‘And there’s something wrong with all that?’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled at her. ‘Unless you’re a banker.’
To his certain knowledge, he said, a CD had been acquired from a back office in the House of Commons which contained details
of MPs’ expenses. The bankers had footed the bill for the CD and were now trying to figure out the best way of making this
stuff public.
‘Getting your revenge in first?’ It was Bazza.
‘Exactly. These guys are bright. They didn’t get rich by accident. They eat politicians for breakfast.’
Selina wanted to know what was on the CD. Kinder shrugged. He’d seen some extracts, bait to tempt the major broadsheets, and
by bankers’ standards the sums were pathetic. But that wasn’t the point. The Brits loved being outraged. Few people ever bothered
with the small print, and it would be child’s play to tar every MP with the same brush. Evil grasping bastards. Every last
one of them.
Selina was intrigued. She, like everyone else in the room, had never heard of this impending media storm.
‘So when is this going to happen?’
‘Give it a couple of months or so. Whichever paper does the deal will need to be lawyered up. And believe me, lawyers take
their time.’
There was laughter around the table. Kinder himself was a lawyer. Lizzie Hodson had said so.
‘OK.’ There was a hint of admiration in Selina’s grin. ‘So all politicians are doomed. And about bloody time. But where does
that leave our candidate? What do you stand for, Baz? Where are you going to take us all?’
It was a big question, and Winter knew it was far too late in the evening for Mackenzie to tussle with the mighty issues of
the day. Whatever thoughts he had about Afghanistan, global credit flows, the EU, climate change or even – God help him –
local government remained a total mystery. But that wasn’t the point. What mattered, he said, was this town of theirs.
Pompey was in danger of becoming a disgrace. There were people out there, he said, I wouldn’t even wipe my arse on. People
with no sense of history, of civic pride, of what it really meant to be living in one of the UK’s greatest cities. These were
people who did fuck all except keep their heads down and their noses clean, and feather their own nests. To them Fratton Park
was a bit of grass and a bunch of tulips, somewhere to walk their fucking dog. They’d given up on armies of students running
riot, and litter all over the fucking street, and the council spending squillions of quid on poncy art installations. The
place needed a shake, he said, and he’d be only to happy to oblige. Then would come a dose or two of the old medicine, pick-me-ups
that his own mum and dad would recognise. Proper care for the old folk. An open-doors programme for Pompey’s heritage. Lots
of money into sport. New stadium for the football club. And a bit of serious discipline in the classroom.
Selina appeared spellbound. When Mackenzie came to a halt she mimed a silent round of applause. At first Winter assumed this
was
ironic, that she was taking the piss, but watching her he decided that she probably meant it. This is someone, he thought,
who loves grabbing the inside track. She’s heard about Bazza. She knows exactly where the money’s come from. She gets a little
jolt of excitement from an evening with Pompey’s favourite gangster. And now it occurs to her that Bad Bazza might be serious
and that – far more importantly – this crazy thing might just work.
The evening broke up shortly afterwards. These were busy people. After tomorrow’s 6 a.m. session at the gym there’d doubtless
be more meetings, more flesh to press, more networking. Marie saw them both to the door. Bazza told them to look out for themselves.
Then he grabbed the bottle of Remy and towed Winter into the den.
‘Face like thunder, mush. What’s the problem?’
Winter didn’t answer. The poster on the wall was new: Tony Adams and the first team posing in front of the Fratton End. Adams
was Pompey’s ex-manager. Someone, presumably Bazza, had obliterated his face with a red Pentel.
‘What does SB mean?’
‘Sad bastard. A squillion straight games without a win. A rock round our necks would have been cheaper.’ He offered the Remy.
‘You gonna give me grief or what?’
Winter declined more brandy. ‘Who’s Selina?’ he said.
‘Selina Price. Finger in every fucking pie you can name. Nothing moves in this city without the nod from her. Awesome woman.
So what’s the problem, mush? You’re not talking to me.’
‘I went to the island, did some poking around, just like you wanted.’
‘Yeah?’ Mackenzie looked genuinely surprised. Maybe he’s forgotten, Winter thought. Maybe all these political fantasies have
gone to his head.
‘Johnny Holman?’ Winter said. ‘That farm of his?’
‘Yeah, yeah … and?’
