He showed his workings to Stanley. She shook her head.
‘At source we have to assume this stuff’s reasonably pure. We also have to assume this is a wholesale consignment. Whoever
buys it down the line will step on it.’ She nodded at the calculator. ‘You should double that.’
Faraday nodded, put a line through his arithmetic, told her she was right. Sleep, he told himself. I need sleep. Two and a
half million quid’s worth of cocaine. Easily the price of four bodies.
‘So you think that rules out Holman killing all four of them? You think we might be back to someone taking the cocaine off
his hands?’
‘Not at all. God knows what happened on the night. I certainly don’t.’
Faraday smiled. For an ex-student of theology, it was a neat conclusion. He wondered about the possibility of another curry,
decided against it. Meg Stanley would be less than impressed if he dozed off on her.
Stanley had reached for her briefcase, balancing it on her knees. Faraday had noticed her legs in the restaurant – slender,
beautifully muscled.
‘Do you mind if I ask something personal?’ She inched her skirt a little lower.
‘Not at all.’
‘Is there something the matter?’
‘In what sense?’
‘I don’t know. I was thinking about what you said in the restaurant the other night. Or strictly speaking what you
didn’t
say.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘OK.’ She looked at him for a moment, her face pinking with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. That was out of order.’
She got up, muttered something Faraday didn’t catch and left the office. Faraday gazed at the door as she gently closed it
behind her.
Out of order?
He shook his head, reached for her report, slipped it into his briefcase. Bedtime reading, he thought. Can’t wait.
He got to his feet, then had second thoughts and put through a precautionary call to Parsons. She was still at her office
in Kingston Crescent. He ran through the afternoon’s developments and updated her on Stanley’s preliminary report. He was
about to outline the actions he’d authorised for tomorrow when she cut him short.
‘Winter’s been at home since half past two. Odd, don’t you think?’
‘You got obs on him?’
‘Yes. We’ve been waiting to get into that apartment of his most of the afternoon. He doesn’t make it easy for us, does he?’
She laughed, then put the phone down.
Winter, with half an eye on his favourite wildlife programme, was brooding. In the space of a single day circumstances had
seized him by the throat and given him a thorough shaking. First the realisation that Jimmy Suttle had played him for a fool.
And now the abrupt end of his stake in Mackenzie’s business empire.
The latter, in a sense, had come as no surprise. There were limits to the kind of circles he was able to square on Bazza’s
behalf, and he knew that two million quid’s worth of toot – if Leyman had this thing right – could easily put them both inside.
Old habits, he thought, die hard, and the more he thought about it the more he realised that Bazza’s peasant cunning was to
blame for this latest development.
Bottom line, Mackenzie had always trusted the white powder to make him rich, and on reflection Winter knew he should have
anticipated this little rainy-day stash. In a way its exact whereabouts was irrelevant. The Major Crime lot would probably
find it, and if that happened then they’d work day and night to link it back to Sandown Road. By that point it was conceivable
that his ex-boss might be running for Lord Mayor, an escapade that was already giving Bazza exactly the kind of profile he’d
always craved: the buccaneering local boy with his own robust take on the city. Thus far, it hadn’t occurred to Mackenzie
that there might be limits to his ambition, but the weeks and months to come were bound to be ugly. Up like a rocket, thought
Winter. Down like a stick.
The near-certainty that he and Bazza were heading for disaster filled Winter with gloom. But far worse, in a way, was his
latest encounter with Jimmy Suttle. There’d been moments in Winter’s life, especially during his long tussle with a brain
tumour, when the boy had felt like the son he’d never had. He’d been there for him. He’d helped him through the darkest times.
When Winter had been close to chucking it in, Jimmy Suttle had first kept the monsters at bay and then chased them away. In
some ways he owed his life to Suttle, and ever since
then there’d been a warmth, an unspoken kinship that he treasured. Until now.
Earlier, as dusk gathered over the harbour, he’d fired off a text.
I never thought the day would come
, he’d written.
Thanks a fucking bunch.
Now, watching a python swallowing an entire antelope, he wondered whether Suttle would spare the text even a second glance.
The world moved on. The boy had plates to juggle, crimes to solve. Winter, all too literally, was history.
The phone rang twenty minutes later. It was Suttle.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘There are rules here, consequences. You made a decision. That’s fine. That’s your call, your privilege,
but don’t blame me when it all turns to fucking rat shit.’
Winter knew at once that he’d been drinking.
‘Forget it,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Bin it, ignore it. At my age, son, you’re allowed a mistake or two.’
‘What do you mean? You’re talking about the text you sent, right?’
‘Yeah … and the rest.’
‘What rest?’
‘You know what rest. Baz. The business. All that shit.’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘I’m telling you it’s over. Finito. I’ve had enough, mush.’ He laughed. He never said ‘mush’. It felt like the final derisive
wave of farewell, the departing
adieu.
‘Don’t fuck about, Paul. This is for real?’
