‘That’s fucking mine,’ Sangster yelled. ‘I was the one who told him.’
‘Told him what?’
‘Told him about Bazza’s little fucking nest egg.’
Now, draining the last of the coffee, Winter was still brooding on
this latest development. The last couple of years had taught him never to expect the whole story from Bazza. The key to his
world was power, keeping the upper hand, and the currency he dealt in was information. He gave it to you in tiny parcels,
carefully weighed, forever keeping the tally in his head. Who knew what. Who’d said what to whom. Who owed him. Who didn’t.
Winter, who’d always had a very similar MO, had been amused at first. It had felt like a game, and there’d been days when
he’d definitely stolen an advantage or two. But lately, this last year especially, he’d begun to tire of watching his back,
of interpreting and reinterpreting the most casual asides, of studying the man’s body language for clues to the real story.
Wearing a blindfold, as he’d once told Bazza, does nothing for your sense of humour nor for your self-respect. And so here
he was, stumbling around in the dark again while his boss laid plans to take over the whole fucking city.
Was it really worth it? Sweeping up after a bloke who simply refused to establish any sensible ground rules? Who vested so
much faith in his own judgement? Who appeared to believe that no Pompey door could resist the weight of his shoulder?
In truth, he didn’t know. He’d got used to the money and the lifestyle, and in the shape of Marie and maybe even Stu Norcliffe
he’d found real friendship. But all of us, he told himself, are tiny whirling fragments in the teeming chaos of Bazza’s busy
little brain, and there was something slightly Roman in the realisation that he might face the downturned thumb at any moment.
The prospect of that kind of endgame, the pitted brick wall at the end of the cul-de-sac, was beginning to haunt him. If not
Bazza, he thought, then someone else might be in charge of the firing squad. Maybe Willard. Maybe Faraday. Maybe, God help
him, Jimmy Suttle.
He glanced at his watch, then fumbled for the remote. At moments like these, bleakly introspective, he always sought comfort
in the TV news. He switched on the set, waiting through the final moments of
Bargain Hunt.
Then came the bulletin. Lloyds Bank was trying to fight off seizure by the government. Business leaders were warning about
a surge in unemployment. Winter emptied his cup, wondering whether anything remotely interesting had made the local segment
at the end. Then, without warning, he was staring at a photograph of Johnny Holman. He looked years younger, exactly the way
Winter remembered him from his CID days. The newscaster was reminding viewers about the recent tragedy on the Isle of Wight.
Four bodies had been recovered from a burned-out farmhouse and police were keen to trace the grinning pockmarked owner, who
appeared to have gone inexplicably missing.
Winter hit the mute button. Johnny Holman. Alive and kicking. He tasted betrayal. He felt physically sick. Suttle, he told
himself, must have known all along.
Lou Sadler had a fourth-floor apartment on the seafront in Cowes. The curtains were drawn across the biggest of the windows
at the front and on the entryphone beside the communal front door there was no name listed beside Flat 8.
Suttle buzzed for a third time, enjoying the thin sunshine after all the rain. According to the D/S on the Vice Squad, Sadler
drove a scarlet Renault Megane convertible with leopardskin covers on the seats. Suttle had already checked the parking lot
to the rear of the building. The Megane was occupying a space in the corner. Unusually for a cabriolet, it had been fitted
with a tow bar.
‘Yeah?’ A woman’s voice, drowsy.
Suttle introduced himself. He was a police officer. He and his colleague would appreciate a conversation in relation to a
recent incident on the island.
‘What kind of incident?’
Suttle wasn’t prepared to go into details. The door buzzed open. There was no lift.
Concrete steps led up, two flights per floor. The carpet had seen better days but there were some nicely framed photos on
the walls. Heeling yachts under full sail during Cowes Week. A dramatic sunset flooding the Solent in gauzy yellows and golds.
Sadler was waiting for them at the top, barefoot on the landing, her arms folded over the front of the navy-blue dressing
gown. She was a big woman with a strong face and a tumble of auburn curls. She wore a thick gold bangle on one wrist and sported
a huge ruby ring on her other hand. Her fingernails were the same colour as the Megane.
She looked at Suttle’s warrant card, then nodded at the open door and followed them into the apartment. Patsy Lowe was still
catching her breath. Suttle paused outside the kitchen. Among the clutter in the sink was an upturned bottle of Moët. In the
hall a thin blue plume of scent curled up from a fresh joss stick stuck in a flowerpot. The
flowerpot was home to an extravagant fern, and the blaze of sunshine from the living room at the end of the hall threw frond
shadows across the parquet floor. Sadler must have pulled the curtains while they were making their way up, Suttle thought,
wondering who else might be in the apartment.
Sadler led them through to the living room. It was bigger than Suttle had somehow expected, the decor spare, almost Japanese.
Carefully plastered white walls. Occasional rugs on the polished maplewood floor. From the big picture window, the curve of
the promenade framed a view he recognised from one of the photos in the stairwell. A line of dinghies bobbing on the tide
at their moorings. The low swell of the mainland beyond.
