The Price Of Darkness (10 page)

‘We’ll grab a couple of shots before it leaves.’

‘Sure. Help yourself.’

Faraday waited for Riddick to return. As he’d expected, there was little value in extending the search any further. There might have been another vehicle here that the guys in the Escort had used to leave the scene but the fire and its aftermath had destroyed any surviving shred of evidence. Of course he’d pop off some shots for the file but the fire investigator had it about right. Class act.

‘Yeah.’ Faraday nodded. ‘Just like Mallinder.’

 

Winter was on the Gosport ferry when Suttle returned his call. It was hot for early September, and Winter had made himself comfortable in a seat on the top deck, enjoying the sun on his face.

‘The answer’s yes.’ Suttle was obviously in a hurry. ‘Round eight? Somewhere quiet? I’ll give you a bell.’

The line went dead and Winter struggled to his feet, a broad smile on his face. Standing at the rail, he watched as the ferry manoeuvred alongside, nudging the Gosport pontoon.

Jimmy Suttle, over the last couple of years, had virtually become the son that he and Joannie had never had. Unlike many of the younger D/Cs these days, the lad had a real appetite for the job. He’d always been happy to listen to Winter’s war stories, picking up tips wherever he could, and when Winter had found himself fighting a brain tumour, young Jimmy had made it his business to help out. At the time Winter had been involved with a part-time call girl with an unlikely name, and between them she and Jimmy Suttle had kept the demons at bay. An American neurosurgeon had finally saved Winter’s life but in truth he’d been inclined to give the proper credit to Maddox and to Suttle. Only the prospect of near-certain death, he thought now, had made him realise the importance of real friendship.

Winter joined the queue of passengers disembarking. Minutes later he was knocking on an office door in a new development overlooking the biggest of the harbourside marinas. The name on the door read ‘Harbour Events’.

He’d talked to Andrew McCall an hour or so earlier on the phone. In the flesh he was older than Winter had expected, a tall, slightly piratical figure with mischievous eyes and the faintest suggestion of a limp.

‘What can I do for you?’

Winter introduced himself. He’d decided on the word ‘consultant’.

‘Consultant to whom?’

‘Beaver UK.’ He used the name of one of Bazza’s many companies.

McCall roared with laughter. ‘Mackenzie? You’re in with him?’

‘He’s my client,’ Winter said stiffly.

‘And he
pays
you? Christ, that’s a first.’

Winter ignored the dig. He wanted to know what lay behind Harbour Events. McCall was happy to oblige.

‘I’m a facilitator,’ he explained, ‘… a midwife, if you like. People come to me with ideas. I put them in touch with other people who might be able to help. I give their little boat a push, and once they’re all set up and ship-shape, they sail away.’

He mentioned the Whitbread Round-the-World Race. Back in 1997 he’d organised the departure from Southampton. On that occasion he’d been working directly for Whitbread and he’d been rather more hands-on.

‘But why did you give it to the Scummers?’

‘Because they were up for it. Ocean Village was perfect. Terrific backdrop. The event went like a dream. It’s all turned to ratshit since, of course, which is why we brought the Global Challenge here last year.’

He waved a languid hand towards the window. Beyond the forest of masts in the marina Winter caught a glimpse of the ferry returning to the Pompey side of the harbour.

‘Brilliant. So you ended up stuffing the bastards?’

‘The Scummers? Big time.’

McCall shot Winter a grin. Scummers was Pompey-speak for anyone who’d had the misfortune to be born in Southampton, and the very word was enough to start a riot in certain Pompey pubs. On the football pitch, and elsewhere, no victory was ever sweeter.

Winter began to talk about Bazza’s determination to organise some kind of jet ski race. To his amazement, McCall appeared to take him seriously.

‘It’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘In fact it’s a corker.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Absolutely. And you’re right about QHM. In fact he’s become a bit of a convert.’

‘So you think it’s do-able?’

‘Of course.’ He gazed at Winter, puzzled. ‘Don’t you?’

