He looked up from his desk to find Suttle looking at him. He hadn’t a clue how long he’d been there.
‘Sorry, boss,’ he began. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’
‘Not at all.’ Faraday rubbed his eyes. ‘What do you want?’
‘This address in Cowes we’ve got for the Estonian girl. It turns out to belong to Lou Sadler.’
Faraday was trying to concentrate. Kaija Luik, he told himself.
‘I thought she’d gone home? Back to Mum?’
‘She has, according to Sadler. But that’s not the point.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No. Sadler’s still not come up with a photo of the girl, but I organised a spot of house-to-house.’
‘And?’
‘No one’s seen any activity at the flat for weeks. A couple who live across the road seem to think it’s been empty for a while.’
‘No Kaija?’
‘No, boss. And no Johnny Holman.’
Misty Gallagher told herself she must have been asleep again. She surfaced from beneath the duvet wondering what it was that
had woken her up. Then came a noise, a knocking sound, and the low murmur of voices, men’s voices, close enough to be in the
living room.
She looked at her watch – nearly ten o’clock – trying to remember whether Winter had mentioned anyone dropping round – maybe
someone to fix the Freeview box, which had gone wrong, maybe something else. But how had they got in?
She slipped quietly out of bed and reached for Winter’s silk dressing gown, the one he’d nicked from the Al Burj in Dubai.
Ideally, she’d have called him here and now, asked him what was going on, but she’d left her mobile in the living room. Unless
she fancied going to sleep again and blanking the whole episode, her only option was to go next door and ask what the fuck
these guys were up to.
She opened the door, hesitated. The voices were much clearer now. There seemed to be two of them. There was a problem about
a tuning glitch, a brief discussion about wavelength. The Freeview box. For sure.
She stepped into the living room and found herself face to face with two youngish guys, both in white overalls. A silver metal
case lay open on the carpet and one of the light fittings was dangling from the wall. She looked across at the TV. No one
had touched the Freeview box.
Both guys were staring at her. She knew about guilt. She’d been round men for most of her adult life. She knew what to look
for when
a bloke found himself way up shit creek without a paddle. Whatever these two were doing was very definitely illegal.
One had the grace to smile.
‘Lovely,’ he said.
‘Lovely?’
‘The dressing gown. Very nice. My partner would kill for that.’
She ignored him. She was looking at the dustsheet spread beneath the light fitting. In the middle was a tiny curl of cable
with a single glass eye on the end.
‘What’s that?’ She nodded at it.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing, bollocks. Who the fuck are you? How did you get in?’
‘Health and safety.’ It was the other one this time. He was trying to keep a straight face. ‘We have the magic key.’
She spotted her mobile, grabbed it. The taller of the two guys said there was no need to make a fuss. It was all cool. They
were off. They were sorry to have bothered her.
‘What about the light?’ She was outraged.
‘You want us to fix it?’
‘Of course I fucking do.’
The guy shrugged and picked up a screwdriver while his mate repacked the box on the carpet. For the first time she realised
who she was looking at. The haircuts. The attitude. Their bent little smiles. They way they looked at her.
‘You’re Filth, aren’t you?’
‘Charming. Do we get tea as well?’
‘Fuck off out of here.’
‘Pleasure.’
The light fitting was back in place. The dustsheet had been neatly folded and tucked away. Not a single clue remained.
‘See, missus?’ The tall one was shepherding his mate towards the door. ‘We was never here.’
Winter was at the Trafalgar, looking for Bazza Mackenzie. The girl on reception said she’d seen him a few minutes ago, heading
down towards the gym. The gym was in the hotel basement. Winter took the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, beyond the office Winter shared with Stu, a long corridor ran the length of the hotel. Pipework
still hung from the ceiling but Mackenzie had made an effort with the rest of the decor, painting the rough plaster walls
a startling white and hanging a series of cheerfully framed photos at one-metre intervals. Most of the photos came from Fratton
Park, moments of glory from last season’s
winning FA Cup run, but towards the end he’d chosen a couple of shots from the boxing nights he staged on the pier: two young
lads battering each other senseless, a classy black guy standing over the body of the Wecock Farm novice he’d just knocked
unconscious.