Suttle and Lowe took a seat on the black leather sofa. Sadler, still standing, wanted to know exactly what they were after.
Suttle briefly explained about the fire at Monkswell Farm. It was his understanding that Sadler knew Johnny Holman.
‘That’s right.’ She nodded. ‘I did.’
‘Did?’
‘He’s dead – isn’t that what I heard? The fire you just mentioned?’
‘No.’ Suttle explained about the post-mortem findings. Johnny Holman, as far as they knew, was very much alive.
‘So you guys need to find him, is that it?’
‘Of course.’
She nodded. The news that Holman had survived the fire didn’t appear to spark any reaction.
‘You were friends with Holman?’
‘I knew him.’
‘Well?’
‘We did business.’
‘What kind of business?’
Sadler looked from one face to the other. She seemed irritated. She’d obviously been in bed. She carried a strong smell of
recent sex.
‘Should I phone for a lawyer? I mean, is this official or what?’
‘It’s a conversation,’ Suttle said. ‘Four people died in that fire. We need to know more about Holman. We need to talk to
his associates, to people who knew him. You can call it background if you like. Anything you know about Mr Holman would be
helpful.’
‘But you know what I do for a living, right?’
‘We know that you run an escort agency. Is that relevant?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s what I did for Johnny. He wanted company from time to time. I made that happen.’
‘Company?’
‘Girls. Women.’
‘He bought them?’
‘He paid my fees. It’s all legal, invoiced, receipted. I’m a business-woman, not whatever else you’re thinking.’
Suttle scribbled himself a note, aware of Sadler watching him. The Vice Squad D/S had been sure that Holman was on a freebie.
Not, it seemed, true.
‘Was it always the same woman? The same girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘
Why?
’ The laugh was derisive. ‘Because he fancied her, I imagine. Because they got on. Don’t ask me what they did because I don’t
know. All I ever care about is that my girls get treated nicely and everyone has a fun time. Whatever else happens is their
affair. Does that sound illegal?’
‘Not in the least. Did I suggest it was?’
‘No, but— Forget it.’ She checked a watch she’d produced from the pocket of the dressing gown. It was a man’s watch, heavy,
a Rolex. ‘Is that it? Only I have to be on the road by half one.’
Suttle shook his head. He wanted a name and contact details for the girl Holman had been seeing.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’ The girl, she explained, had gone home to Estonia. Her name was Kaija. It was unlikely
she’d be back.
‘Why?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe she’s made enough money. Maybe there’s someone else in her life. A girl does what she has to do. That’s
fine by me.’
Suttle asked about the spelling of the name and wrote it down. Kaija.
‘Surname?’
‘Luik. It means swan.’
She helped with the spelling again.
‘And is that her real name?’
‘As far as I know –’ she shrugged ‘– yes.’
‘But you’d have seen her passport, surely?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’
‘What about an address?’
‘In Estonia?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘So how did you contact her in the first place?’
‘She came to me. I run a successful business. It’s called word of mouth.’
‘Do you run the business from here? Or do you have premises somewhere else?’
‘Here.’
‘And you really don’t have a home address for the girl?’
She looked down at Suttle for a long moment, then shook her head.
‘You guys kill me. Have you any idea what it’s like to make a living? Try and keep your head above water? OK, so here’s a
little secret. These days business has never been tougher. Never. And all this stuff isn’t making it any easier.’
‘Four people died,’ Suttle said again. ‘In my business that’s not insignificant.’
‘I’m sure.’ The watch again. ‘But if you’ll excuse me …’
She waited for Suttle to get up. He didn’t move.
‘We need you to account for your movements on Saturday night,’ he said.
‘Now?’
‘Yes, please. Unless you’ve forgotten.’
‘Can I say no?’
‘Of course.’
‘And then what?’
‘I arrest you and we continue the conversation at the police station.’
‘Arrest me for what?’
‘Obstructing the course of justice.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Try me.’
‘OK.’ She frowned. ‘Saturday night I was over at a get-together in Southampton. It was a fund-raising thing. For a Down’s
syndrome charity. I got the late hydrofoil back and then I went to bed.’
She gave Suttle the details of the function. A hotel on the outskirts of Southampton. The name of the woman who’d organised
the whole thing. She hadn’t got a number but she knew the woman’s address.
‘She’s in the book. Give her a ring. Send a copper round. She loves men in uniform.’
Suttle ignored the dig. He wanted to know where Kaija Luik had been living on the Isle of Wight.
‘Why?’
‘Because we need to make enquiries.’
‘About Johnny?’
‘Yes.’
Sadler shrugged, then left the room. Suttle heard a door open down the hall and there came the low murmur of conversation.
A man’s
voice, indistinct. Minutes later Sadler was back beside the sofa. She’d scribbled down an address. It was in Cowes.
‘You’ve got a phone number for Kaija? Email?’
‘No.’
‘No mobile number?’
‘No.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘That’s your choice.’ She shrugged.
‘So when did she go? Kaija?’
‘The weekend, I think. Sunday maybe.’
‘Which airline?’
