Free Deadlight by Graham Hurley

foreign authors, French stuff mainly. He’d even wondered about tackling André Gide in the
original
. Did Corbett have any notion where an adventure like that might take you?
    Corbett was unimpressed.
    ‘You fancied her.’
    ‘I fell in love with her.’
    Corbett gazed at him, amused.
    ‘Trophy fuck?’
    ‘Wash your mouth out, man.’
    ‘I meant you.’ The smile widened. ‘You’re the trophy fuck.’
    For a moment, Yates thought Davidson had lost it. The tiny muscles around his jaw tightened. His mouth became a thin, dark line in his face. Small or otherwise,you wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of whatever might happen next.
    Corbett hadn’t moved. He was back with Monday night. Davidson had got to Marie’s place around half eight, nine. What happened next?
    ‘We drank two bottles of wine.’ Davidson was still seething.
    ‘And then what?’
    ‘We fucked on the sofa.’
    ‘How long?’
    ‘Hours, man. Longer than you’d ever dream about.’
    ‘So when did you leave the house?’
    ‘Next day. Yesterday.’
    ‘And drove up here?’
    ‘Yeah … taking our time, though. You familiar with that road at all, that A3? All them woods around Hindhead? Sweetest fuck imaginable. Just us and the skylarks.’
    Yates turned away. Davidson was taking the piss now. Any more of this line of questioning and they’d be selling the film rights. There was a movement in the hall. Davidson’s eyes went at once to the kitchen. A woman in her thirties was standing by the open door, staring down at them. She was tall and pale, with a fall of jet-black hair. The dressing gown probably belonged to Davidson because it barely reached her knees.
    Barefoot, she stepped down into the conservatory. She was looking at Davidson.
    ‘I heard voices. What’s going on?’
    ‘The Filth.’ Davidson waved a hand. ‘Never fucking know when to stop.’
    Corbett had his warrant card out. He hadn’t bothered to get up.
    ‘Marie?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘What’s your second name, love?’
    Yates winced. She very obviously took exception to thequestion, especially the way Corbett called her ‘love’. This was a woman used to taking classes, used to standing up in front of rooms full of hardened criminals. She most definitely didn’t respond to ‘love’.
    ‘My name’s Elliott,’ she said at last. ‘Marie Elliott.’
    ‘And you’re with … ?’ Corbett nodded towards Davidson.
    ‘His name’s Ainsley.’
    ‘Where were you on Monday night? Do you mind me asking?’
    ‘Not at all. Ask away.’
    ‘I just did.’
    ‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘I was at home in Portsmouth. Eastney, actually. Adair Road. Number 101.’
    ‘Anyone with you?’
    ‘Yes, Ainsley.’ She didn’t, for one second, take her eyes off Corbett.
    ‘Between when and when?’
    ‘Dunno.’ She frowned, trying to remember. ‘Mid-evening? Eight maybe? Then right through to next morning.’
    ‘Anyone else in the house?’
    ‘I live alone.’
    ‘No one I can talk to, then?’
    ‘No, except me. What is this?’
    Corbett didn’t answer. He was good at masking his emotions but Yates detected the merest hint of disappointment in his face. He’d expected, at the very least, the odd dropped stitch. Instead, this woman was the model of composure.
    ‘We’re investigating a suspicious death,’ he said slowly. ‘Someone you may well know.’
    ‘Really? Who might that be?’
    ‘Sean Coughlin.’
    ‘
Coughlin?
From the prison?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘And you’re telling me he’s dead?’ She looked at Davidson.
    Davidson grinned back, raising a thumb.
    ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘and you know what? These guys think I kicked him to death. Can you believe that? Get myself hooked up with all this shit again?’ He shook his head. ‘Why would I ever do that?’
    The first of the
Merriott
management meetings lasted nearly an hour. Faraday chaired it in Willard’s office, seating his core team around the long conference table.
    After Faraday’s brief