‘So what’s Peters saying now?’
‘He still wants the money. We’re talking stand-off, big style.’
‘Any threats?’
‘Yeah. Plenty.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like he might grass us both. Unless.’
‘And you said?’
‘I said he’d never do that.’
‘But he might.’
‘I know, mush.’ His head went down again. ‘But there’s something else I think he’s done already …’
He let the silence between them stretch and stretch. Mist was still under the shower. Carole King. ‘It Might As Well Rain
Until September’.
Mackenzie was evidently finding the next bit hard. Winter saved him the trouble.
‘You think he’s helped himself to all that toot at Johnny Holman’s.’
‘I know he has.’
‘How?’
‘Because he’s that kind of bloke. Just wades in.’
‘But how did he know about it in the first place?’
‘Because I told him.’
‘You did
what
?’
‘I told him, mush. Biggest mistake of my fucking life. It was when we were fixing to fly down to Spain to sort out Westie.
Me and Tommy had a couple in a place in London. We got a bit hammered. I was twatting around. I admit it. Big-time London
hit man, all that shit, you have to let them know you carry a bit of weight. To be honest I can’t remember exactly how much
I told him, but it would have been enough. He’s got a brain, that guy. More than I fucking have.’
Winter turned away, then got up and went to the window. This was far, far worse than he’d ever imagined. Two million quid’s
worth of toot could put him away for an age. Add conspiracy to murder, and he’d be spending the rest of his life in some khazi
of a prison. Possibly in Spain.
‘You’re sure about Peters?’
‘As far as I can be. It all fits. It all makes sense.’
‘Has he been in touch recently?’
‘A week ago. That’s when he got really heavy.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he’d hit us where it really hurt.’
‘Us.’
‘Us.’
Another silence, longer this time. Out in the darkness of the harbour, the lights of the Gosport ferry.
‘Do we know where to find Peters?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you really think he’d burn that place down? With everyone inside? Abduct Johnny Holman? Nick the toot?’
‘I’d put money on it, mush, if I fucking had any. The guy’s a complete psycho. He wouldn’t think twice about any of it.’
Winter watched Mackenzie get up and help himself to more Scotch from the bottle on the side. He seemed to have developed a
limp.
‘Tell me about Lou Sadler, Baz.’
Mackenzie put the bottle, uncapped, to one side. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’
‘Just answer the question, Baz.’
Mackenzie hesitated, not liking any of this. Then he went back to the sofa.
Sadler, he said, was a Scummer. She’d once been mates with Misty. Mackenzie had met her a few times, way back, and as far
as he knew she was now running a brothel somewhere on the Isle of Wight. Good-looking woman if you didn’t mind a bit of weight.
Fucking smart too.
Scummer was Pompey-speak for anyone from Southampton. Winter wanted to know whether Sadler might have had anything to do with
the fire and the toot.
‘No way. It’s Peters, mush. I know it fucking is. The man’s an animal. We have to get him off our backs.’
‘And how do we do that?’
‘You talk to him. You get him to level about the toot. Then we do a deal.’
‘What kind of a deal?’
‘Fuck knows. The way I’m feeling right now, I’m gonna leave it to you. You sort it. You decide the split. You make it sweet
enough for him never to come calling again. Otherwise …’
‘Otherwise what, Baz?’
‘Otherwise we might be back with the Westie solution.
Comprendes?
’
Winter said nothing. He studied his slippered feet, wondering where this conversation might go next. Then he heard the bathroom
door open and he looked up to find Misty Gallagher standing beside the sofa, combing her wet hair. She was wearing Winter’s
dressing gown, open at the front.
‘You coming to bed, Paul? Or what?’
Winter was watching Mackenzie. He got to his feet, drained the Scotch, headed for the door. Then he paused, turned back into
the room.
‘See you tomorrow, mush.’ He nodded at Mist. ‘Sweet dreams, eh?’
Faraday was dreaming of Petra. It was the end of a long afternoon. He and Gabrielle had climbed away from the Valley of the
Tombs and the endless shuffle of weary tourists. Away to the south, following their instincts through the trackless scrub,
they found a perch among the rocks. Up here, in the clean winter air, they threw long shadows across the shale. Gabrielle
had a sketch pad. She squatted beside a thorny bush, laid chalks in the dust, squinted into the dying sun. Her hands were
powdered blue and green and violent crimson from the chalks.