The door to the gym lay beyond the photos. Winter peered through the square of wired glass. The gym was cavernous, running
the depth of the building. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined three walls, offering endless views of the gym’s only occupant.
He was on the small side, not young. He was dressed in blue trackie bottoms and was belting the life out of a punchbag that
Winter had never seen before. He moved the way a seasoned boxer moves, his head hunched between his shoulders, his face peeping
out between his gloved hands, his eyes steady, focused on the bag. The blows came in quick flurries,
bam-bam-bam
, two lefts and a right, and in between he danced on his toes, bobbing and weaving, as if the bag might fancy a poke back.
Winter watched him, fascinated, wondering how many four-star hotel guests had skills like these. Then his attention was drawn
to the top half of the tracksuit neatly folded over a nearby rowing machine. On the back, in big white letters, Royal Navy.
‘All right, mush?’
It was Mackenzie, standing behind him. Winter had no idea how long he’d been there.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Mate of mine. Billy Angel.’
‘Handy, isn’t he?’
‘Too right. Should be, too. He’s a PTI down
Temeraire.
Been there a while.’
HMS
Temeraire
was the navy’s School of Physical Training. Mackenzie eased Winter to the left and they both watched Angel for a while. He’d
increased the tempo by now, maybe aware of the watching faces through the window, and Winter noticed tiny droplets of sweat
spraying from his shorn scalp when he flicked his head. There were dark patches on the grey singlet too, and when he finally
called it a day it was Mackenzie who pushed in through the door, grabbed a towel and tossed it across.
‘Billy? Paul Winter, one of my team.’
The two men exchanged nods. Angel was sitting on the rowing machine, gently sliding the seat back and forth, sucking air into
his lungs. Winter wondered whether to take issue with the word ‘team’ but decided against it. Angel had the scariest eyes
he’d ever seen.
Mackenzie had evidently recovered since last night. There wasn’t a hint of contrition in the way he bossed the conversation.
He was in
control again. This was his hotel, his world. People like Winter did his bidding.
Minutes later, back upstairs in Mackenzie’s office, Winter wanted to know more about Angel.
‘Guy’s been around for years, mush. He runs on the seafront most mornings, calls in for a little sesh here when he fancies
it. Makes a change from skinny fucking women wanting to look at themselves all day. Lovely bloke. Handy too.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. And I’d know, believe me.’
He gave Winter a nod, leaving the rest unspoken. Winter was tempted to ask about Kieron O’Dwyer. Was this the two-punch hero
that had put the lad in hospital?
‘What next then?’ Mackenzie wanted to move on. He was playing the executive now, the busy CEO with a great deal on his mind.
Since coming upstairs, his mood seemed to have darkened. Last night was plainly history. ‘You’ll need Tommy Peters’ details,
right?’
‘Right.’
‘Anything else? Only I’ve got no time to fuck about.’
‘Lou Sadler?’
‘Forget Lou Sadler. Lou Sadler’s got fuck all to do with anything. I pay your wages, mush. You do what I tell you. And right
now that means Tommy Peters. Here.’ He pulled open his desk drawer and slid a white envelope towards Winter. ‘There’s five
hundred quid in there. Go to London. Talk to Peters. Buy him a meal. Give him a nice time. But get him fucking
sorted
, yeah?’
Winter looked at the envelope, then picked it up. He’d rarely seen Mackenzie this blunt, this aggressive. Last night he’d
seemed on the edge of some kind of breakdown. Now he was back at full throttle.
‘I meant what I said yesterday, Baz. This isn’t for me any more. I’ll do what I can about the toot, maybe Peters too. After
that you’re on your own.’
‘You think it’s that easy?’
‘I think I’ve had enough.’
‘Then think again, old son. And while you’re about it, have a proper think about what happened with Westie down in Malaga.
You know why? Because it isn’t just Mr fucking Peters you should be worried about. It’s me too. Like I said downstairs, we’re
a team. Someone wants out, that’s a huge fucking problem.’
The silence hung between them. Then Winter’s mobile began to ring. He looked at it. Misty Gallagher.
