Faraday wondered whether to rejoin Gabrielle at the guest house but decided against it. The room depressed him – the muddy
yellows on the wall, the faint smell of neglect – and now the sun was out again he fancied a stroll, lungfuls of fresh air
to clear the last of his headache, maybe down by the river. At Riham’s request, he’d bought a bag of olives and some halloumi
cheese from the delicatessen Gabrielle had found, and he stepped into the treatment room where the patients’ fridge was kept.
He put the olives and the cheese in the fridge and was about to leave when a nurse he hadn’t seen before came in. She was
carrying a box of toys, which she left on a chair. She was young, with a soft face and a twinkly nose stud.
‘You must be Gabrielle’s friend,’ she said.
‘Joe.’ Faraday extended a hand. ‘How did you know?’
‘I was with Leila this morning. She was due for a change of dressings on one of her hands. She told me about your beard.’
‘Through Riham? The translator?’
‘No.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘She’s a very bright little girl. We talk in mime mainly but we talk. She’s obviously
got a problem with her hands but she does her best. She told me you had a beard.’ She touched her own chin.
The thought that Leila could establish relationships like this hadn’t occurred to him. He wanted to know more. How many other
nurses did the little girl chatter to?
‘I’m not a nurse. I’m what they call a play specialist. I’m the one who distracts them when all the nasty stuff happens. The
older ones call me their Good Angel.’
‘As opposed to bad?’
‘Definitely.’
‘And Leila? You’re her Good Angel?’
‘I am. She thinks I’m funny. I make her laugh.’
Faraday was eyeing the box of toys. He liked the idea of a Good Angel.
‘So what do you think of our Leila?’
‘I think she’s amazing. Truly amazing. I know she’s got a lot of support – the Arab lady, your Gabrielle – but the pain these
children go through is horrible, and not having your mum and dad around must be very tough.’
‘You think she’s getting better?’
‘Much.’
‘You really see a difference?’
‘A huge difference. I know part of that’s down to all the treatment and stuff, but what matters is her and Riham. They’re
close, really close, you can see it. Children need one special person. They need to reach out. Maybe it’s a trust thing, I
don’t know, but Riham has been there for her, twenty-four/seven. It gives her strength, confidence. Like I said, there’s a
smile back on her face.’
Children need to reach out. The sister had said exactly the same thing only yesterday. Poor Leila, Faraday thought. Poor Gabrielle.
‘And what about her future?’ he said carefully.
‘She’ll go back. She’ll have to go back.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We had a little girl like this before. She came from Uganda. Once she was better we had to send her home. She had no family
in this country. Just like Leila.’
‘But what about …’ he hesitated ‘… adoption?’
‘That takes an age. I don’t know enough about it. All I know is that the children first have to go back to where they came
from.’
‘And Gabrielle knows that?’
The play specialist looked at him. The question had thrown her.
‘You’re asking
me
?’ she said.
Winter was back at Misty’s place by two o’clock. He’d helped himself to the Bentley at the hospital, driven back down to Portsmouth
and phoned her from Blake House, leaving a message asking her to get in touch. When she finally returned the call she said
she felt vile. Too much vodka. Not enough sleep.
‘Fine,’ Winter said. ‘I’m on my way.’
He floored the Bentley on the motorway out of the city, ignoring a succession of speed cameras. If Mackenzie ended up with
a drawerful of speeding tickets, so much the better. He hadn’t heard a word from him since leaving the hospital and he’d made
no effort to get in touch. In some ways the scene at Leyman’s bedside had reminded him of the afternoon Tommy Peters had wasted
Westie and his girlfriend. The same passionless settling of a debt. The same cold application of carefully measured violence.
When he arrived at Misty’s, she was taking a bath. He perched on the edge of the tub. She was right: she looked terrible.
She wanted to know how he’d got out to Hayling Island.
‘I drove, Mist.’
‘Drove what?’
‘The Bentley.’
‘That’s what I thought. He wants it back.’
‘I’m sure he does.’