‘Yeah. And before you try and fit me up for anything sneaky, the answer’s no. I’ve had enough, son. I think I’ll call it retirement.
A little job on the beach maybe in the summer. I might find myself an allotment for the rest of the year.’
‘Sneaky’, as they both knew, was code for going u/c. Working undercover, staying alongside Mackenzie but reporting back to
the likes of Jimmy Suttle, had absolutely no appeal. Winter had tried it once, before throwing in his lot with Bazza, and
it had nearly got him killed. Just now he fancied something gentler.
He bent to the phone again. ‘So why the call, son?’
Suttle took his time. The news that Winter had parted company with Pompey’s cocaine king seemed to have sobered him up. Finally
he said he wanted to mark Winter’s card. This was something private, personal, just the two of them.
‘Yeah? How does that work?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I am asking, son. This is Faraday, isn’t it? And Willard? And that other clown? The woman? Parsons?’
‘No, mate. It’s little me.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Suttle paused. ‘There’s a woman in Cowes. She runs a bunch of high-end toms. It’s an Internet-based thing,
Two’s Company. Her name’s Lou Sadler. Johnny Holman knows her. Maybe Mackenzie too.’
‘And?’
‘You ought to have a poke around.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there’s lots she’s not telling us.’
‘About?’
‘Johnny Holman.’
‘You’ve tried?’
‘Of course I’ve fucking tried. She good as blanked me. We’ve got nothing on her. Not yet.’
‘So what makes you think she’ll talk to me?’
‘She probably won’t.’
‘So what the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m lost, son. You’re talking in riddles. Plus I just told you, I don’t do this stuff
any more.’
Suttle ignored him. He told Winter to find a pen and a bit of paper.
‘I’ve got a name for you. Kaija Luik. She’s one of the toms. And she’s Johnny Holman’s special girl.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning she’ll probably know where he is.’
‘Holman?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So why don’t you pick her up?’
‘We’re trying. You get that for free.’
Winter stared at the phone. This, he knew, was a fork in the road. Seconds ago he’d been making a difficult peace with one
of the bigger decisions in his life. Now this. His copy of the
Daily Telegraph
was still on his knee. He reached for a pen.
‘Spell it,’ he said.
Fifteen minutes later, busy in the kitchen, Winter heard the
buzz-buzz
of his video entryphone. He padded through to the hall and checked the upturned face on the tiny screen. Misty Gallagher.
‘You’re early, Mist. I thought we shagged on Fridays?’
She blew him a kiss, told him to let her in. She was freezing. She wanted a drink.
Winter buzzed her in. By the time she made it to the third floor, he was waiting by the door. Weekdays Mist drank vodka and
Coke, easy on the ice.
‘You having one too?’ She gave him a hug. Winter caught the faintest breath of cigars.
He returned to the kitchen, sorted out a Stella and joined her on the sofa in the big living room. Misty Gallagher had been
Mackenzie’s long-term mistress. Like countless other men in the city, he’d fallen for her guile, and her frankness, and her
gypsy good looks. Winter had always enjoyed her company, but the last couple of years, with Bazza increasingly occupied elsewhere,
he and Mist had got way beyond conversation. Winter knew how territorial Mackenzie could be, but so far, fingers crossed,
he and Mist were still intact.
Winter wanted to know why she wasn’t at home tucked up in front of the telly. Wednesdays was
Relocation, Relocation
, her favourite show.
‘I was. Then I got a call from Baz.’
‘And?’
‘He’s really upset. Really sorry.’ She sipped at the drink. ‘You two had a ruck, am I right?’
‘I told him to stuff the job. There’s a difference, Mist. No ruck. Just me out the door.’
‘And you meant it?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what he thinks.’
‘Then he’s right for once. Thank fuck he bothered to listen.’
She smiled at him, dipped a finger in the vodka, moistened his lips. Winter loved the way she painted her nails. She always
used the same colour, a deep, deep scarlet, and it never failed to stir him. She found his hand, gave it a little squeeze.
Winter wanted to know why Bazza had phoned her.
‘He wants to say sorry. He wants to make amends. He wants you two to be mates again.’
‘Kiss and make up?’ It was Winter’s turn to smile. ‘Quaint.’
‘He means it, Paul. He’s serious. I haven’t seen him like this since … you know … that business with the nipper .
. .’
Winter raised an eyebrow. Last year Bazza’s grandson had been kidnapped. For days Mackenzie had barely known how to cope.
‘I’m flattered,’ he said. ‘Did he tell you why I walked out?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not surprised. The man can be a complete twat sometimes, his own worst enemy. It’s happened before, Mist. This time he’s
pushed it too far.’
‘I bet.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I sympathise. I spent years with the man. I know him better than he knows himself.’
It was true. Before the move to nearby Hayling Island, Mist had lived in a Gunwharf apartment similar to his own. Just her
and a million stuffed animals for the nights when Baz chose not to turn up.