‘You want to take that outside, mush?’ Mackenzie nodded at the phone. ‘Only I’m really busy.’
Parsons was raging. Linked in by conference call, Faraday could imagine the scene in her office at Fratton nick. A D/S called
Dave Michaels was responsible for the surveillance teams. He’d been hauled in from Totton for the full treatment.
‘So what happened? Pretend there’s some fucking excuse here. Talk me through it.’
Parsons never swore, hated the F-word. Faraday glanced up at Suttle. Suttle was grinning. This must be worse than bad.
‘I talked to the guys on the night shift just now. As far as they’re concerned, Mackenzie and Gallagher left last night.’
‘You’re telling me they saw her?’
‘The Bentley went past in a pretty big hurry. The lighting wasn’t great.’
‘So
was
she in there?
In
that car? Did they
see
her?’
There was a brief silence. Michaels was an old hand, lots of experience, brilliant in interview. Not this one though. Not
with Parsons about to throttle the life out of him.
‘It might have been a question of inference.’
‘
Inference?
Since when did obs have anything to do with inference? You lot cost us a fortune. The least we expect is you keep your eyes
open. I can’t sell inference to Mr Willard. Or a jury. Or anyone else for that matter. So tell me, D/S Michaels, what actually
happened?’
‘One of the guys thought she was in the car.’
‘And the other one?’
‘Caught short.’
‘Christ. So let’s go back to the first guy. He sees the car. It’s a Bentley. It obviously belongs to Mackenzie. Right colour,
right reg plate. It comes shooting past him with Mackenzie at the wheel, and because he’s got shagging rights on Misty Gallagher
he assumes she’s in there as well. Am I right?’
‘You could be, boss.’
‘So what does that make your D/C? Apart from lazy and stupid?’
‘Pass. I’ll be having a word.’
‘You bet your life. You know what happens now? You know what we have to do? Call off obs on Winter. That’s great, isn’t it?
After just … what …
twelve hours
? Brilliant. Total result. Congratulations, D/S Michaels. I imagine Mr Willard may well be in touch.’
Faraday heard the scrape of a chair. Dave Michaels would take this on the chin. He’d doubtless been in worse scrapes and in
a couple of months the scene at Winter’s flat would have become the stuff of legend. Couple of techies caught in the act.
Misty Gallagher all over them.
In the meantime, as Parsons had pointed out, surveillance on someone as astute as Winter would have to be abandoned. The way
things were going just now he’d probably haul them off to court. Trespass with intent. Or some evil infringement of human
rights legislation.
‘Joe? Are you still there?’ It was Parsons. Michaels had evidently dropped out of the conversation.
‘Yep.’
‘Pathetic, don’t you think?’
‘Not great.’
‘Not
great
? Where have you been recently, Joe, apart from the inside of an Egyptian hospital? Winter’s home free again. And this time
he hasn’t even tried.’
Faraday was looking at Suttle. Was now the time for Suttle to table his belief that Winter’s days with Bazza Mackenzie were
over? Suttle shook his head, put his finger to his lips. It had been Faraday’s idea to invite him along to the conference
call. Just now he’d prefer to stay anonymous.
‘So what do we do, Joe? Any ideas?’
Faraday brought her up to speed on the burned-out Corsa. He had a POLSA team combing the woods. He had detectives on house-to-house
in a slowly widening area around the forest. And he’d tasked another team to return to the CCTV centre in Newport, hunting
– once again – for the Corsa. Their working assumption put the car somewhere to the north or east of the island, where most
of the population lived. For the last couple of days it must have been in a lock-up of some kind. Given a glimpse or two on
CCTV, and they might be able to narrow the search.
‘And?’
‘Nothing so far, I’m afraid. Early days though.’
‘Nothing from the house-to-house?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about intel? What about Suttle?’
‘He’s still building the picture. He thinks the key to this thing is Holman. And from where I’m sitting, he’s probably right.’
‘Great. Keep in touch, eh?’
The phone went dead. Faraday sat back in his chair and looked at Suttle.
‘Did that sound about right?’
‘Perfect, boss.’ Suttle was looking thoughtful. ‘You’re doing OK.’
