‘He used to be.’
‘But not now?’
‘No.’
She nodded, thoughtful. Then she looked at her watch.
‘He’s horrible, this man. You know that? You know how horrible he is?’
‘To you?’
‘To Kaija.’
‘So why does she go with him?’
‘Because she’s sorry for him. Because she’s stupid. He’s always drunk, this Johnny. And he smells.’ She lay back against the
bedhead and folded her arms. ‘You’re a cop, aren’t you? I know cops. My brother’s a cop. In Vilnius. You know Vilnius?’
‘I’m not a cop.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘I used to be, but I’m not any more.’
‘A private cop, then. That’s why –’ she swung her legs out of bed and stood up ‘– you ask me all these questions.’
Winter was looking at her watch. He still had half an hour. He nodded down at the bed.
‘Are we going to do it again?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I need a wash. I want to go.’
She disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. Her bag was on the carpet beside the bed. Winter found her mobile beneath
a ball of tissues. He reached for his clothes, pulled on his trousers, pocketed the phone. By the time Monique returned from
the bathroom he was standing by the window, fully dressed.
‘So where do I find Kaija?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true. I try to phone her on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. She owes me money. I phone again this morning. She never answers.’
She shrugged. ‘So maybe she’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘I don’t know. Home maybe?’ She offered a bleak smile. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Cop.’
The Scenes of Crime team released Monkswell Farm in mid-afternoon, a little later than expected. After nearly four days on
site, examining every square inch of what remained of the property, sieving through a small mountain of sodden ash and miscellaneous
debris, the Crime Scene Manager had bagged what little evidence he’d found and sent it over to the Major Incident Room in
Ryde. All that remained for the team now was to tidy up the site, get rid of the police tape, hitch the SOC caravan to the
tow vehicle, and make their way back to the car ferry. A call from the duty Crime Scene Coordinator had already put them on
standby for a bloodfest in Aldershot. A squaddie returning three days early from Afghanistan had discovered his wife in bed
with a fitness instructor. Happy days.
Meg Stanley too was returning to the mainland. She’d called into Ryde police station to say goodbye to the core management
team who’d been driving the investigation since the weekend. Now she’d got as far as Faraday’s office and was waiting for
him to come off the phone. Last night she’d had a quiet drink with Jimmy Suttle and was a little wiser about his personal
circumstances.
Faraday at last put the phone down. If you measured progress by the number of calls he was getting, he said, then
Gosling
should have been home and dry by now.
‘You look much better,’ she said at once.
‘Really? What did I look like before?’
‘Terrible. Pale. Exhausted. Not well at all.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I mean it. You know what was the giveaway?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Your hands. You were doing this all the time.’ She made a washing motion with her hands. ‘That’s OCD in my book.’
Obsessive-compulsive disorder. One step along the road to madness.
‘And now?’
She didn’t say anything, just nodded at his hands. They were flat on the desk, totally motionless. Faraday looked down at
them.
‘So what does that say?’
‘It says you’re getting better.’ She extended her own hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure. I just wish we could have been more help.’
Faraday shrugged. He didn’t know what to say. Inside, where it mattered, he felt far from better, but he saw no point in complicating
this courtly little scene with the truth.
The silence was becoming uncomfortable. Stanley nodded at the phone.
‘All these calls … anything interesting?’
‘Not really. We’re still in the dark about the Corsa. We’ve got nothing on CCTV and the house-to-house was a waste of time.
Your guys drew a blank too. Am I right?’
Stanley nodded. She’d called in another CSI from Shanklin. He’d spent a couple of hours crawling all over the little car but
had found nothing in the way of useful evidence. For the second time in a week fire had defeated them. Another apology. Another
nod at the phone.
‘Nothing else?’
‘Only a message from the CIU. They got the billing on Difford’s mobile. The last call was to another mobile at 03.29 on Sunday
morning. Since then no one’s used it.’
For the Communications Intelligence Unit a two-day turnaround on billings was fast.
‘By that time in the morning Difford would have been dead.’ Stanley was trying to put this new development in context.
‘You’re right. Which probably puts the phone in Difford’s car.’
‘The Corsa.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Driven by Holman?’
‘That’s the assumption. There’s no other way he could have left the premises.’
‘And you say they’ve got the number he called?’
‘Yeah. They’ve traced that too. It’s a Pay As You Talk. Bought two months ago from a place in Reading.’
‘Credit card?’
‘Cash.’
‘Shame.’ A credit card would have left an audit trail: a name, contact details. A handful of notes for a Pay As You Talk left
nothing.
