The Price Of Darkness (50 page)

‘Cunt,’ he said. ‘And stupid too.’

‘You what?’ Winter wanted to talk jet skis, TV deals, money, fame.

‘I said cunt.’

‘Why?’

‘You think I’m stupid?’

‘Not at all.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

Winter heard the scrape of a chair behind him. Then, without quite understanding how, he was sitting down. Dobroslaw was saying something in Polish to the man in the Nikes. Then his eyes found Winter again.

‘You’re either very brave or very stupid. I think probably stupid. Can you read, Mr Winter?’

Winter found himself looking at a copy of the
Southern Daily Echo
open at an inside page. There was a photograph of one of Dobroslaw’s vans parked on the pavement outside the newspaper’s offices. Inside, clearly visible, were half a dozen naked women. Some were blowing kisses to passers-by. Others were trying to cover themselves. One was showing the camera her arse. Across the top of the page ran the headline
From Russia With Love.

‘You really don’t know?’

‘No. Tell me.’

‘A man comes here yesterday. Yesterday morning. He has money. He wants a van. No problem. We give him a van. He drives to a house I own. There are other men with him. They take all the girls. They take them naked. And they leave the van in the middle of the city.’ He nodded down at the newspaper. ‘A joke, you think?’

‘You can describe him? This man?’ Winter felt like a detective again.

‘Very tall. Black.’ Dobroslaw said something else in Polish. Seconds later Winter found himself looking at a photocopy of the booking form. Brett West.

‘There’s more.’ Dobroslaw’s hand settled lightly on the telephone. ‘This afternoon I get a call. Bazza wants you to buy a newspaper, says the voice. Then nothing. Until you arrive. Have you come to apologise? Or are you here to share the joke?’

The word ‘joke’ triggered an explosion of pain in Winter’s right ear. He rocked back in the chair, then toppled over, sprawling on the floor, looking up in time to try and shield himself from the blur of white Nike. The blow caught him high on the right shoulder. More pain. Then another pair of feet were visible, bigger, clad in black leather.

He brought his knees up, buried his head between his arms, waited for the worst to pass. It seemed to go on forever, blow after blow driving the breath from his body. It was years since he’d been in a serious ruck and the better part of a lifetime since he’d taken a beating like this. A couple of teeth went. He spat blood onto the floor, curled his body a little tighter, tried to trick his mind into thinking of something else. A savage kick to his lower body made him want to throw up. A second, and he was spewing on the floor. Pain tasted of bile. His eyes tight shut, he fought to concentrate on a single image. The view from his apartment. Misty. Anything. Then, quite suddenly, it was over.

Outside, dimly, he caught the clatter of a diesel engine. Dobroslaw was helping him to his feet. He seemed immensely strong. Winter’s hand went to his mouth. His tongue explored something jagged where teeth had once been. Withdrawing his hand, he noticed it was covered in blood. A door opened. A face swam into focus. The cabbie, he thought vaguely.

‘Tell Mr Bazza no more jokes, eh?’ The voice was soft in his burning ear. ‘Tell him next time we’ll mean it.’

 

An hour and a half into the interview, Freeth’s solicitor asked for a break. Yates and Ellis joined Faraday in the adjoining office. Faraday was looking nearly as glum as Yates.

‘He’s pissing all over us,’ Yates said. ‘This isn’t an interview, it’s a speech.’

Faraday could only agree. Every question, no matter how carefully phrased, seemed to lead back to the disgust that Freeth still felt on Frank Greetham’s behalf. How a bunch of thieving bastards had bought the company and stripped out everything of value. How a decent pension fund had mysteriously emptied. How a bunch of guys who’d had this old-fashioned idea about customer service had suddenly found themselves jobless, potless and totally without prospects. So far, it was true, they were still in the opening phase of the interview. Freeth had yet to account for the CCTV pictures and for the evident closeness of his relationship with the missing O’Keefe. But the truth was that he was bossing the exchanges. In situations like these it was often difficult to persuade the interviewee to say anything at all. In Freeth’s case they couldn’t shut him up. He had a great deal to get off his chest. And this was as good an opportunity as any.

‘Where next then, boss?’

‘Dermott O’Keefe. Then make a start on Mallinder.’

Faraday’s phone began to ring. It was Jimmy Suttle.