The fact that Mackenzie had been in touch with her again told him everything he needed to know. No matter what he might have
said about these new freedoms of hers, she was as tightly bound to him as ever. This had nothing to do with affection, he
told himself. Only money.
‘He’s still there, isn’t he, Mist?’
‘Where?’
‘On your back. All over you. You can’t get shot of him. You don’t
want
to get shot of him.’
‘He owns this house, Paul. Life’s not that simple.’
‘Leave it. Walk away.’
‘Where to? How?’ She reached for a tumbler of something clear that Winter hadn’t spotted before.
‘What’s that?’
‘Vodka, darling. Are you my keeper?’
‘Never. That’s not what I want. Neither do you.’
‘No? Then what
do
you want?’
‘Excellent question, Mist, and if I knew the answer you’d be first on the list.’ He paused. He’d never felt this kind of anger.
Not with Misty Gallagher. ‘What else did you tell him? As a matter of interest?’
‘When?’
‘At four in the morning. When you gave him a bell.’
‘He called me. He’s worried about you, Paul. We all are.’ She nodded at the brimming tub. ‘You want to share this with me?’
Winter ignored the invitation. He’d been crazy to think that circumstances would ever prise Bazza and this woman apart. That,
he knew now, would never happen. Misty Gallagher, contrary to whatever fantasies he’d once had, was simply another bone Mackenzie
had tossed his way.
‘This man is sick, Mist. You understand that? Sick in the head. Clever? Yes. Handy? Yes. Ruthless? Yes again. But he’s going
to take us all down, Mist, all of us.’
‘That’s not what a girl likes to hear.’
‘But it’s true, Mist, and you know it.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me earlier? When you were enjoying it all?
What’s so special about now?’ She reached for the glass. She looked, if anything, reproachful.
Winter gazed at her, risked a smile. Any moment now she was going to accuse him of losing his sense of humour, and he didn’t
want that. Not until he had this thing sorted. Not until he could see some way out.
He bent down, cupped her face with both hands, then nuzzled the wetness of her cheek. She responded, hauling herself upright
in the bath, water sluicing down her ample chest. Winter felt the splash-marks spreading across his shirt.
‘That padlock on the trapdoor up to the loft,’ he said, ‘where’s the key?’
‘In my purse. Kitchen drawer. You can’t miss it.’
He nodded, stepped across to the door, paused.
‘Something else, Mist. Be honest.’
‘Always.’
‘Did you mention the holdall to Baz?’
‘No.’ She submerged again. ‘Trust me, eh?’
Lizzie Hodson drove an ancient Renault Clio with 130,000 miles on the clock. Suttle spotted it the moment he stepped off the
hovercraft. She had the passenger door open by the time he emerged from the terminal building. He hadn’t seen her for nearly
a week.
It had taken the Outside Enquiries D/S to remind him it was Valentine’s Day. En route to the hovercraft on the island side,
Suttle had made a hasty detour to a florist at the bottom of Ryde High Street. She was nearly out of roses but let him have
a bunch she’d prepared earlier for a client who hadn’t turned up.
‘Happy Valentine’s.’ Suttle kissed her, then again, properly. She looked at him a moment, nose to nose.
‘You know something?’ she said. ‘Winchester’s a really bad idea.’
‘You’re right.’ Suttle produced a bottle. ‘I got you this too.’
They took the champagne home. Their bedroom was at the back of the house, all the more intimate for being so small. Lizzie,
who adored rich colours, had modelled the curtains on a feature she’d seen in a French magazine. She’d echoed the reds and
purples in the bedding and spent a fortune on scented candles.
He put a match to them now, enjoying the light they cast. They drank the champagne, made love, had another glass or two, compared
notes, caught up, emptied the bottle.
Then Lizzie rolled over, came very close. Suttle loved the smallness of her, the way she giggled when she was drunk, the things
she liked
to do to him, the sense she gave him that if everything else in the world turned to rat shit, it wouldn’t begin to matter.
‘My turn.’ She licked his ear. ‘There’s something I forgot to mention.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m pregnant.’ Her eyes were gleaming. ‘Happy Valentine’s.’