‘Have you contacted the store?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘They’ve got the transaction details and the name of the girl who handled the sale, but it was just before Christmas and there’s
no way she’s going to remember a face after that length of time.’
‘Is she still there?’
‘No. She moved to Manchester last week. I might get someone up there. I haven’t decided yet.’
Stanley nodded. Something else had occurred to her.
‘We’re assuming Holman took off with the cocaine, yes?’
‘If we’re right about the cocaine, it’s certainly a possibility. The postman saw him on the Thursday. That’s when he was working
round the back of the property. He had all day Friday and all Saturday to lift the stuff out. He could have taken it elsewhere
at any point. He had a big old Land Rover. Plenty of room.’
‘I know. We boshed it.’
‘And found nothing. We’ve been back to the ferry companies too, checking bookings in his name for Friday and Saturday.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. But that proves sod all. If there
was
anything in that hole, and we’re assuming there must have been, then he could have shipped it back to the mainland in any
number of vehicles. We just don’t know.’
‘So it could still be on the island?’
‘Of course. That’s the whole point. If this stuff exists, it could be anywhere.’
‘And you think it does exist?’
‘Yes. The intel’s circumstantial but it’s bloody strong. Holman kept the right company. Times are hard. If you were babysitting
a load of cocaine or whatever and you wanted to cash in, then now would be the time. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’ Stanley nodded. ‘And who digs a hole for the fun of it?’
‘Exactly. Which leaves us with a number of questions. Number one: where’s Holman? Number two: what’s he done with the goodies?
Number three: how did he remove them from the farm? Personally, I think this guy is completely away with the fairies. The
intelligence tells us his brain’s shot to pieces. He’s messed up big time with his stepdaughter. His life’s in bits. I’d love
to buy the theory that he’s worked all this out, that he’s planned it all, that he’s done everything in the right order, made
a decision, dug up the goodies, found a buyer, shipped the stuff out, then settled his debts with the rest of the family.
But that’s never going to happen. Like I say, the guy’s stuffed. For my money, events overtook him. There’s a trigger here.
Something happened on the Saturday night, something that pushed him over the edge. The killings themselves seem pretty organised.
At least he got
that bit right. But we still don’t know why he did it.’
‘No intruders? No strangers in the property?’
‘I doubt it. Holman’s the guy we need to find.’ He paused. ‘Fifty blocks of cocaine? Could you get that kind of weight into
a Corsa?’
Stanley gave the proposition some thought. Eventually she nodded.
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘The back floorwell, the back seat and the boot would do it. You’d need a bit of time to fit it all
in but it’s perfectly possible.’ She paused. ‘But there’s a problem here, isn’t there?’
‘Go on.’
‘Holman’s broke. Like you say, he’s probably looking after the stash for someone else.’
‘And?’
‘Who
is
that someone else?’
‘Good question, Meg.’ Faraday, for the first time in days, felt alive. ‘And one we’re eager to crack.’
Winter put another call through to Lou Sadler. Her number had been stored on the mobile he’d lifted from Monique’s bag. The
first time he phoned, there’d been no answer. Now came a female voice, someone busy, someone who resented this sudden interruption.
‘Who’s that?’ Winter was using his own mobile. She wouldn’t have recognised the number.
Winter introduced himself. He said he was making enquiries for a client.
‘Enquiries about what?’
‘I’d prefer to discuss this in person.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘We can discuss that too.’
There was a brief silence. Then she came back on the phone.
‘If you’re wasting my time, Mr Winter, you’ll regret it.’ She named a car park at the back of Cowes High Street. She’d be
driving a red Megane convertible. Half an hour. On the dot. The phone went dead.
Winter got to the car park with ten minutes to spare. Across the road was a parade of shops. It was getting dark by now and
he found shelter from the wind in the doorway of a firm of undertakers, admiring the wicker coffin on display in the window.
While he was waiting, a woman appeared at the door. She’d noted his interest in the coffin and said she had a friend in the
Women’s Institute who specialised in weaving flowers into the wicker bits. Winter thanked her and pocketed the contact card.
A scarlet Megane had just pulled into the car park. He wandered across.
The woman behind the wheel opened the passenger door. Winter bent down.
‘You’re asking me to get in?’
‘Yeah.’
