you got a pull on the motorway.’ Yates paused, studied his notepad. ‘We had a good look at your car, Mr Freeth, and guess what we found in the boot?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘A mobile. And guess who texted you this morning?’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘Dermott O’Keefe. Young Dermott. The lad you never talk to out of hours. He wanted to make sure you were there. He wanted to make sure you were waiting. Just the way you’d planned it.’

  ‘Waiting where?’

  ‘Fishguard.’

  ‘Fishguard?’ Freeth laughed. ‘But I wasn’t in Fishguard. I was here. That was me down the corridor. Talk to the Custody skipper. He keeps a log.’

  ‘Sure. Of course he does. Of course you weren’t there. But your car was. And so were a couple of our blokes. Clever, eh? Not something you’d necessarily expected?’

  Freeth raised an eyebrow, then sat back and studied his hands. He doesn’t want to believe it, Faraday thought. This wasn’t in the plan at all.

  Yates explained about O’Keefe finding the empty car.

  ‘He walked straight to it, Mr Freeth. Are you telling me that was some kind of coincidence?’

  Freeth said nothing. His head was down. When he looked up again, his eyes were glittering.

  ‘No comment,’ he said softly.

  For the second time the man with all the answers was robbed of a reply. First the hospital, Faraday thought. Now this.

  ‘Young Dermott’s back in Fareham …’ Yates glanced at his watch. ‘… about now. We’ve arrested him for car theft but there’s something that still bugs us. Maybe you can help us out here. The pair of you do Mallinder’s place. We think you shot the man. We think you did a bloody good job. But why on earth did you let the lad nick the car keys?’

  Hartley Crewdson began to protest. Freeth silenced him with a look.

  ‘That’s pathetic,’ he said softly. ‘And you know it.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘No comment.’ Freeth shook his head.

  There was a long silence. Watching, Faraday realised just how shrewd he’d been in the choice of Yates for this interview. The two men were of similar age, similar temperament. They’d never known each other well, never worked together, but one had stayed in the job while the other hadn’t. As a result, by some strange chemistry the exchange had become intensely personal. Dawn Ellis knew it too. She’d crossed her arms, waiting.

  ‘Here’s another puzzler …’ Yates was pretending bewilderment. ‘That house of yours is squeaky clean. So clean we’re thinking of putting it in for an award. But there’s a problem with the paperwork. Why didn’t you tell us you were moving?’

  ‘Moving?’

  ‘Yeah. The SOC lads have played a blinder. There isn’t a floorboard they haven’t lifted. But you know what they told us tonight? After we started asking the right questions? They said they’d found house details, agents’ particulars, and you know where this place is? In County Kilkenny.’ Yates grinned at him. ‘Strange that. Given the address we lifted off young Dermott.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘No comment, you can’t think of an answer? Or no comment, you can’t be arsed?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Shame.’ Yates flipped a page in his notebook. ‘Let’s stick with the boy a moment. He had three grand in his pocket. Where did that kind of money come from?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘We think he sold the Mercedes. Not a great price but then I expect some hookey dealer saw him off. Unless the rest went to his mum of course. Do you know Mrs O’Keefe?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Fine woman. And Dermott’s a good lad too, if half what we hear is right. But then you’d know that, wouldn’t you? Enrolling him on the Junior Leader programme? Trusting him the way you did? Having him along for the ride on the Mallinder job?’

  This time Freeth said nothing. His eyes held Yates’s gaze then he half-turned towards Crewdson before changing his mind.

  ‘You guys are crap,’ he said. ‘If this is the best you can do, then no wonder we’re all in the shit.’

  ‘In the shit? How does that work?’ Yates let the question dangle between them but Freeth shook his head, refusing to take the bait. At length Yates pushed his chair back, abandoning his pad. He was enjoying this. He wanted to take his time. ‘Let’s go back to Frank Greetham, Charlie. Let’s just take a look at why you’d want to settle a debt or two.’