For most of his life Winter had successfully resisted the temptation to think too hard about the passage of events. Like many
police officers, he’d ridden the breaking wave of Pompey crime, anything from shoplifting to homicide, and largely enjoyed
himself. There were rarely days without a challenge or two, and he’d completed more than twenty years in the Job with a number
of decent scalps hanging from his belt.
His journey to the Dark Side had been conducted in the same spirit. He’d done his best to keep Bazza’s little canoe in one
piece as they plunged from one set of rapids to the next, and cherished some of the wilder moments en route. He’d known from
the start that working for Mackenzie would never be dull and he hadn’t been disappointed. Between them, they’d posted some
famous victories. They’d also had a few laughs, and he could remember celebratory evenings around the table in Marie’s kitchen
that would stay with him for ever. But this was different.
In the Bentley it was a couple of minutes from Misty’s place to the seafront. Hayling Island had escaped the development that
had cluttered Southsea seafront. At low tide, beyond the sand dunes, the beach and the views seemed to stretch for ever, the
grey winter light a pale gleam on the distant sea. Winter had always regarded this as a landscape for life’s thinkers, troubled
loners who worried too much about the bigger issues. That had never been Winter’s way. Until now.
He walked east, his back to the distant Pompey skyline along the coast, trying to rid himself of the memory of Colin Leyman
sitting in his hospital bed, the rabbit caught in Mackenzie’s headlights. Inflicting that kind of damage, that kind of pain,
made Winter deeply uncomfortable. Insisting on a trophy photograph afterwards verged, he thought, on the psychotic.
For whatever reason, Mackenzie had lost control of himself. Maybe, like many physically small men, he’d been in the business
of
compensation for most of his life. He’d had to try harder, run faster, think quicker, and stay on his toes longer than any
other bastard. The world was a sweet shop, full of goodies, and he was determined to help himself. In many ways it had worked.
He’d seized control of the city’s cocaine trade and scored a fortune. He’d washed the money carefully and salted it away.
He was much admired, much feared, and now – with Tide Turn – he was trying to cash in on that respect and build another little
sandcastle on the Pompey beach. But that, maybe, was where it had all gone wrong. Not because he didn’t have the talent and
drive to do all this stuff, but because Bazza Mackenzie had never recognised the limits of what was possible. In his own view,
Winter concluded, there was nothing that this person he’d become couldn’t do.
Would that kind of raging ambition be enough to sink them all? Winter knew the answer was yes. Time and again, as a working
cop, he’d collided with another man’s life at the point when he thought he was beyond reach. Whether it was money, or drugs,
or violence, these guys regarded themselves as immortal. Then came the knock on the door, or the intercept on the street,
or the ambush on the motorway, and another stellar Pompey legend came plunging back to earth. Quite how it would happen to
Mackenzie was yet to be seen, but Winter had an instinctive feel for the ebb and flow of advantage and knew Bazza’s days were
numbered. Not because Winter’s ex-colleagues were especially bright. But because Mackenzie was going off his head.
So what to do? Winter, the master tactician, had dreamed up endless little schemes to keep them off the rocks, and so far,
just, they were still afloat. But he knew that resolving the current situation – Tommy Peters, Johnny Holman, two million
quid’s worth of toot – was probably beyond him. And even if they survived, the recession was about to make the whole thing
impossible. Bazza, he thought, couldn’t have chosen a worse moment to play God.
Depressed by the prospect of the days to come, Winter returned to the car park. If nothing else, he thought, he could treat
himself to one last taste of driving a 100K motor. He slipped behind the wheel of the Bentley and turned on the eight-speaker
audio. It was getting dark by now, and he sat for a moment or two in the soft glow of the dashboard lights, listening to Five
Live, Mackenzie’s station of choice. The car was brand new, Bazza’s second in as many years. It smelled of serious money.
Enjoy.
At the top of the island Winter joined the stream of traffic heading west towards Portsmouth. Five minutes later, away to
the left, he could see the floodlights at Fratton Park. He knew already from Five Live that Pompey were playing at home. Realising
that the score
might shape Mackenzie’s mood for the evening, he listened for the result. The match had just finished. Doubtless to Bazza’s
satisfaction, Pompey had just beaten Manchester City 2–0.