She drew on her sketch pad while Faraday wandered among the shards of loose rock, pausing here, stooping there, gathering
fragments for no purpose. In a while, his pockets heavy with stones, he found the very edge of the view. A thousand feet below
was the bottom of a wadi. It lay in deep shadow. He braced himself, felt a tickle of sweat beneath his cotton shirt, lobbed
one stone, then another, then a third, pausing each time to count the seconds before impact. The bark of the stones shattering
on the dry riverbed echoed away down the wadi, becoming fainter and fainter, rubbed out by distance and by time.
Soon he had just one stone left. It was heavier and flatter than the rest. In some ways he wanted to keep it but knew he shouldn’t.
He knew it belonged to the wadi, to this bare biblical landscape, to the rough clatter of the stones he’d tossed before. And
so he stepped to the very edge of the wadi and peered over before spinning the last stone into oblivion. The stone left his
hand. He began to count. He got to ten. Twenty. Thirty. Nothing happened. Bewildered, he turned to shout to Gabrielle. But
Gabrielle had gone.
From far away came another sound. Somebody knocking, somebody calling his name. Groggy, damp with sweat, he struggled up onto
one elbow, fumbled for the light. The alarm clock he’d propped beside the bed told him it was half past six. He got out of
bed and made it to the door.
It was Jimmy Suttle. He was standing in the dimness of the hotel corridor.
‘Sorry, boss. I thought I ought to give you a shout.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘They’ve found the Corsa. Or what’s left of it.’
It was barely light when Winter woke up. He peered at the thin stripe of grey between the bedroom curtains, aware of a shape
hanging over him. It was Misty. He could feel the warmth of her body, smell the scent she always wore. Obsession.
Musky with a hint of citrus.
‘You OK, Paul?’
For a moment he wondered why he shouldn’t be. Then he remembered.
‘I’m fine,’ he muttered. ‘Fine.’
‘You want to try again?’
‘What?’
She didn’t answer. He lay back, his head on the pillow, his eyes closed. He’d never had a problem with Misty before, not until
last night, but for reasons he couldn’t explain it hadn’t happened. Maybe it was the visit from Bazza. Maybe it was the prospect
of the days that lay ahead. Maybe it was the realisation that this thing with Misty was suddenly theirs for keeps. He didn’t
know.
‘How’s that?’ She’d ducked beneath the duvet. He could picture her fingernails. He could feel the hot scald of her tongue.
He grunted his approval, let out a tiny sigh.
‘More?’
‘More.’
Her face appeared, hooded by the duvet. She was smiling. She kissed him on the lips, on the chest. Then she disappeared again.
Minutes later, she was back beside him.
‘Thank Christ for that.’ She reached for a cigarette. ‘I was beginning to worry.’
Faraday rode out to the site where they’d found the Corsa, Jimmy Suttle at the wheel of the borrowed Fiesta. They were in
the south of the island, among the tangle of lanes that webbed the downland around the Brighstone Forest. A track led deep
into the woods, and Suttle switched on the headlights as the trees grew thicker. Soon, ahead, Faraday spotted the flapping
line of police aware tape. A couple of uniforms waved them to a halt. Beyond the tape Faraday could see the burned-out shell
of the Corsa. The CSI who’d worked on Monkswell Farm was bending into the carcass of the vehicle, locked in conversation with
a fireman. Faraday joined them.
What remained of the car had been reported by a local in search of foxes. He’d found the Corsa around half past three in the
morning. The fire was out by then but the bodywork, he’d said, was still warm.
Faraday was looking at the remains. The rear windows had shattered and there were tendrils of rubber hanging from the wheel
hubs. Scraps of charred fabric clung to the blackened seat frames and the plastic trim on the dashboard had largely melted.
‘Accelerants?’ Faraday was looking at the fireman.
‘Yeah, big time. The FI’s on his way, and it’s his shout, but I’d say whoever did this knew what he was about. Cold night
like last night, you’d never have the front windows down, would you?’