 

Aliyah Begum turned up at Kingston Crescent in the late afternoon. She gave her name and asked for D/C Yates. Yates, who’d visited the escort agency earlier, was out on another action and so the call from the front desk finally made its way to Faraday. En route to fetch her from downstairs, he put his head round Suttle’s door.

‘Join me in my office,’ he said. ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’

Aliyah Begum was even younger than Faraday had expected. Under the lip gloss and the Western-style trouser suit she could easily have passed as Mallinder’s daughter. She accompanied him back upstairs. She had a flat Midlands accent and a nervous habit of playing with the gold bangles on her wrist. Suttle joined them.

By now Faraday had realised that no one had told her about Mallinder. He broke the news with a wooden-ness that took Suttle by surprise. Aliyah stared at them, aghast, her eyes going from one face to the other.

‘Why?’ she managed at last.

‘It’s a good question,’ Faraday conceded. ‘We don’t know.’

‘But …’ She was still trying to understand, still trying to make sense of this appalling news.

‘He was shot,’ Faraday said, ‘the night before last. We think it probably happened around three, four o’clock in the morning.’ He paused, letting the implications sink in. Suttle reached for his pad. ‘How long have you known Mr Mallinder?’

‘A month. Maybe longer. Say six weeks.’

‘And how did that come about?’

‘He phoned the agency. They sent a book of photos round. He chose me.’ She said it with a hint of pride.

‘And you went to see him?’

‘Yes, that same night. He wanted full service. We had sex. He was nice. I liked him.’

‘And you went back? Regularly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever stay the night?’

‘No. I could have done but it would have cost a lot more money.’

‘Did he ever ask you to stay the night?’

‘No. Usually I stayed for about an hour. That was all he wanted.’

‘And he never asked for anyone else?’

‘No.’ She shook her head, failing to hide the flash of anger in her eyes. Faraday saw it. So did Suttle.

‘Did he ever give you a key?’

‘Never.’

‘Did you become friends?’

‘No.’ She was playing with the bangles again. ‘You think sometimes you could be friends. Maybe you’d like to be friends. But no, not in that situation.’

‘But you talked?’

‘Of course we talked. We’re not animals.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘His family. Mine sometimes.’

‘And did you get the impression he was happy? At home?’

‘Very. He showed me photos of them all. He had lovely kids. A lovely wife, too. He was a lucky man.’

‘And yet …’ Faraday shrugged ‘… he needed you.’

‘Of course. It happens a lot. Especially with men like him away from home.’

‘And business? Did you ever talk about that?’

She glanced at Suttle. Then her eyes found Faraday again.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because it might be important.’ Faraday paused, waiting for an answer, then carried on. ‘Did you know what he did for a living?’

‘A little. He bought and sold land, I think.’

‘That’s right. So let me ask you the question again. Did you ever talk about any of that?’

Her head went down. She knotted her fingers.

‘Yes,’ she said at last.

‘In what respect?’

‘He wanted to know about a couple of places in Southsea. One was a kind of grocery. The other was a restaurant. He thought I might be able to help.’

‘Why? Why you?’

‘Because they were both Bengali, these places.’

‘And did you help?’

This time she was determined not to answer. Faraday let the silence stretch and stretch. Finally, with a glance at Suttle, he ran out of patience.

‘Mr Mallinder is dead,’ he said softly. ‘Somebody killed him. We need to find that somebody and to do that we need people like you to help us. We’ve got a choice here. We can all go down to another police station. We call it the Bridewell. We can arrest you. Caution you. Get you a lawyer. Or we can just carry on here, just as we are. It’s your choice.’

‘Arrest me for what?’ She was looking alarmed.

‘Obstructing the course of justice. It’s a serious offence. Think about it.’

She nodded, studied her nails for a moment or two. Her nails were purple, embellished with tiny silver stars. Finally, her head came up.

‘I told him that I’d ask around, make some enquiries.’

‘What did he want to know?’