Winter settled deeper in the seat, blipping the accelerator and enjoying the effortless surge of power. The motorway ran beside
the creek at this point, and he glanced across at the blackness of the water before easing into the nearside lane for the
Pompey exit. The long curve of the slip road opened out before him, feeding traffic south onto the spur motorway that crossed
a corner of the harbour. Traffic from Fratton Park was flooding out of the city. He glanced at the soft orange dial of the
speedo, wondered whether to ease up. The car handled like a dream. The last of the slip road was empty. He could barely hear
the engine: 95 mph felt like walking speed.
He didn’t see the van coming in from the right as he joined the motorway. Neither did he realise how quickly he was closing
the gap with the big artic ahead. He had time to stamp on the brakes and flash his headlights before he felt the Bentley lurch
sideways as it hit the van. There was a squeal of brakes and a sickening thump as the van spun sideways into the crash barrier.
The Bentley too was out of control. For a brief split second, as the car began to turn over, Winter was aware of the looming
bulk of the artic, the huge wheels, then he heard a strange roaring noise and the faintest tinkle of glass before the darkness
and the silence bore him away.
After a while, he never really knew how long, he came to. He was hanging from the safety belt. Everything was upside down.
The radio was still playing. He could smell petrol. He shut his eyes, opened them again. Definitely Gloria Gaynor. Then, to
his faint surprise, came a voice from outside, a woman’s voice. She wanted to know whether he was OK. She sounded frightened.
His fingers were searching for the belt release. He asked her to help him but she refused.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Wait for the ambulance.’
He did what he was told, wondering why nothing hurt. This was like a movie, he thought, the plot lines all tangled up, nothing
making any sense. Then, from far away, the wail of a siren, something he recognised, something he could visualise. Just in
time, he thought, feeling the first hot wave of nausea flooding up from his stomach.
He began to vomit, a horrible choking sensation. Then a gloved hand came in through the window, and a yellow high-vis cuff,
and another voice, male, was telling him to take it easy. He threw up again, wondering vaguely when he’d have time to sponge
out all the marks on the leather. Then, through the shattered windscreen, he thought he recognised the outlines of firemen.
These guys have come to get me out, he thought. Thank Christ for that.
A little later the car had gone. He was lying on his back, staring up at a woman’s face. He could feel movement, hear the
swish of tyres on a wet road. Then came the siren again and a sharp movement to the left. When he tried to struggle upright,
the woman restrained him. He became aware of other hands cupping his head. Strange, he thought vaguely. Whatever happened
to Gloria Gaynor?
Marie took the call in the kitchen. Bazza was in the den, watching
Final Score.
Another three points took Pompey even further from the relegation zone. The season was beginning to perk up.
Hearing the door open, he glanced round. He knew at once something had happened.
‘What’s the matter? What’s up?’
‘That was the police. There’s been an accident.’
Mackenzie was on his feet, reaching for his jacket. It was the Bentley. He knew it. Fucking Winter.
Marie told him what she could. There’d been a pile-up on the motorway into the city. There were a number of casualties. One
of them, it seemed, was the driver of the Bentley. The car was registered to Mackenzie. Hence the call.
‘They found ID on him,’ Marie said. ‘It was Paul.’
‘Is he OK? Is he
alive
?’
‘They think so.’
‘
Think
so? Thank fuck for that.’ Mackenzie pushed past her.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Where do you think.’
‘Wait.’ Marie hurried after him. ‘I’ll come too.’
They took her Peugeot up to the hospital. The motorway was closed beyond the continental ferry port and they joined a long
slow queue of traffic winding up through the suburbs of North End. Mackenzie was fretting about Winter. He was a daft old
cunt, he told Marie, but he’d hate to be without him. Marie said nothing. She had an overwhelming desire to cry. She’d got
used to Winter, relied on him to some degree. He’d brought something extra to their lives, something that hadn’t been there
before. For one thing, he made her laugh. Now this.
