‘You,’ he grunted, buzzing him in.
‘Me,’ Suttle agreed, ducking out of the rain.
Winter had the door open and a towel ready.
‘You’ll catch your death,’ he muttered. ‘Me? I was just off to bed.’
‘Yeah?’ Suttle was drying his mop of red curls. ‘It could have been worse. It could have been me and the Ninjas.’
Ninjas was cop-speak for the Force Support Unit, the house-entry guys in full body armour, who were rarely in the mood for
conversation. Winter felt pained by the very thought.
‘She wouldn’t be that spiteful, would she?’ He was looking at the row of lagers he’d readied in the fridge.
‘Who?’
‘Parsons.’
‘She might.’ Suttle tossed him the towel, refused a bottle of Stella. ‘Where do you want to do this?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Yeah. Here if you don’t fuck around. Otherwise it’s the Bridewell.’
‘You’d have to arrest me.’
‘Absolutely my pleasure.’
‘D’you mean that?’
‘Yes, I fucking do. What are you up to, Paul? First you turn up in Ryde, picture of fucking innocence, just happen to have
heard about a fire or something. Next thing we know, you’re poking round a key witness then nicking off with what you know
might be a crime scene. Am I right here? Or have I missed something?’
Winter was amused. Master and pupil, he thought.
‘Sit down, son. And don’t shout. The neighbours hate it. It might be news to you but we pay a fortune for peace and quiet
in this neighbourhood.’
Suttle stared at him, then took a seat in the corner of the sofa. Winter settled in the armchair. He hadn’t touched his Stella.
‘In your place, son, I’d have gone for open account first,’ he said. ‘I’d have asked me to explain my movements, every single
one, and then I’d have listened very hard until I tripped myself up.’
‘But you won’t, will you? You won’t trip yourself up.’
‘So why are you here? Apart from the apology you’re about to make?’
‘Apology?’ Suttle looked blank.
‘For the techies. For the sneaky-beaky. I don’t know whether it’s budget cuts but we used to be quite good at B & Es. In-out,
bish-bosh, job done. You know about rule one?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Always check the bedrooms.’ Winter lifted his bottle. ‘Cheers. Mist sends her love. Here’s hoping those guys are still in
a job.’
Suttle smothered a yawn and rubbed his eyes. Winter knew exactly how he felt.
‘Long day?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Getting anywhere?’
‘Don’t be a twat, Paul. Just give me credit, eh?’
‘Fine, son. So how can I help you?’
Suttle was half-watching the television. Jeremy Paxman was getting indignant about overpaid bankers. Winter reached for the
remote and turned the set off.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘You went to see Nancy Percival, right?’
‘The old lady in Cowes? The one who rented the room to Luik?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s right.’ Winter nodded. ‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I had grounds for thinking the girl had been there. And as it transpired, I was right.’
‘Stop talking like a cop.’
‘I was a cop, son.’
‘Then tell me why the girl was of any interest. What was Luik to you lot?’
‘Was?’
‘Is.’ Suttle shrugged.
‘You think she’s dead?’
‘Just answer the fucking question, Paul. And stop twatting about.’
‘You
do
think she’s dead.’
Suttle gave him a hard look, made a point of checking his watch.
‘I can have a car here in five,’ he said. ‘It’ll take a while to get you booked in because no one down there likes you very
much. Then there’s the brief. Then there’s disclosure. And then you’ve got eight hours straight on one of those poxy mattresses
in one of our nice new cells before we even begin to get down to the business.’
‘I know.’ Winter nodded. ‘I was down there yesterday.’
‘At the Bridewell?’ Suttle was at sea again.
Winter explained about the crash on the M275: 90 mph in Bazza’s
Bentley and a photo from one of the ANPR cameras to prove it. This was plainly news to Suttle.
‘Did you kill anyone?’
‘No, thank fuck.’
‘Injuries?’
‘Minor.’
‘And you?’