FI meant Fire Investigator. Winding down the windows before setting the fire guaranteed a draught.
‘This guy with his foxes. He had a gun?’ Faraday was looking at the CSI.
‘Twelve-bore, boss. I’ve had it seized. Just in case.’
Faraday nodded. At the very best it was a punt, but twenty years on CID told him never to discount coincidence. Four bodies
with gunshot wounds. Twelve-bore cartridges recovered from the scene. Now this.
Suttle had been talking to one of the uniforms. The Corsa was the closest thing they’d had so far to any kind of breakthrough.
Faraday needed to get himself organised.
Suttle led him back towards the Fiesta.
‘We need house-to-house, boss, as soon as. The guy I was talking to just now’s happy to walk us through it. I’m thinking four
two-man teams. The properties are well spread out. We’ve got at least three approach roads. CCTV-wise, we’re pretty much fucked.
In this immediate area there isn’t any.’
Faraday was torn between gratitude and amusement. This was his call. These were his decisions.
‘Have you finished?’
‘Just trying to help, boss.’ Suttle had no time for irony. ‘You want to use the Airwave in the car?’
Winter took Misty breakfast in bed, a plate of toast loaded with her favourite marmalade. It was nearly nine by now and Misty
had had enough of Radio Two.
‘Are you joining me?’
‘No, Mist.’ Winter shook his head.
‘Why not? Doesn’t a girl deserve a bit of conversation?’
‘Later, love.’ He was standing by the door. ‘What’s the plan then?’
Mist gave the question some thought. She was in no great rush
to get home. There was an early-spring sale at a few of the classier outlets in Gunwharf. She might wander across and check
them out.
‘All in good time though, eh?’ Mist pushed back the duvet with her foot.
Winter hesitated. They were in new territory, and he didn’t know quite what to make of it. Twenty-four hours ago he’d have
bundled Misty out of the door ahead of another busy day with Bazza. Now she seemed to have rights of her own.
‘I have to sort a couple of things out, Mist.’
‘Like what?’
He looked at her and laughed. Like two million quid’s worth of toot, he thought. And a London hit man who wanted to put him
away for life.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing, Mist. It’s just business, that’s all. Stuff I have to do.’
‘You sound like Bazza.’
‘I’m not fucking surprised. Just think of me when I’m gone, OK?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing,’ he said again. He crossed to the bed and gave her a kiss. She tasted of ginger marmalade. Happy days.
‘So where are you going?’
‘Out. I’m on the mobe if you need to get in touch. Back later, yeah?’
He left the bedroom without waiting for an answer. A mug of coffee he’d made earlier was still in the kitchen, untouched.
He took it onto the balcony, looking out over the harbour, trying to foresee the kind of day that lay ahead. The priority
just now was the cocaine. He’d need the details from Mackenzie: how much bulk was involved, where it had been stashed, what
Holman might be doing with it now. As far as Tommy Peters was concerned, Winter wasn’t convinced. While he bought Mackenzie’s
story about the extortion bid, he resisted the temptation to link Peters to the cocaine. It was too easy, too convenient.
Bazza always joined the dots up far too fast. Just one reason why they were all in deep shit.
Winter swallowed the last of his coffee and took a final look at the harbour. Down below, on the promenade that skirted the
front of the apartment blocks, he noticed a youngish guy in jeans and a leather jacket. He was taking his ease against the
railings, studying a mobile phone. He’d been there earlier, when Winter had first pulled the curtains in the lounge. Funny,
he thought, tucking the image away.
He took the mug into the kitchen, rinsed it and collected his briefcase en route to the bedroom. He put his head round the
door, blew Misty a kiss. The lift in the corridor took him down to the parking lot in the undercroft. The sight of his new
Lexus gave him a moment
or two of regret. This was the second Lexus he’d had off Mackenzie, top of the range, HDD navigation system, power moonroof,
the lot, and sliding his bulk behind the wheel he knew he’d miss it. He turned the key in the ignition, amazed as always that
he could barely hear the engine. A wide U-turn in reverse pointed him towards the exit. Seconds later, with an effortless
surge of power, he was out in the thin drizzle, firing up the radio.