  His briefcase lay on the floor beside his chair. He produced a file of correspondence and began to leaf through it. Freeth barely spared it a glance.

  ‘This lot came from Sam Taylor, Charlie. Someone’s been making notes in the margin and we think that someone is you. Someone’s also been paying a lot of attention to the Minister of State for Pensions Reform. Here …’ Yates’s finger hovered over a name ringed in scarlet Pentel, ‘You want to take a look?’

  Freeth shook his head.

  ‘Anyone could have done that.’ He nodded at the file. ‘The way I remember it, the job used to be about evidence. Not this bollocks.’

  ‘Evidence, Charlie?’ Yates’s smile was broader. ‘Let’s talk about the morning Frank died. Tell me exactly what happened. Pretend I know nothing.’

  Freeth gazed at him a moment, weighing the question, looking for traps. Then he began to describe the sequence of events that had led him to the garage round the back, and to the realisation that Frank Greetham was sitting in the car with the engine running.

  ‘Was the garage locked?’

  ‘Yeah. From the inside.’

  ‘So you broke a window. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Waited for the fumes to clear?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then dived in and turned the engine off?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So what happened after that?’

  ‘I got out again. The place still stank. Frank was obviously dead. There was sod all I could do for him.’

  ‘And later? Once you needed a decent draught through the place?’

  ‘I got the front doors open.’

  ‘And how did you do that?’

  Freeth hesitated. Yates asked the question again. When Freeth didn’t answer, he produced another document from the briefcase.

  ‘This is a copy of the Coroner’s Report, Charlie. You gave the Coroner’s Officer a statement. You told him that the doors had been secured with a length of chain and a padlock. You had to break the chain to get the doors open. How did you do that?’

  Freeth was eyeing the report.

  ‘With a pair of bolt cutters,’ he said at length.

  ‘Bolt cutters,’ Yates repeated. ‘And where did you find them?’

  ‘In the garage. They belonged to Frank.’

  ‘Indeed. And he’d had them a long time, hadn’t he? So long, there were little tiny nicks on the blades. You know about forensics, Cha
rlie. You know what they can do with blow-ups in the laboratory, electron microscopes, metallurgical analysis, cut-patterns, all that bollocks.’ He paused. ‘Do I hear a yes? Am I getting warmer?’

  Freeth said nothing. When Crewdson protested that this line of questioning was oppressive, Yates returned to the report.

  ‘The Coroner still has the chain from the garage,’ he said. ‘We’ll be submitting it for laboratory analysis.’

  ‘So?’ Freeth shrugged.

  ‘We’ll also be submitting a pair of bolt cutters we recovered from the grounds at St James’ Hospital. Along with a chain that secured the Kawasaki you nicked from outside a pub in Sholing. That’s the Kawasaki you used for the hit in Goldsmith Avenue.’

  ‘The defence minister?’ Freeth seemed to be losing interest. ‘You think I did that too?’

  ‘We do, Charlie, we do. And you know why we’ve got that chain? Because you left it outside the pub and the bloke who owned the Kawasaki hung on to it. And you know why he did that? Because he’s making an insurance claim.’ Yates tapped the file. ‘Evidence, Charlie, sweet as you like. Two chains. Two sets of those nice forensic lab reports. Both of them admissible in court. And both of them tying you to the hit on the minister. We’re not greedy, Charlie. One conviction for murder will do us nicely though a cough on the Mallinder job would make our day. You’re a careful man, Charlie. You like things neat and tidy. Best to get it off your chest, eh? Before we start on Julie.’

  There was a long silence. In the adjacent room Faraday heard the scrape of the door opening and looked round to find Suttle stepping in from the corridor. He’d just had another conversation with the SOC boys. Amongst the seized paperwork they’d located a receipt for the bolt cutters. Frank Greetham had bought them with a special staff discount from Gullifant’s in April 1992. No wonder the blades had been in a state.

  ‘How are we doing?’ Suttle nodded at the monitor screens.

  ‘Fine. Take a seat. The next bit might be interesting.’