‘Me, son? I was lucky. I’m still here, talking to you.’
Suttle went back to Kaija Luik. He wanted to know why Mackenzie thought she was so important.
‘Mackenzie didn’t. I did.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Luik was screwing Johnny Holman, and Holman is very definitely important to Mr M.’
‘In what way?’
‘In every way. They go back years, centuries, for fucking ever. You’ll have seen the file. You’ll have done the association
chart. You know Bazza. He can be a handful sometimes but deep down he’s loyalty on legs. Holman was having a rough time –
his own fault mostly, but you don’t look too hard when you’ve been mates. Then the guy gets burned to death, and that pisses
you off somewhat, then it turns out that he wasn’t in the house at the time, and that starts you thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘About what’s going on with your mate Johnny. About exactly what’s happened to the old cunt. And about the various ways you
might be able to make life a bit sweeter for him.’
‘Very touching.’ Suttle didn’t believe a word.
‘But true, as it happens. So guess who gets the sharp end of all this? Guess who finds himself on that fucking hovercraft
again
?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Yeah, son. Little me. Why? Because I’ve got to find Johnny. And how do I do that? I go looking for his girlfriend. And how
do I know her name? Because
you
told me.’
‘I did.’ Suttle nodded. ‘You’re right.’
‘OK.’ Winter nodded, his point made. ‘Next?’
Suttle wanted to know how Winter got to Nancy Percival’s place. Winter explained about his hour with Monique Duvall. Suttle
shook his head in disbelief.
‘That was on expenses?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘Lovely. Outstanding.’
‘I bet. So the mobile you nicked took you to Luik?’
‘To the old girl. That was luck on my part and shit work on Lou Sadler’s. Luik had left her mobile under the pillow. Like
I said just now, always check out the bedroom.’
‘So you paid the old girl a visit?’
‘Yeah. We had a little chat, like you do, and she gave me the rest of the stuff.’
‘The bin liner?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And the mobile?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which you took away?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it might take me a step closer to Luik. And if that happened, I might even lay my hands on little Johnny.’ He held
his hands wide, an expression of the purest innocence. ‘Job done.’
‘So what was in the bag?’
‘Clothes.’
‘What kind of clothes.’
‘Her clothes. Luik’s clothes. Or so I assume. You want to look? Give me a receipt and take the fucker off my hands? Only you’re
more than welcome, son.’
Suttle studied him for a long moment.
‘The old lady told me she found the bin liner in the garden. Why would that be?’
‘I’ve no idea, son. I’m not a detective. D’you want this sodding bin liner or not? Only it’s way past my bedtime.’
Suttle gazed at him. Winter wondered whether the last five minutes was worth a round of applause. The boy looked exhausted.
‘There’s something that really interests me,’ he said at last, ‘something about you and Mackenzie.’
‘And what’s that, son?’
‘I think you’ve had enough.’ He glanced at his watch and then reached for Winter’s bottle of Stella. ‘Would that be right?’
Faraday awoke before dawn, aware that something seemed to have changed. The tenement at the back of the hotel was in darkness.
Beyond, he could see the orange glow of the Ryde street lights. From miles away, out in the Solent, came the
parp
of a ship’s hooter; closer, the whine of a car changing down through the gears for the roundabout. He rolled over and checked
the alarm clock beside the bed.
He rubbed his eyes, wondering why he felt so fresh, so rested, so free from the constant tug of anxiety that had shadowed
him since the accident. Then he had it:
Gosling
had turned a corner and he was back at the controls of a machine for which he had a profound respect. Get the next twenty-four
hours right, he told himself, and his life might be his own again.
He sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at the carpet, aware that since Oobik’s arrest he hadn’t spared Gabrielle a moment’s
thought. He’d been too busy, too alert, too aware that he couldn’t afford a single distraction. In the past this degree of
concentration had been a huge mental drain; now, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, it seemed to have revived him. He reached
for the towel he’d abandoned on the nearby chair. A shower, he thought, then an early start.