‘I was right. The Old Bill are crawling all over it. MCT are involved as well.’
‘MCT?’
‘Major Crime Team.’
‘So what have they found?’
‘I don’t know, Baz. What do you think they’ve found?’
The balloon of Remy was halfway to Mackenzie’s mouth. It stopped. At last Winter sensed he had the man’s full attention.
‘What sort of fucking question is that, mush?’
‘I don’t know, Baz. You tell me to get my arse over there. You tell me to knock up the odd contact or two. But like always
you don’t tell me why.’
‘Why
?
’ Mackenzie put the glass down. ‘
Why?
Johnny Holman was a mate of mine in case I never mentioned it. Mates in this town are important. In fact this town
is
fucking mates. The guy’s been all over the place these last few years. Made a fucking spectacle of himself, poor bastard.
In those situations you help out. Who do you think kept them going when the money ran out? Who bunged Julie a grand or two
from time to time so she could keep Johnny in beers? Who got them all out to Spain for a fortnight in one of the apartments?
Me, mush. And why? Because the guy was a mate. And now he’s gone.’
‘So you’ve been in touch with him recently? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Yeah. Absolutely. You want a date? I haven’t a clue. But where I come from, getting in touch is what you do. You have a problem
with that?’
Winter shook his head. He was thinking of Jimmy Suttle. Not a wind-up after all.
‘So what did you sort out over there?’ Bazza still hadn’t touched the Remy.
‘Not a great deal. I talked to the lad Suttle.’ Bazza knew Suttle from way back.
‘And?’
‘He’s driving the intelligence cell.’
‘What does that mean in English?’
‘It means it’s his job to try and work out why anyone would want to burn Holman’s house down.’
‘And?’
‘They’re thinking intruders. Someone after something. Or maybe someone settling a debt. Either way Suttle gets to start looking
hard at Holman’s associates.’
‘I bet.’
‘That includes you, Baz.’
‘Us, mush.’
‘So …’ Winter shrugged ‘… are we clean on this one? Nothing to hide? Only now’s the time, Baz.’
‘Yeah?’ He tipped his head back. ‘You know something, mush? There are cunts in this city, straight cunts, who just love people
like us. Them two clowns tonight couldn’t wait to come round here for dinner. And you know why? Because we’re bad. Because
we broke the rules. Because we made lots and lots of moolah and didn’t do what Johnny did, didn’t piss it up against the wall.
That makes us a bit special, a bit exciting. Weird, isn’t it?’
Winter nodded. He’d been right about Selina Price.
‘You’re not answering the question, Baz. Just tell me you didn’t do anything silly with Johnny Holman.’
‘What does Suttle think?’
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I think what I always think. I think what I thought this morning. I think it’s time to go out and talk to a few people.’
‘Like Suttle?’
‘Yeah. And one or two others.’
‘Like who?’
‘Like Colin Leyman, for starters.’
‘Fattie Leyman? The guy’s mental. He never got out of nappies. What the fuck are you doing talking to Leyman?’
‘Because he’s still in touch with the odd face or two.’
‘But what’s the point? The bloke’s a dimlo. He should be in a home.’
‘Sure, Baz. And that’s why they’ll tell him things. Because they think he’ll never understand. Because they’d think it’ll
never go any further.’
‘And are they right?’
‘Of course they’re not. Leyman’s a lot brighter than you lot ever gave him credit for. You think I’d waste my time otherwise?’
‘No, mush, I’m sure you wouldn’t.’ Baz was frowning now. ‘So what did you ask him? What’s he out there looking for?’
‘Anything that could explain why someone burned Johnny Holman’s house down. We used to call it motive in the Job.’
‘And?’
‘He left me a message. Says he’s got something for me.’ Winter consulted his watch, then got to his feet. ‘Wish me luck, Baz.
I’m round there first thing.’
Faraday was back at the Ryde hotel in time to join Jimmy Suttle for breakfast. After four hours’ sleep, the world was slipping
out of focus.
‘How was Winter?’ He smothered a yawn.
‘Strange. Off the pace. To tell you the truth, boss, I expected better.’ Suttle offered Faraday the bones of their brief encounter.
Winter, he said, had wanted chapter and verse on
Gosling
and had been all too easy to rebuff.