At the QA she took the entrance that led up to A & E, joining yet another queue. She could see a line of ambulances at the
top of the rise. There were police cars there as well. Mackenzie had the passenger door half open. He’d run up there. It’d
be quicker. She shook her head.
‘Leave it to me.’ She stepped out into the rain. ‘You find somewhere to park.’
*
Winter knew he’d been lucky. He was fully conscious now, lying on a bed in one of the treatment bays. He’d taken a crack on
his head and he could feel scabs of blood on his temple above his right ear, but that was pretty much it. Maybe an ache or
two in his right shoulder and a soreness across the chest where the seat belt had dug in, but nothing compared to the casualties
he’d glimpsed in the neighbouring cubicles. One of them, an Asian guy, was groaning fit to bust. Seconds ago a doctor had
come running, and now there was an urgent babble of voices from which Winter could coax little sense.
A nurse appeared, followed by another doctor. He was absurdly young, probably a teenager. He shone a light in Winter’s eyes,
took a hard look at the wound on his temple, asked him a series of daft questions about what day it was and whether or not
he could divide eight by two. Finally he said that Winter would be kept under observation overnight after X-rays on his skull.
A third figure appeared, a uniformed policeman. He was carrying a breathalyser. When the doctor made room for him in the cubicle,
he squatted beside the bed and explained the procedure. This was routine, he said. Every driver was being tested.
‘How many’s that?’ Winter was still trying to get the last hour or so in some kind of order.
‘Lots, sir. Do you mind blowing in this?’
Winter supplied a couple of lungfuls of air and waited for the result. He couldn’t remember having a drink since last night
but couldn’t be sure.
‘That’s fine, sir. A few details now, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll be out of your hair.’
The officer already had his driving licence, a fragment of Winter’s life that had somehow gone missing. Winter confirmed his
address and date of birth. Yes, he’d been driving the Bentley. And no, he couldn’t remember anything about the accident itself.
This wasn’t strictly true, but Winter saw no point in complicating the issue. Policemen dealt with amnesia every day of their
working lives. Why make it easy for them?
‘Many hurt?’
‘A good few, sir, yes.’
‘Badly?’
‘Too early to say, sir.’
‘And?’ Winter looked him in the eye, sensing already that he’d been fingered as the guilty party.
‘No, sir. No fatalities. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’
‘Quite.’
The officer got to his feet. He said he’d be back tomorrow, once Winter had got his bearings. I don’t doubt it, Winter thought.
Odds on, you’ll bloody arrest me.
He lay back, watching the officer pull the curtain closed behind him. The drama in the next cubicle appeared to have calmed
down. Winter closed his eyes a moment, tracking back, trying to fit the pieces together, trying to remember the exact sequence
of events that had taken him to the slip road and thence to disaster.
He remembered the lights of Fratton Park way off to the left. He remembered the car park at Hayling Island. He remembered
the greyness of the afternoon, distant stick figures on the beach, a couple of dogs. Then an image of Misty came back to him,
sprawled in the bath, the pinkness of her knees, the invitation to jump in that he might have been wise to accept. He smiled,
wondering whether she’d pop across to Gunwharf over the next day or two. Bring him a bunch of flowers or a bottle of malt.
Slap on a coat or two of that wonderful nail varnish.
The thought warmed him. Then, abruptly, he remembered something else. Before leaving Misty’s place, he’d retrieved the holdall
she’d stowed away in the loft. It had Johnny Holman’s kit inside and it was still in the Bentley. If his new police friend
or any of his mates laid hands on that, they’d all be stuffed. Unauthorised removal of evidence. Perverting the course of
justice. Endgame.
He closed his eyes, shook his head in despair. He knew enough about road traffic accidents to picture exactly what would be
happening on the motorway. The guys from the Road Policing Unit would be gathering evidence. Cameras would already have given
them a clue or two about exactly what had happened. They’d collect witness statements, measure skid marks, examine impact
damage. And finally the low loader from Boarhunt Motors would turn up and cart off the remains of the Bentley for further
examination. In the boot of the Bentley was the holdall with Johnny Holman’s clothes. The crime scene of Gail Parsons’ dreams.
Horrible.