‘He wanted to find out whether, you know, the business was good at these places.’

‘You mean successful?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. He never said.’

‘And what did you find out?’

‘I found out …’ she ran her tongue over her lips then swallowed hard ‘… that business wasn’t good.’

‘And you told him?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he still didn’t explain why?’

‘No.’

Faraday shot a look at Suttle. The next question was obvious.

‘Did you get the impression he’d asked you to do this because you were Asian yourself?’ asked Suttle. ‘Because you’d have contacts? Family ties?’

‘Of course.’

‘And do you think that’s why he chose you? From all the other girls?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Were there other Asian girls in the book?’

‘No. I’m the only one.’

‘So how did that make you feel?’

‘It made no difference.’ She shrugged. ‘He paid the money. I think I made him happy.’

Suttle nodded. He didn’t doubt that for a moment. Faraday took over again.

‘The background you come from … here in Portsmouth … it’s pretty tight, isn’t it? People are pretty close? People know each other? Families worship together? Get together in the mosque?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘So word would get around?’

‘About what?’

‘About what you do for a living.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Surely not maybe. Definitely.’

‘Whatever.’ She shrugged again.

There was a long silence. Then Suttle stirred.

‘So what do your parents think about what you do for a living?’

‘My parents are in Leicester.’

‘So where do you live?’

‘In a flat in Southsea. With some other girls.’

‘Asian girls?’

‘No, English.’

‘So you’ve
no
family here? Is that what you’re saying? ’

She looked at Suttle for a long time. Then she shook her head.

‘Of course I’ve got family here. Extended family. Distant cousins. Aunts. Uncles. That’s how it is in our culture. We have family everywhere.’

Faraday bent forward in his chair. They were close to an admission this girl was clearly dreading.

‘So they’d be upset …’ he suggested ‘… if they found out about you … about what you do. Am I right?’

She nodded. Her voice was low. ‘Yes.’

‘And if they saw this man, this white businessman, come calling? At the grocery store? At the restaurant? And if they realised that he was your client? And that you’d been nosing around, asking questions on his account? How would they feel then?’

‘They wouldn’t like it.’

‘Wouldn’t
like
it? Surely it’s stronger than that. Surely they’d hate it. They’d hate what you do. And they’d hate all the other liberties this man was taking. Am I right?’

She nodded, said nothing. Faraday asked for the addresses of the two properties and with some reluctance she obliged. She also supplied her own address and mobile number. Finally, when it was plain that the interview was over, she stood up.

‘The man at the agency was right,’ she said in the same small voice. ‘He told me I was mad to come here.’

Faraday studied her for a moment. Then he shrugged.

‘We’d have found you anyway,’ he said.

WEDNESDAY, 6 SEPTEMBER 2006.
20.27

 

Winter had settled on the Duke of Buckingham for his meet with Jimmy Suttle. It was a decent, well-run pub in Old Portsmouth, attracting an evening crowd of young professionals, the occasional teacher from the grammar school across the road and quietly spoken retired couples taking advantage of the midweek supper offers. No one from Bazza’s entourage would dream of setting foot in there.

Winter bought a pint of Stella and made himself comfortable at a table at the back of the bar. He’d acquired a paper from the shop up the road and a major report on one of the inside pages tallied developments in the city’s latest murder hunt. Winter was still admiring a grainy shot of Faraday hurrying into the nick at Kingston Crescent when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

‘Top up?’ Jimmy Suttle was looking at his half-empty glass.

‘Why not.’ Winter showed him the paper. ‘This one of yours?’

Suttle glanced at the article. ‘Yeah.’

He fetched the drinks from the bar and settled into the spare chair. He looks older, Winter thought. More settled. More confident. More cautious.

‘Go on then …’ Winter nodded at the newspaper.

Suttle ignored the invitation to share the secrets of
Billhook
. He reached for his drink and swallowed a mouthful. To Winter it looked like shandy. Bad sign.

‘So how have you been?’ Suttle wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘How’s life on the Dark Side?’