‘You think he’s getting old?’ Faraday ducked his head, gave his eyes a squeeze. ‘You think he’s losing it?’
‘Dunno, boss. You’re about his age. I expect it can get a bit tricky sometimes.’ He sawed through a rasher of fatty bacon.
‘Do you have a view on that?’
Faraday knew exactly what he was saying. They were up to their necks in an inquiry that demanded total concentration and there
were plainly limits to the slack he was prepared to cut his boss. Faraday shot Suttle a look. Back off.
‘I had Parsons on just now,’ Faraday said. ‘She wants to put Winter under obs.’
‘That has to be Willard.’
‘Exactly my feeling.’
‘Is she going to action it?’
‘As far as I know. She’s still excited about the hole behind Holman’s place. On the assumption that something is missing,
she thinks that same something might belong to Mackenzie.’
‘So he burned the house down? Is that how it goes?’
‘I don’t think she’s got that far yet. But now Winter’s in the equation, she seems to think it changes everything.’
Faraday helped himself to a slice of cold toast. Both Parsons and Willard dearly wanted to put Mackenzie away. For years he’d
been flaunting his wealth, trailing his matador’s cape across the bullring that was Pompey, and putting Winter on the payroll
had for Willard
been the last straw. Mackenzie had always been careful to protect himself and his interests. In this sense, Winter was simply
another layer of body armour, making Mackenzie even less vulnerable. Unless. Unless.
‘So what do you really think?’ Faraday had abandoned the toast.
‘About Winter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think he’s starting to get tired of the game.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Yes.’ Suttle nodded. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but I think he’s starting to ask himself whether Bazza
Mackenzie was such a great idea.’
Winter was back at Colin Leyman’s before the milkman called. This early-morning stuff is becoming a habit, he thought. He
rang again, then a third time. It was freezing cold, an icy wind blowing in from the sea, and he could hear a radio on inside.
At length, stepping away from the house, he caught sight of Leyman peering down at him from an upstairs window. Winter tapped
his watch and raised an eyebrow. Time’s moving on. Let me fucking in.
Leyman, when he finally made it to the front door, wouldn’t look him in the eye. He said he wasn’t very well. It might be
infectious. His mum was due any minute. Best to call round some other time.
‘Your mum’s dead, Col. Don’t be a twat.’
Winter stepped into the house, trying to encourage Leyman’s bulk towards the kitchen. It wasn’t in the man to resist. Never
had been.
‘Tea please, son. And toast would be nice.’
Leyman had the sulks now. Bazza had been right: the man was a child. Winter waited to see whether he’d put the kettle on,
then did it himself. Leyman was farting fit to bust. Nervous. Good sign.
‘So what have you got for me, Col?’
‘No way.’ He shook his huge head. ‘I can’t, Mr W.’
‘
Can’t?
How does that work? Last time I checked my mobile you’d sent me a text:
Got something for you, Mr W.
So …’ Winter shot him a matey grin ‘… what is it?’
‘I was wrong.’
‘Wrong how?’
‘To send the text. I never meant it. It never happened. Oh fuck.’ He had his head in his hands. His shoulders were heaving.
‘Why don’t you just leave me alone?’
Winter made the tea. He found half a loaf of Hovis and some other bits and pieces in the fridge. The toaster was on the windowsill.
‘Jam or Marmite, old son?’
Leyman was still crying. Marmite, Winter thought. Finally, the head came up.
‘That won’t help at all, you being nice. You were always nice, Mr W. I liked you for that.’
‘And now?’
‘Now’s no different. It’s just that I … you know … just can’t.’
Winter held the plate out, told him to take it, spooned four sugars into a mug of tea. Guessing what had happened here wasn’t
difficult.
‘Someone’s been onto you, haven’t they?’
‘Who?’ His eyes were wide. He looked terrified. He sucked gratefully at the tea.
Winter let him take a mouthful or two before leaning forward, intimate, confidential, keen to help.
‘Who do you think, Col?’
‘I … dunno, Mr W.’
‘Think, son.’
‘I can’t. I … Shit, I hate this.’ He started to cry again.
‘It was Mr Mackenzie, wasn’t it? It was my boss. He’s given you a ring, probably last night, and told you to keep your mouth
shut.’ He reached for his own tea. ‘Am I right, Col?’