Winter sat on the hovercraft, bouncing across the Solent towards Ryde. After a brief phone exchange with Misty outside Mackenzie’s
office, he’d just had a longer conversation. She’d told him about the guys in the white overalls and what they’d done to the
wall light, and he’d known at once what they’d been up to. These were the sneaky-beakies you put into suss premises when you
wanted the full SP. He’d worked with them on a few occasions himself. It meant that Major Crime had decided to target him
big time, but thanks to Misty the whole thing had turned to rat shit. Misty, bless her, had a simpler take on all this. It
was, she told Winter, a fucking outrage.
Winter knew he’d been lucky. So this morning’s lone figure on the waterfront had, after all, been on obs. Quite how long they’d
had him under surveillance was anyone’s guess, but they’d been wasting their time so far, and now he was off the hook. Even
Hantspol were bright enough to figure that from here on in he’d be careful where he put his feet.
The hovercraft roared up the ramp beside the Ryde terminal. Winter joined the dribble of disembarking passengers and sauntered
along the seafront towards the cab rank. He waited until the first three cabs had gone before bending to the fourth and giving
the driver an address in Cowes. As the cab pulled away, he twisted round in the back seat, watching the road behind. Nothing.
He turned back, making himself comfortable, enjoying the prospect of the next couple of hours.
Last night, in bed, Winter had asked Misty about Lou Sadler. According to Bazza, she and Sadler had once been mates. Was that
true?
‘Yeah. She was a headcase, that woman, but bright. She had a thing about jet skis too. She kept one down at Ocean Village,
taught me how to do it. We used to bomb up and down Southampton Water, me on the back. She was nuts, Lou. She used to get
behind one of those hydrofoils that go out to the island. If you ride across the wake and get it right you take off. Incredible.
Shakes your arse to fucking pieces. Brilliant.’
Winter had asked her about Two’s Company and she’d nodded. It
was, she said, a makeover for a previous escort agency called Island Babes. Both operations had been Internet-based, with
thumbnails of the girls on offer. Punters chose a tom they fancied, followed the prompts and turned up at one or other of
the rented rooms. Payment was on a sliding scale depending on what you were after, and there’d been a limit of one hour for
each session. Misty, who knew the guy behind Island Babes, thought it served the tackier end of the market. Some of the girls,
she said, were real dogs, and if you were looking to make sensible money from this kind of investment then you had to take
the business upmarket.
Lou Sadler, it seemed, had done exactly this. Two’s Company was still an online operation, but the toms were far classier
and Sadler made sure they kept their standards up. Many of them, according to Misty, had arrived from the old communist bloc,
eager to sell their talents on the free market, and feedback from one punter she knew well had been enthusiastic. This guy,
she explained, was a leading Pompey lawyer. He had money to burn, plus a raging coke habit, and had found the fuck of his
dreams in the shape of a redhead from Minsk. She was funny as well as dextrous, and he was close to proposing something more
permanent than busy afternoons in a Cowes motel.
Winter sat back, enjoying the journey. There’d been no sign of a Kaija Luik on the Two’s Company website he’d checked this
morning, but he knew these girls regularly changed their names. Word from Misty suggested that it was a happy ship and that
they all knew each other. If that was true then his afternoon date might turn out more than helpful. Her name was Monique
Duvall. Winter had chosen her because she had a pretty face and claimed to speak good English. A recent encounter with an
Uzbek girl in Dubai had come to grief when a linguistic misunderstanding over her rates had threatened to land Winter with
a four-figure bill. They hadn’t even made it as far as bed.
The taxi dropped him outside a hotel on the outskirts of Cowes. He gave the driver a decent tip and ignored the wink. At reception,
as instructed, he asked whether Room 18 was available. The guy behind the counter looked young enough to be a student. He
had a light American accent. He gave Winter the room key, took an imprint of his credit card and told him that £200 bought
him the girl for an hour, room included. After that, he said, he was on the meter.
Winter took the lift to the first floor. The room was clean if a little bare. The bowl of fruit included three bananas and
he thought at once of Misty. In the early days, before they’d settled into each other, she’d taught him an awful lot about
bananas.