‘I’ve just had a bell from the Duty Inspector at Fareham, boss. Gwent have been on to him. Apparently they’ve retrieved a phone number from Freeth’s Toyota.’

The number, he said, had been found on a scrap of paper balled on the floor. It was a Fishguard number.

‘You’ve tried it?’

‘They did. That’s why they phoned. The number takes you to a boarding house near the ferry port. Harbour View.’

Faraday reached for his pad. Fishguard was in west Wales. From Fishguard you could take a ferry to Ireland.

‘The boy Dermott,’ he said slowly. ‘He’s Irish.’

‘Exactly.’

‘You think Freeth was going to Fishguard?’

‘More than possible, boss. I phoned the B & B. They’d had a call from a punter wanting a room for a maximum of three nights. He gave his name as Smith. It’s their only call today.’

‘Have they got an O’Keefe booked in?’

‘No, I asked.’

‘But you think Smith might be Freeth?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘And you think he’d be waiting for the lad?’

‘It’s possible, boss. Either that or the boy’s in Ireland already. In which case he might be waiting for Julie Greetham.’

Faraday nodded. A reunion with Julie made perfect sense but there’d been nothing in her interview to suggest she was planning a hasty exit from Pompey.

‘OK.’ Faraday glanced at his watch. Just gone nine. ‘The Toyota’s still with Gwent?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Get hold of Glen Thatcher. We need a couple of D/Cs over to Gwent. They’re to take the Toyota to Fishguard and stake out the B & B. O’Keefe knows the car. He might just appear. It’s a long shot, but to be frank, Jimmy, I’ll take anything just now.’

The interview resumed at 21.14. After the half-time oranges, Freeth clearly sensed the game was going his way. When Ellis mentioned O’Keefe, asking why the boy was so special, he instantly turned the question on its head.

‘We’re the special ones,’ he said. ‘Not Dermott. He’s a bright lad, no question about it. He’s also much better adjusted than most of them. He’s got a life. He sorts himself out. Family matters to him. But what he hasn’t got is the kind of structure we supply, the kind of leadership challenges that come his way. It’s water in the desert. The kid laps it up.’

‘Does that make him unusual?’

‘Yes. Very.’

‘So how would you describe the relationship you both established?’

‘
Relationship
? What are you assuming here?’

‘We understand the pair of you are close.’

‘Yeah? Care to tell me why?’

‘Because people have told us so.’

‘Like who?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to—’

‘Then it’s bollocks.’ Freeth bent to his brief. ‘Tell them, Hartley. Tell them this kind of stuff’s out of order.’

Crewdson registered an objection. Yates stepped in. He wanted to know whether the relationship with O’Keefe existed at all.

‘Dermott’s a client. He’s done well. He’s on the leadership course. Do we talk? Have a laugh or two? Try and nail one or two things down? Of course we do. Do we have …’ Freeth smiled his dangerous smile ‘… a
relationship
? The answer is no. Positivo has hundreds of clients. He’s just one of them.’

‘So you don’t see him at all outside the course?’

‘No.’

‘Never?’

‘No.’

Yates glanced at Ellis. Almost imperceptibly she nodded. Yates turned to Freeth again.

‘How much did you know about Jonathan Mallinder? Before he was killed?’

‘I knew that he’d signed a letter to the Gullifant’s people. And I knew that a bunch of them had gone to see him.’

‘Did you find out anything else about him? Did you Google him at all? Or Google the partnership?’

‘Yes. Frank was in a state about the whole thing. I did whatever I could.’

‘And what did you find out about Mr Mallinder?’

‘I found out pretty much what I told you before. That these guys were asset stripping. That they were in it for the freeholds. That they’d make back their initial stake by selling a couple of the freeholds with planning permission, and then cash in on the rest when the time was right. None of this is rocket science. All you need is a heart of stone.’

‘So your attitude to Mr Mallinder … ?’

‘I loathed the man. In my view he deserved everything he got. If the nation’s wealth depends on people like Mallinder we’re better off living in mud huts. The man was a disgrace.’

Yates was smiling now. You’d never accuse Charlie Freeth of not speaking his mind.

‘Last Monday week,’ he began, ‘that’s Monday the fourth of September, can you remember where you were?’