‘You need another one of those.’ She nodded at his glass. To Winter’s surprise, it was nearly empty. He watched her through
the open kitchen door as she raided the fridge for another Stella. Mist never did anything by accident. So just why had she
paid him this visit?
‘Baz said something else too, on the phone.’ She was back on the sofa beside him.
‘About what?’
‘Us, Paul.’
‘
Us?
How does that work?’
‘He says he won’t mind any more. He says he thinks he can wear it.’
‘Wear what? You and me shagging?’
‘Yeah. And – you know – being together.’
‘Really?’ Winter was astonished. ‘So how would that work?’
‘He’d just …’ she shrugged ‘… put up with it.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Exactly.’
‘He
must
be desperate.’
‘Thanks.’
Winter felt her stiffen beside him. He patted her knee, said he was sorry.
‘No offence, Mist. You mean we’d be …’ He struggled to find the right word. ‘Legit?’
‘Yeah.’ Mist nodded. ‘Exactly.’
Winter looked at her, trying to work it out. Life with Misty Gallagher had always been exciting, not least because of the
consequences of being caught.
‘You think it would be the same, Mist? No Bazza in the wings? No chance of getting my bollocks ripped off?’
‘You’re telling me you’d miss that?’ Her hand had settled on his crotch. Another little squeeze.
‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘if you’re offering.’
‘My pleasure.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘But we have to do something about Baz.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s outside in the car. And he wants to have a chat.’
*
Winter phoned Mackenzie a few minutes later and told him to come up. Mist had disappeared into the bathroom. She’d switched
on the little radio he kept in there and over the fall of the water in the shower Winter could hear her singing along to Radio
Two. Carly Simon. ‘You’re So Vain’.
Mackenzie had rain on his coat when he appeared in the hall outside. He said he’d been out on the Millennium Walk, getting
some fresh air, having a think. Winter took his coat, offered him a drink. Mackenzie never did contrition, couldn’t quite
make it work.
‘Listen, mush.’ He’d downed the first Scotch, wanted another. ‘If sorry makes any difference, I’m really fucking sorry. That’s
an apology, by the way.’
‘Yeah?’ Winter was sitting across from the sofa, the remains of his Stella untouched.
‘Yeah. You and me, mush, we made a team. Maybe I forgot that. Maybe there were some little things I should have attended to.
Like I say, I’m sorry.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘Is it, mush?’ There was a tiny spark of hope in the question.
‘Yeah. Like I just said to Mist, it means you must have been listening.’
‘I was, mush, I was. Don’t think I haven’t been taking you for granted, I fucking have. I know it. I’m like that. I take everyone
for granted. You, Marie, Ezzie, Stu, Mist, the whole fucking world. It’s what I do. It’s what I am. Fucking deaf, mush. That’s
me.’
This had the makings of a speech. Winter wondered how well it might play in front of an audience of Pompey Rotarians.
‘Something else too. About Mist. She’s told you what I said on the phone? I fucking mean it, mush. I know you’ve been knobbing
her for years. Fuck, I told you to help yourself a couple of times. But that’s different. What I’m saying now is … you
know … get it on properly, if that’s what you both want. I know Mist does. Fuck knows why.’ He risked a grin before stripping
the cellophane from a small cigar.
Winter didn’t respond. When Mackenzie asked for a light, Winter said he didn’t have one.
‘You’re telling me not to smoke?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’ He left the cigar, unlit, on the table.
‘So why are you here, Baz?’
‘You want the truth? We’re in the shit.’
‘I don’t understand
we
.’
‘You and me, mush.’
‘How does that work? I’ve been looking after your best interests.
I’ve spent most of the last couple of years keeping you
out
of the shit. So what else haven’t you told me?’
Mackenzie was nursing the last of his drink now, head down, shoulders hunched. Mist was right, Winter thought. He’d never
seen him so forlorn, so physically diminished.
‘You remember Tommy Peters, mush?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s been pushing me for money, serious moolah. Like every other cunt these days, he’s finding it hard to make a living.
He thinks I owe him, big time. He’s been talking silly figures. He’s totally lost it.’
‘How much?’
Mackenzie wouldn’t answer, not at first. Winter just looked at him, waiting. Finally the head came up.
‘He’s after 250K.’
‘That’s hush money. Blackmail.’
‘I know.’
‘So what did you say? What did you tell him?’
‘I told him to fuck off. I said I’d paid him the rate for the job, twenty K, cash on the nail, notes on the fucking table,
and that was that. In fact it was you, mush, that gave it to him.’
Winter nodded. A couple of years ago Mackenzie had taken out a contract on a man called Brett West. West had a distinguished
record as Bazza’s favourite enforcer but had gone seriously off-piste. Tommy Peters had blown his face off in an unfinished
bar north of Malaga, and killed his girlfriend as well. Winter, as bagman, had been a metre away from them both. The memory
of that hot afternoon had never left him.