Leyman blew his nose on a dishcloth. He didn’t want to hear any of this. He wanted Winter out of his house, out of his life.
He wanted to be back in the front room doing something safe. Like organising the slaughter of umpteen thousand Frenchmen.
‘I can’t say, Mr W.’
‘You don’t have to, Col. Because it’s all changed again. And that means it’s all going to be OK.’
‘Changed how?’
‘I saw Mr Mackenzie this morning. He said not to worry.’
‘Not to worry how?’
‘He meant it was OK to tell me. Something’s happened. Things have changed.’
‘Really?’ Relief flooded into his face. For a moment Winter thought he was going to get a kiss.
‘No problem, son.’ Winter patted his knee. ‘Just tell me what you were going to tell me. Then you get to keep the hundred
quid and I’ll fuck off. How’s that?’
‘It’s not the money, Mr W.’
‘Of course it’s not.’
‘I’d have done it without the money. For you, I mean.’
‘Fine, so what happened?’
Leyman turned his head aside, his brow furrowed, his eyes closed again.
‘First I went to the place you and me used to go.’ He named a pub in Albert Road. ‘Frankie was there. Frankie’s always there.
He wanted to know where I got the money but I never told him. We had a couple of drinks then went round to Kev’s place.’
‘Kev Sangster?’
‘Yeah.’
Winter nodded. Frankie Drew and Kev Sangster had been hard-core members of the 6.57, both mates of Mackenzie. Winter hadn’t
seen them for years.
‘And?’
‘We phoned for a takeout. A Chinky.’
‘And?’
‘I told them about Waterloo. The charge of the Household Brigade. Said they were welcome any time, you know, like you do.’
‘And?’
‘Then I asked about Johnny. Like you wanted.’
At first, he said, they hadn’t given much away, but Frankie had made him stop at the offie in Albert Road for a couple of
bottles of vodka and some lagers, and pretty soon they were talking about Johnny again.
‘And what did they tell you? About Johnny?’
‘They said Mr M had been good to him, looked after him, given him money.’
‘And what else?’
‘They said Mr M never did anything for nothing.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Johnny did something in return, looked after something.’ Leyman’s eyes were wide. He desperately wanted Winter to be pleased.
‘Two million quid’s worth of cocaine? Tucked away for a rainy day?’ He blinked. ‘Does that sound about right?’
Confirmation on the ID of the fourth body got to Faraday shortly before ten o’clock. Pembury was on the phone with a perfect
match against Robbie Difford’s dental records. Unless a fifth body was to be found in the remains of Monkswell Farm – increasingly
unlikely – then Johnny Holman was still alive.
‘We obviously need to find him, Joe.’ Faraday had contacted Parsons with the news. ‘Will you talk to the media or shall I?’
Faraday assigned the task to a D/C in the incident room. An old passport of Holman’s had been recovered from the office in
the barn, and although the photo showed a younger man, Faraday was prepared to run with it. Calls to local press and TV outlets
secured a
promise to broadcast the mugshot, which was scanned and emailed within minutes.
Faraday summoned Suttle to his office and told him about the positive ID.
‘Difford’s car,’ Suttle said at once. ‘Holman must have taken it.’
Faraday nodded. He was numb with fatigue. He should have thought of this already. Why did it take Suttle to prompt him towards
something so obvious?
‘Circulate the details,’ he muttered. ‘Flag the bugger up.’ Within the hour, force-wide, uniforms and CID would find themselves
looking at the latest twist in
Gosling
’s brief history. Breaking news for busy coppers.
Suttle made for the door but then turned back.
‘I hate to say this, boss …’ he began.
‘I know, I know.’ Faraday held his hands up, an involuntary gesture of surrender.
‘You want to talk about it?’
Faraday stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’
‘Wait here. Give me five.’
Faraday had no memory of waiting. For once the phone didn’t ring. Then Suttle was back again. He’d organised the heads-up
on the Corsa. He looked, if anything, stern.
‘We have to box this off, boss.’
‘What?’
‘You. Whatever it is. People are talking already. Even Parsons’ll notice in the end.’
‘What are they saying – as a matter of interest?’
‘Most of them know you had an accident. The guys with half a brain think you maybe came back too soon.’