He took off his jacket and his shoes, and wandered across to the
window. The hotel was perched on a hillside above the Solent and he watched the long white stripe behind a departing car
ferry slowly disappear. He was still thinking about Misty when he heard a knock at the door.
Monique was taller than he’d imagined but he’d got the smile right. She stepped into the room without a word of introduction
and folded her raincoat carefully over the back of the chair. She was wearing the kind of white Lycra top that Winter had
last seen in the gym at the Royal Trafalgar and a pair of tight jeans. The black leather belt was wide, with a silver buckle.
Expecting an outbreak of bling, Winter was comforted by her simplicity. She had a single silver piercing in one ear and she’d
barely bothered with make-up. Misty had been right. Classy women.
She beckoned him towards her, kissed him on the mouth.
‘Hi,’ she said.
Winter had been in two minds about what was going to happen next. He’d set off with the intention of getting down to a little
chat but all of a sudden it seemed churlish to complicate things too early. They had an hour. Plenty of time to talk later.
She peeled his clothes off, one by one, then asked him what he’d like. Full service was in the price but she liked a man to
tell her what he really wanted.
Winter said he didn’t care. Her choice.
‘You have a condom?’
‘No.’
‘I have.’
She led him towards the bed and then fetched her bag. Naked between the sheets, Winter watched her extract a couple of paperbacks
before finding the packet of condoms.
‘How many?’
‘One’s fine.’ He gestured beyond the white hump that was his belly. ‘All yours, love.’
The girl put the condom to one side. In the event, minutes later, Winter didn’t need it. The girl smiled, wiping her chin.
‘Maybe next time?’ She was looking at the other condom.
Winter nodded, relaxing back against the pillow. The last occasion he’d met a girl like this was years ago, in a brothel in
Old Portsmouth. Her name had been Maddox. Their relationship had begun in an interview room at Central police station and
ended in bed, and they’d stayed very close for a while. She, like Monique, knew how to put a man at ease. She also devoured
books, and went nowhere without a paperback or two.
‘So what are you reading?’ Winter nodded at her bag. If he still smoked, he thought, then this would be the perfect moment.
Monique laughed.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I just do. I’m nosy that way.’
‘Nosy?’ She touched her own nose.
‘Curious.’
‘Ah …’
She hopped out of bed and retrieved the books from her bag. She had the most perfect arse.
Catcher in the Rye
and a book in French. He picked it up. Michel Houellebecq.
‘Is this one a novel?’
‘
Oui.
And
very
dirty.’
He thumbed through it. She’d turned over a page towards the end. Winter was wondering about the condom but knew he mustn’t
get carried away. First things first.
‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘There’s a girl you might know.’ He softened the question with a smile. ‘Kaija?’
‘Kaija? Kaija Luik?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want to meet her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
Monique turned her head away. Winter couldn’t work out whether the tiny pout signalled disapproval or disappointment. Why
another woman so soon? Wasn’t I good enough for you?
He found her hand under the duvet, gave it a tiny squeeze. He said he had a friend who went with Kaija.
‘Who is he, this friend?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘You won’t tell me?’
‘It wouldn’t be right.’
‘But you ask me about Kaija. And I tell you. I say yes, I know Kaija. So why don’t you tell me about your friend?’
‘Because …’ Winter feigned embarrassment. He was enjoying this. It was much, much easier than he’d thought and – God willing
– he knew exactly where it might lead.
Monique was up on one elbow. She had small firm breasts and an all-over tan.
‘This friend of yours, he’s the same age?’
‘As Kaija?’
‘As you.’
‘Yes. Pretty much.’
‘And he …’ She was looking deep into Winter’s eyes, warier now. ‘… he sees Kaija a lot? Goes with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘A small man? Short? Little? Not so handsome here.’ She touched Winter’s face. ‘Yes?’
Winter remembered the photo on the TV news the other morning. It was a shot from way back. These days, thanks to oceans of
Stella, Holman was doubtless even more wrecked.
‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘His name’s Johnny. Johnny Holman.’
‘And you say he’s a friend of yours?’