happy about having his briefing hijacked by some upstart DC, Faraday was in no mood for more showboating. He wanted to know the real strength on Ainsley Davidson. Not hearsay. Not speculation. Strictly the facts.
‘Sure, sir.’
Corbett laid it out, date perfect, pausing at every bend in the road in case Faraday couldn’t keep up. Bev Yates, a mere spectator, couldn’t believe his ears. Maybe this was what they taught you in the Met. Maybe this kind of arrogance came with the turf.
Corbett had just spent another fifteen minutes on the phone.
‘Number one, Davidson’s a known South London criminal. As a kid, he did a couple of spells in YOIs for robbery, street crime mainly, wallets, handbags, stuff like that. Later he took to TWOCing. According to the screw I’ve been talking to, he was happy to admit it. Loved motors, loved everything about them, couldn’t keep his hands off anything with wheels. He’d steal for the fun of it, for the drive afterwards. Then he got himself in deeper shit.’
‘Like what?’
‘GBH with intent. By this time, he’s twenty-one. His local manor’s Balham. He’s running around with some serious criminals. Then he makes his big mistake. He nicks an Astra. That’s uncontested. He admitted it in court. White M reg from a car park in Wandsworth. Couple of days later, Balham High Road, that same Astra knocks over a woman pushing a pram across the road. The Astra doesn’t stop and the woman dies later in hospital.’
‘That was down to Davidson?’
‘You got it. The car is recovered the following week. Davidson’s prints are all over it, he’s got a dodgy alibi, plus a witness to the incident IDs him on a parade.’
‘So he admitted the GBH?’
‘No way. Not then. Not in court. And not afterwards. A hundred per cent not guilty, m’lord.’
‘What about the prints?’
‘Obviously his. He admits he nicked the Astra in the first place but he insists he never touched the car that day. Never knocked the woman down. Never killed her. Not just innocent, but bitter and extremely twisted.’
‘And he went down?’
‘Sweet as you like. Trial lasted less than a fortnight.’ Corbett paused, glancing sideways at Yates. ‘Seven years, six of them in Gosport. Most of the time on Coughlin’s wing.’
‘And?’
‘The screw’s saying it was party-time for Coughlin. Guy had a ball. Nothing physical. Apparently Davidson’s a tough little bugger. But everything else, every little wind-up you can imagine, access to lawyers, access to computers, stamps for his little envelopes, lots of conversations about food outside the cell when Davidson went on hunger strike, whatever he could dream up to make life a misery. Davidson never stopped trying to prove his innocence. Coughlin did his best to make sure he never could.’
‘How come this screw’s so forthcoming?’
‘Because he hated Coughlin. Like they all did.’
‘Hate’s a big word.’ Faraday reached for a pencil. ‘Bev?’
Yates stirred. His face was pouched with exhaustion.
‘He wasn’t flavour of the month,’ Yates agreed. ‘I’m not sure about hate, though.’
Faraday nodded, then pushed his chair back from the desk and stared out of the window. Beyond a thousand rooftops, the swell of Portsdown Hill. Finally he turned back to Corbett.
‘And your suggestion is?’
There was a longish silence, then Corbett cleared his throat. He sounded pleased with himself, the voice of a man who’d just spared the rest of the squad a great deal of work.
‘Davidson was released a couple of weeks ago.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe he had a debt to settle.’
Two hours later, nearly dark, Faraday was still at his desk. He’d been long enough with Major Crimes to know that the first two days were the most important, not simply because the majority of cases were solved within forty-eight hours but because of the sheer volume of work that went into bump-starting the investigative machine. Lately, he’d taken to keeping a
‘Sure, sir.’
Corbett laid it out, date perfect, pausing at every bend in the road in case Faraday couldn’t keep up. Bev Yates, a mere spectator, couldn’t believe his ears. Maybe this was what they taught you in the Met. Maybe this kind of arrogance came with the turf.
Corbett had just spent another fifteen minutes on the phone.
‘Number one, Davidson’s a known South London criminal. As a kid, he did a couple of spells in YOIs for robbery, street crime mainly, wallets, handbags, stuff like that. Later he took to TWOCing. According to the screw I’ve been talking to, he was happy to admit it. Loved motors, loved everything about them, couldn’t keep his hands off anything with wheels. He’d steal for the fun of it, for the drive afterwards. Then he got himself in deeper shit.’
‘Like what?’
‘GBH with intent. By this time, he’s twenty-one. His local manor’s Balham. He’s running around with some serious criminals. Then he makes his big mistake. He nicks an Astra. That’s uncontested. He admitted it in court. White M reg from a car park in Wandsworth. Couple of days later, Balham High Road, that same Astra knocks over a woman pushing a pram across the road. The Astra doesn’t stop and the woman dies later in hospital.’
‘That was down to Davidson?’
‘You got it. The car is recovered the following week. Davidson’s prints are all over it, he’s got a dodgy alibi, plus a witness to the incident IDs him on a parade.’
‘So he admitted the GBH?’
‘No way. Not then. Not in court. And not afterwards. A hundred per cent not guilty, m’lord.’
‘What about the prints?’
‘Obviously his. He admits he nicked the Astra in the first place but he insists he never touched the car that day. Never knocked the woman down. Never killed her. Not just innocent, but bitter and extremely twisted.’
‘And he went down?’
‘Sweet as you like. Trial lasted less than a fortnight.’ Corbett paused, glancing sideways at Yates. ‘Seven years, six of them in Gosport. Most of the time on Coughlin’s wing.’
‘And?’
‘The screw’s saying it was party-time for Coughlin. Guy had a ball. Nothing physical. Apparently Davidson’s a tough little bugger. But everything else, every little wind-up you can imagine, access to lawyers, access to computers, stamps for his little envelopes, lots of conversations about food outside the cell when Davidson went on hunger strike, whatever he could dream up to make life a misery. Davidson never stopped trying to prove his innocence. Coughlin did his best to make sure he never could.’
‘How come this screw’s so forthcoming?’
‘Because he hated Coughlin. Like they all did.’
‘Hate’s a big word.’ Faraday reached for a pencil. ‘Bev?’
Yates stirred. His face was pouched with exhaustion.
‘He wasn’t flavour of the month,’ Yates agreed. ‘I’m not sure about hate, though.’
Faraday nodded, then pushed his chair back from the desk and stared out of the window. Beyond a thousand rooftops, the swell of Portsdown Hill. Finally he turned back to Corbett.
‘And your suggestion is?’
There was a longish silence, then Corbett cleared his throat. He sounded pleased with himself, the voice of a man who’d just spared the rest of the squad a great deal of work.
‘Davidson was released a couple of weeks ago.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe he had a debt to settle.’
Two hours later, nearly dark, Faraday was still at his desk. He’d been long enough with Major Crimes to know that the first two days were the most important, not simply because the majority of cases were solved within forty-eight hours but because of the sheer volume of work that went into bump-starting the investigative machine. Lately, he’d taken to keeping a
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