‘Here. In Pompey.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘I was at home at Westbourne Road. Monday evenings Jules goes to yoga. I cook.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘I can’t remember. Bit of Radio Two probably. Then bed. Kids are knackering, especially the kids we deal with. I’d just come off a residential weekend. I could have slept for a week.’

‘You never left the house?’

‘No.’ He pretended bemusement. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘We have CCTV pictures that tie Dermott O’Keefe to Port Solent that night. He’s with an adult. That adult looks like you. We have more pictures, three o’clock in the morning, that show him going back towards Southampton with the same adult. We think it was you, Mr Freeth.’

‘You’re sure about that? Only I was in bed. Asleep.’ He held Yates’ gaze a moment then bent forward. ‘Listen, I know what you guys are driving at, I know what you think, what you suspect, but you’re going to have to do a whole lot better than this to put me anywhere near Port Solent. Is that where the man lived? I’ve absolutely no idea. Did someone kill him there? That’s what they were saying in the paper. Was it me? Absolutely not. Would I have been pleased to have done it? Absolutely fucking delighted. So a big round of applause for whoever pulled the trigger. But don’t ask me to take the rap.’

‘Trigger?’ Ellis’s question was barely audible.

‘In the paper, love. The following day and the day after. They mentioned a gun and guns have triggers. Why were we so keen on reading all the coverage? Because we couldn’t get enough of it. Does that make us vengeful? Yes … and extremely happy. Am I making myself clear here? Have we done with “open account”? Do you want to get on to the “challenge” phase next?’

Faraday winced. Yates was right. Freeth was totally in charge. Every in-depth interview began with an open account from the suspect. In classic CID theory the challenge phase would follow. But what was there left to challenge?

‘You’ve admitted a debt to Frank Greetham …’ Yates said.

‘I have. And gladly. He was a fine man.’

‘You’ve been equally candid about Mallinder. Would it be fair to say he was someone you hated?’

‘I loathed him. Despised him. Hate’s too weak a word.’

‘You had no regrets that he got killed?’

‘None at all.’

‘Would you have
liked
to have killed him?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘
Could
I have done it? Yes.
Did
I do it? No.’

‘You knew Dermott O’Keefe?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dermott O’Keefe was at Port Solent on Monday night. With someone who looked a whole lot like you.’

‘So you tell me. Except it wasn’t me.’

‘You were a police officer. You’d served with CID. You knew about crime scenes, about forensic procedures. You’d also done the firearms course. Is all that true?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘So.’ Yates tossed his pen onto the desk. ‘We have a classic kill. A totally cleaned-up crime scene. And a suspect who knows all about guns, all about CID work and - by his own admission - thought Mallinder should be held responsible for the death of someone he loved. Is that all fair?’

‘Absolutely.’ The smile again. ‘And your point is … ?’

 

Winter made his way slowly into the flat. The cabbie had offered to take him to Accident and Emergency for a check-up but Winter had said no. He wanted a large Scotch, a fistful of painkillers and a bit of a think. Now, he prepared a nest of cushions on the sofa and then limped into the kitchen to find a glass. Everything hurt. His ear. His mouth. His shoulder. His ribs. Even his buttocks where he’d tried to shield his groin. Thank Christ he’d managed to stay conscious.

He tipped Scotch into the glass and thought about ice from the fridge but decided that bending was too painful. A token splash of water from the tap three-quarters filled the glass and he held the countertop for support as he took a deep swallow.

A month ago, as a working copper, it would have taken a single phone call to rouse the cavalry. Dobroslaw and his grubby apprentice would have been inside by now, a holding cell each, tasting a little of their own medicine. Winter eyed his reflection in the kitchen window, glad that the shadowed image spared him the details. Sooner or later he’d have to clean himself up in the bathroom, swab his wounds with TCP and inspect the damage to his mouth, but for the time being all that could wait.

He took another mouthful of Scotch, topped up the glass then eased himself onto the sofa next door. His soiled jacket lay where he’d dropped it on the carpet and his hand explored the creases until he found his mobile. The temptation was to phone Bazza and demand to know what the fuck was going on, but he knew he had to straighten things out in his own head first. There was a possibility, just, that he’d been set up - that Bazza had planned this little prank, that sending him into the lion’s den with an outraged Pole would be the ultimate test of his real loyalties. If Winter had been a plant all along, Bazza might reason, then this would surely flush him out.