Winter, at about the same hour, was lying in bed listening to the growl of an early Fastcat as it made its way down-harbour
for the crossing to Ryde Pier. Jimmy Suttle had left before midnight, pocketing Luik’s mobile but scarcely bothering to inspect
the contents of the carefully soiled bin liner. They were both aware that this was an artful piece of theatre, and Suttle
was wise enough to know that Winter would have taken every possible precaution to shield himself and his boss from any kind
of charge, but the essence of the evening had come later.
Suttle, to Winter’s quiet satisfaction, was a detective of quality, mindful of the investigative possibilities that lay in
the friendship that had somehow survived Winter’s journey to the Dark Side. He’d
probed the older man with care and, Winter thought, genuine concern. He’d wanted to know why the buzz of working for Mackenzie
had begun to fade. He’d gently suggested that the guy had some seriously vicious habits that no amount of money or political
ambition or gruff Pompey wit could disguise. And he’d pointed out that sooner or later, come what may, Mackenzie would crash
and burn. Did Winter want to be part of that? Was the prospect of getting old in a prison cell
that
enticing?
At first Winter had kept him at arm’s length. How could Suttle possibly assume that anything had soured between him and Bazza?
And what kind of betting man would take a serious wager against Mackenzie going from strength to strength? Serious criminals,
he told Suttle, were in a different league to the Men in Blue. The best of them, class acts like Mackenzie, were perfectly
equipped for the cut and thrust of business. They were bold, they knew the moves, and they weren’t afraid to pay good money
for the best advice. In a bare handful of years they could emerge untainted from the mud and bullets they’d left behind. No
more racing round Pompey, chasing up drug debts. No more strong-arm tenant evictions to free up this property or that. Just
a busy, diligent, civilised ascent to fame and fortune.
Suttle had laughed at this and wished Winter luck. Then, getting to his feet, pocketing Kaija’s mobile and then picking up
the bin liner, he’d said something else. He and Lizzie were going to have a baby, a little girl. And if everything worked
out, they’d be honoured if Winter would consent to be a godfather.
If everything worked out.
Winter lay in the half-darkness, listening to the distant roar as the Fastcat picked up speed, wondering exactly what the
lad had meant.
Faraday was at his desk in the SIO’s office by six o’clock. Soon he’d have to drive over to Newport for the interviews, but
for now he needed to review overnight developments. On top of the pile of paperwork on his desk was an interim report from
the intel cell on Martin Skelley. One of the D/Cs must have worked half the night to get this thing done, Faraday thought,
wondering whether the seized accounts from Sadler’s office had got the same treatment.
He fired up Parsons’ coffee machine and settled down to read the report. Martin Skelley was a Scouse bad boy from a big Catholic
family in Toxteth. By his late teens, according to intelligence reports from the Merseyside force, he’d been running a tyro
protection racket, extorting weekly insurance ‘premiums’ from terrified local shopkeepers. One Sikh, braver than the others,
had told Skelley to get lost, an act of neighbourly defiance that had put him in hospital with injuries
described in the intel report as ‘briefly life-threatening’. Violence on this level had provoked a robust CID response, and
Skelley – who’d personally inflicted the bulk of the damage – got a hefty stretch for GBH. He’d served the early part of this
sentence at HMP Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight, then a tough Category A prison. He’d held his own against the usual army of
bully boys and assorted psychotics and had emerged virtually intact.
Criminality plagued his twenties, but prison had taught him a great deal about not getting caught again. His talent for violence
and his taste for the good life took him into drug dealing – mainly cannabis and cocaine – and by the end of the 90s he’d
managed to wash and invest a serious amount of money. Some of it went on the purchase of a successful car auction franchise,
operating nationwide. The rest bought him a fleet of refrigerated vans, from Transits upwards, which became the backbone of
a company called Freezee.