Winter did what he was told. She was a big woman, her face framed in a tumble of auburn curls. Despite the weather she was
wearing a rust-coloured singlet that showcased her chest. An elaborate rose tattoo coiled over one shoulder, and Winter glimpsed
another plunging down over her right breast. She wore a heavy gold bracelet on one wrist and the ruby on her ring finger was
the size of a walnut. This woman belongs in a fairground, thought Winter. Or on the door of a nightclub with a reputation
for kicking off.
‘What’s this about?’ She was eyeing Winter without much enthusiasm. ‘And how did you get my number?’
‘Misty Gallagher.’
‘You know Mist?’
‘Very well.’ Winter offered his own mobile. ‘Help yourself. Just press go.’
Sadler put the phone to her ear. Winter had already primed Misty to expect the call. When she answered, there was a brief
exchange. Winter felt the woman’s eyes looking him up and down.
‘You need him to lose weight, Mist,’ she said. ‘He’s way too fat.’
Winter heard Misty’s cackle of laughter. Then Sadler was handing back the phone. She had ten minutes before she was due elsewhere.
Whatever Winter wanted had better be quick.
‘Kaija Luik,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’
‘I’ve no idea. Are you the Old Bill, or what?’
‘Used to be.’
‘That’s what Mist just said.’
‘Then it must be true.’
Something about Winter seemed to amuse her. She put her head to one side, narrowed her eyes.
‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’ She was right. They’d met on the pier, one of Bazza’s boxing evenings, last year or the
year before. She’d been wearing a red spray-on dress, drawing whistles of approval from the sizeable crowd, and had arrived
with a huge Dobermann which had cleared a path to her ringside seat. The ageing car salesman two seats along had spilled most
of his lager with the excitement of it all.
‘Never.’ Winter shook his head. ‘I’d remember someone like you.’
‘You’re lying.’ At least she was still smiling. ‘So why Kaija? You fancy it?’
‘This isn’t about me, love. It’s about my client.’
‘He fancies it?’
‘He wants to get in touch with her. Old times, eh?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Bit of a number, the way I hear it. Him and Kaija.’
‘So what’s his name? This client of yours?’ The smile had gone.
‘Johnny. Johnny Holman.’
There was a long silence. Sadler was studying Winter carefully.
‘You know Johnny?’ she said at last.
‘Yes. Not as well as young Kaija, but yes.’
‘So why doesn’t he get in touch with her himself?’
‘He can’t.’
‘Can’t?’ Her eyes were stony. She was fiddling with the ring. ‘And why would that be?’
‘I’ve no idea. He’s been trying since Sunday. She’s not answering.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘That’s what he tells me.’
‘When?’
‘When what?’
‘When did he tell you that?’
‘This morning. Over in Pompey.’
‘Really? But Johnny’s been missing for a while. That farm of his burned down. The Old Bill are trying to trace him. It’s been
all over the news.’
‘You’re right.’
‘But you’re telling me you know where he is?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter nodded. ‘As of this morning, half nine, definitely.’
‘Amazing.’
‘Amazing how?’
‘Just …’ she shrugged ‘… amazing. You say you were Old Bill yourself?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So why not do them a favour? Grass him up?’
‘How could I? Johnny’s my client.’
‘He pays you?’
‘Of course he pays me.’
‘How come? He’s skint. Johnny’s always skint. Totally boracic.’
‘Not any more.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means he’s come into money. Lots of money. Am I getting warm, Lou?’
It was the Christian name that did it. Plus the bit about the money. Plus the matey smile, the sense of a shared secret, the
acknowledgement that this coded conversation had come full circle. He could see it in her eyes, in the slight upward tilt
of her head. She wanted this exchange to end. But not before she’d landed a punch of her own.
‘You work for Mackenzie, don’t you? That’s where Misty comes
in. You’re the bent little Filth he took on board. You’re the bagman, the guy who’s supposed to keep him out of trouble.
I was right all along. You were on the pier, along with his other toadies. Funny that.’
‘Funny?’
‘Yeah. You looked all right in a DJ.’
Winter held her eyes for a moment or two longer, then slipped the card from the undertakers out of his pocket and propped
it on the dashboard.
‘It’s been a pleasure.’ He shot her a smile. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Faraday was on the point of leaving when Jimmy Suttle appeared at his open door. He’d just had a call from Parsons, good news
as it turned out.
Suttle, scenting some kind of breakthrough, wanted to know more.
‘She’s called me back for the forensic management meeting tomorrow. Half ten at Fratton. She’s in the chair, of course, but
after that she’s coming across to hold the fort until Monday.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I get the weekend off.’
‘Great.’ Suttle sank into the chair. He loathed Parsons. ‘So how does that all work?’