‘No idea. She might have gone by coach. She made her own arrangements.’
Suttle turned to the Cowes address. 13a Darcy Road.
‘What was the set-up there?’
‘It’s a flat.’
‘Was she sharing it? Was there someone else there?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’m not her keeper.’
‘Really?’
Suttle held her gaze for a second or two.
‘These girls advertise on the Web, am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll have a photo then. Bound to.’
‘Of course.’
‘May we have a copy?’
‘Of course.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll have to talk to the bloke who does the website. He took her entry down, but he’ll still have
the file. He’s away just now but should be back any day. Is that OK?’
‘Sure. Sooner the better though, eh?’
Suttle got to his feet. He thanked Sadler for her time and gave her a card with contact details. She could send Kaija’s photo
by email.
Sadler barely glanced at the card. Suttle stepped towards the front door. On the right was a bathroom. The door next to the
bathroom was shut.
Suttle paused outside it. Then turned back to Sadler.
‘One last question …’
‘Go on.’
‘Why did you bother answering the entryphone?’
‘I thought you were someone else.’ She smiled at last. ‘Got that wrong, didn’t I?’
According to Marie, Bazza was planning to spend the afternoon at the house. He had a speech he needed to sort out for a function
in
the evening. The local Rotarians, intrigued by what they’d read in the
Guardian
, had invited him at short notice after their scheduled speaker had gone down with flu.
Winter drove across to the house. Mackenzie had yet to return from the hotel but Stu Norcliffe was in the kitchen, talking
to Marie. Winter had a key. When he appeared at the kitchen door, Marie told Stu to go through the story again.
‘Remember Kieron O’Dwyer?’ Winter nodded. How could he forget? ‘I just got a call from Henrik. The boy’s in hospital. Double
fracture of the jaw. Here and here.’ Stu tapped both sides of his face. ‘Apparently the lad’s in a bit of a state. He’s had
one operation already to wire the jaw up. He’s due another one this afternoon.’
‘No point asking how it happened, I suppose?’
‘None. He’s not saying a word.’
‘I’m not surprised, in that state. How about a bit of paper and a pencil? Nothing complicated. Just the easy words.’
Marie wasn’t amused. According to Stu, it would be weeks before the lad could even eat properly.
‘So, are we sorry for young Kieron?’ Winter was frowning. ‘He’s aggression on a stick, that boy. Sooner or later someone was
bound to give him a slapping. Eh, Stu?’
‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Kieron lives with his auntie. She came back last night to find him semi-conscious on the living-room floor. According to
the guy who did the first operation, there were no other facial injuries. Just the two blows to the jaw. Bang bang. He thinks
that’s unusual.’
Winter nodded. Stu was right. Most fights serious enough to put a bloke in hospital were hopelessly messy, one drunk flailing
at another, blood everywhere. This one sounded very different. The application of carefully measured violence. Precise, almost
clinical.
‘So what are we saying? You think Baz had anything to do with it?’
‘Baz?’ Stu looked shocked.
‘You told me he was after the boy’s address. I don’t suppose he sent him a letter.’
‘You’re telling me …?’
‘No, Stu, I’m just asking, that’s all.’ He turned to put the same question to Marie but she’d left the room.
Mackenzie returned shortly afterwards. A call from Leo Kinder had put him on standby for a
Newsnight
interview. They had a TV crew in the area and might have time to pay a visit before returning to London. According to Kinder,
this could be the breakthrough.
‘Again?’ Winter followed him into the den. He hadn’t prepared a
speech, he wasn’t even angry. All he wanted to know was where he stood.
‘I’m not with you, mush.’
Mackenzie was scrolling through his emails. One caught his eye.
‘Listen to this,’ he said gleefully. ‘
Couldn’t believe all that bollox about discipline and respect and cleaning up Pompey. Is this the same Bazza gave me a toeing
back of Waterloo? That day we pissed all over you lot at the Den?
’
He looked up. ‘Remember Fergal?’
‘No, Baz.’
‘Millwall face. Hard as you like. Really good bloke. What the fuck’s he doing reading the
Guardian
?’
‘I don’t know, Baz. Mail him back. Ask him.’
Too late. Bazza’s fingers were already moving over the keyboard. Then he stopped, peering at the screen again.
‘Here,’ he said, gesturing Winter closer. ‘Look at this.’
‘Look at what, Baz?’
‘This – here.
Cleaning up Pompey.
C-U-P. Geddit?’
Winter was lost. He had no idea where Mackenzie was going next and in truth he wasn’t very interested.
Bazza was already reaching for the phone. For Winter’s benefit, he hit the hands-free button. The call answered on the second
ring.
‘Baz?’ Kinder, Winter thought. Responding like a puppy to his master’s voice.
Mackenzie was telling him about the email, and about the phrase buried in the middle. C-U-P. Cleaning up Pompey.
‘That’s it, Leo. That’s the one. That’s what we’ve been looking for. A badge, a moniker, a handle.
Are you up for the Cup?
Maybe a poster like those famous ones in the First World War. The guy with the mustache. The guy that wanted you to sign
up.’