The guy in the unmarked Skoda watched him flash past. Silver-grey Lexus. Target at the wheel. He lifted his hand towards his
mouth. The mike was taped to the buckle on his watch strap.
‘He’s left Gunwharf, boss. Out.’
Jimmy Suttle, at the MIR in Ryde, found himself looking at the overnight logs from the surveillance team that had Paul Winter
plotted out at his Gunwharf apartment. Bazza Mackenzie, it seemed, had arrived mid-evening with a woman identified as Misty
Gallagher. Gallagher was Mackenzie’s long-term shag and had been first into Blake House. Mackenzie had parked his Bentley
in the undercroft and the presumption was that he’d joined Gallagher inside. In the absence of real-time intel from the flat
itself there was no proof that they’d been visiting Winter, but – in the dry prose of the reporting officer – it was reasonable to assume that this had been their intention. Either way, the Bentley had been clocked about an hour later, leaving Gunwharf
at some speed. After that, there’d been no further movements to or from the apartment.
Suttle sat back. Parsons, as he now knew from Faraday, had secured authorisation at Assistant Chief Constable level for a
full intel rig at Winter’s pad. For
Gosling
this was a significant tactical move, not something you’d undertake lightly, and Suttle could imagine Parsons making her
case to the ACC. Winter, she’d argue, had the ear of Mackenzie. If they were talking a significant stash of cocaine at Monkswell
Farm, and if some or all of that consignment belonged to Mackenzie, then Winter would be key to what happened next. On these
grounds alone, she’d insist, the risks of a B & E would be wholly justified. Breaking and entering would put a couple of techies
into Winter’s apartment, and half an hour would be enough to give
Gosling
a front-row seat as Mackenzie’s empire at last began to self-destruct.
So where did this leave his conversation with Winter last night? Suttle didn’t know. Two pints of Abbot had been enough to
persuade him to pick up the phone. The text from Winter had hurt and he wanted to put the record straight. Then had come the
news that Winter and Mackenzie had parted company. Suttle couldn’t possibly
know whether Winter was being even more devious than usual but there had been something about him when they’d met in the
pub that suggested he was telling the truth. Even for Winter it turned out there were limits. For whatever reason it seemed
he’d had enough.
Suttle eyed the phone. Should he report last night’s conversation? Cover his own arse and tell Faraday he’d fed Winter a name
to see what might happen? Or should he hold his nerve and see how this thing played out? Winter, after all, was under surveillance.
Gosling
would know exactly where the bone he’d just been tossed might lead him. Which sort of added Winter to the investigation’s
intel team.
The irony put a grin on Suttle’s face. It was, he thought, exactly the kind of tactic that Winter himself would have gone
for in his CID days. As a young D/C new to the Job, Suttle had watched Winter on countless occasions playing both ends against
the middle and emerging, as if by magic, with a result. That had been the man’s MO. That’s what had made him a detective of
genius. Winter’s way had never been ethical, and it frequently courted career suicide, but it had made him a star in the gathering
darkness that was CID culture. That darkness, as Suttle knew only too well, was thickening by the year. People didn’t make
the moves any more. They kept risk at arm’s length. Shame.
He got to his feet, pleased with himself. Winter, he thought. Back on the squad without even knowing it.
Faraday was thinking about Saturday. Saturday, he’d realised, was Valentine’s Day, and with his foot hard down on
Gosling
’s throttle there was just a chance he might be able to swing a couple of hours off. Enough time, fingers crossed, to return
to Salisbury, offer his apologies and start all over again.
The other night in the chill of the B & B he and Gabrielle had circled each other like strangers. Gabrielle could think of
nothing but the child. Faraday was nursing wounds that seemed to deepen by the day. That tiny strip of territory they’d made
their own, the long happy years of give and take, of getting along, of shared laughter at the general craziness of life, had
been abandoned. Quite why, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the accident. Maybe that’s what trauma and shock and all the rest
of it did to you. Maybe that kind of earthquake shook you to the very foundations and made you question pretty much everything.
Certainly it felt that way – a numbness spiked with an acute sense of apprehension – but he was at a loss to know what to
do about it. A mist had descended, impenetrable, all-enveloping. He felt, in a word, fogged-in.