‘And the others?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
Faraday nodded. He’d never bothered much with canteen gossip but knew that certain things never changed. If you reached the
giddy heights of D/I then you were always in line for a kicking.
‘So?’ Suttle had sat down.
Faraday shook his head. This was the timeline from hell. He literally didn’t know where to start.
‘I went through the windscreen,’ he said.
‘You
what
?’
‘Had a crash. Hit a tree. I was asleep at the time.’
‘And everyone else?’
‘The driver died. Guy called Hanif. Sweetest man—’ Faraday broke off, stared at the wall.
‘So why …?’ Suttle brought him back, touching his own face.
‘Why no scars? I had a baseball cap pulled down over my face to help me sleep. It must have …’ He shrugged, lost for words.
‘So you remember nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘And Gabrielle? She was there too?’
‘In the back.’
‘And?’
‘You tell me.’
‘But she’s OK?’
‘She’s back.’
‘In one piece?’
Faraday stared at him, realising that he didn’t know the answer. Then he shut his eyes, hearing a voice telling Suttle exactly
the way it had been: coming round in hospital, trying to piece his life back together, trying to let his body heal itself,
aware all the time that something profound seemed to have happened. Not simply a roadside tree. Not simply the body of the
driver slumped beside his. But another bend in the road – sharper, altogether more alarming.
‘I’ve lost track, Jimmy. I’ve lost faith, focus, whatever else you need to get through. I wish I could make a better job of
describing it but I can’t. Nothing seems to matter. This … me … whatever. I wake up in the morning and there’s just
nothing. I’ve still got the directions somewhere but I don’t give a shit any more. And you know what happened last night?’
‘You went to bed early. Sane man.’
‘I drove to Salisbury. Gabrielle’s living in some godforsaken B & B. She’s brought a little girl back from Gaza.’
He explained about Leila in the Burns Unit, about the white phosphorus, and about Gabrielle, incandescent with anger.
‘It’s changed her, Jimmy. Me? It’s probably the accident. Gabrielle? It’s the little girl. This is pretty tricky stuff, but
you know what? It gets worse.’
‘How? Why?’
‘She wants to adopt. And to make that easier she thinks we ought to get married.’
‘Right …’ Suttle nodded. ‘And is that a bad thing?’
The question appeared to take Faraday by surprise. He stared at Suttle for a long moment, began to voice a thought, frame
an answer, had second thoughts.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe that’s the problem. That I don’t know.’
‘Do you still love her?’
‘I love us. I love what we were.’
‘And now?’
He shook his head, his lips shaping the same unvoiced thought, the man trapped underwater, his last lungful of air slowly
leaking away.
I don’t know
.
They studied each other for a long moment. Then came a knock at the door. It was D/C Patsy Lowe. Suttle had asked her earlier
to accompany him to Cowes. They had to take a look at Lou Sadler, the madam who ran the escort agency. Was Suttle still up
for it?
Suttle glanced at Faraday. Faraday was staring into space. He waved a hand in dismissal.
‘Off you go,’ he muttered vaguely.
Winter was back at his apartment in Gunwharf by midday. He made himself a coffee and settled on the sofa, aware of the rain
blowing in from the harbour. He’d been to see both Frankie Drew and Kevin Sangster. At both addresses he’d had to wait for
ever to get them out of bed.
Drew occupied a squalid basement flat in one of the streets to the north of Albert Road. Semi-naked, he’d picked his way through
the litter of empty bottles strewn over his living-room carpet, complaining bitterly about the students upstairs. They get
pissed all the time, he said, and play shit music. When Winter asked him about Johnny Holman, he said he couldn’t remember
a thing. When Winter pushed him harder, he told him to fuck off.
Kevin Sangster, if anything, was in a worse state. He shared a flat with a Filipina of uncertain age. Either he or his lady
friend had a gastric problem because the place stank of vomit. This time Winter wanted to know about the money. According
to Leyman, Sangster had nicked the rest of the hundred quid. He’d said it without any rancour, as if the money had really
been Sangster’s all along, but Winter wasn’t having it. He’d calculated the Chinky and the booze at around fifty quid, and
when he spotted two twenty-pound notes tucked beneath an ashtray, he’d helped himself. Sangster saw him do it, demanded the
money back. It was Winter this time who told him to fuck off, an invitation which sparked the information he was after.