Faraday broke off to pour himself a coffee. Skelley’s genius lay in realising the potential of the regular, reliable and above
all cheap delivery of cut-price fast-food packs nationwide. This was the kind of stuff that went to roadside burger stalls,
fairground outlets and the tens of thousands of inner-city caffs that made a living by dishing up this crap. These people
always dealt in cash. There were no hassles about credit terms or unpaid invoices. Either you paid for the stuff on the spot
or the van drove away. If Skelley could undercut the opposition, and he could, then he was perfectly placed to make a second
fortune.
And so it had proved. Freezee had gone from strength to strength, and the corporate website now boasted of more than 170 vehicles
nationwide. Treat yourself to a cheapo burger in Aberdeen or Penzance, and the chances were that the thin greasy disc of
beef and gristle had been delivered by Martin Skelley.
According to the intel D/C, Freezee had bought Skelley the lifestyle of his dreams. The company was run from a trading estate
near a major motorway junction outside Manchester. Skelley had a trophy penthouse in one of the city’s new canalside apartment
blocks, plus a sprawling house tucked away on the shores of Derwent Water in the Lake District. He got around in a brand new
Porsche Carrera and kept a decent-sized day cruiser on a private mooring at his lakeside home. But it was his first property
purchase that caught Faraday’s eye. In 2002, with Freezee gobbling up more and more of the market, he’d bought nine acres
of the Isle of Wight in the shape of Upcourt Farm.
Faraday helped himself to a refill, spooned in more sugar, aware that this was the link he’d been after. Suttle had already
established
that Lou Sadler rented the stables from Skelley. It was therefore reasonable to suppose that these two knew each other. They
were business people. They were used to operating on the margins of what was legal. And Faraday could well imagine Sadler
offering some kind of discount on her escort girls when Skelley was trying to win new business. That’s the way these people
worked. If you spotted an opportunity, you could share it. And if you suddenly found yourself in the shit, then all you had
to do was pick up the phone.
Faraday smiled and reached for a pen. He was still scribbling himself a note for the Outside Enquiry D/S when he heard a light
tap at the door. He looked up. Meg Stanley.
It was barely half past six. She was on her way across to Upcourt Farm from the hotel and had intended to drop a summary of
last night’s forensic developments on Faraday’s desk. Since he was here, she could go one better.
She confirmed that the examination of the caravan was virtually complete. As Suttle had suspected, someone – presumably Oobik
– had given the place a thorough clean prior to repainting. Tiny shreds of fabric where the floor met the sheet-metal sides
of the caravan indicated the recent removal of a carpet, and there were confirmatory screw holes along the edges of the floor
where someone had removed lengths of carpet gripper. Neither the sink trap nor the chemical toilet had yielded anything of
forensic interest, nor were there any traces of blood, hair or skin scrapings. In summary, she said, an impressive job.
‘But definitely a clean-up?’
‘Yes. The CSI told me about the B&Q receipt. If we need to, we can match the new paint in the van to what’s left in the tin.
That means the clean-up happened last week after the purchase time.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Oobik bought two rolls of dustbin liner. There are twenty sacks on each roll but we can only find thirteen
sacks left. That means he must have used twenty-seven sacks. Which is a lot for a bit of carpet and whatever else he wanted
to get rid of.’
Faraday extended a hand for the summary. She handed it across.
There was more, she said. At first light the CSI was going to make a proper start on the area outside the caravan, but last
night, under floodlights, he’d had a preliminary look round.
‘And?’
‘Interesting. There are three outhouses. Two serve as stables, the other one is a kind of garage for the boat trailer.
The CSI had a good look at the last one and thinks there might be two sets of tyre marks. Nothing evidential, but indentations.
He looked outside too and got the same impression.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we might be dealing with two separate items. The trailer obviously and something else, maybe a small car.’
Faraday nodded. The Corsa, he thought. If you wanted to hide it, an outhouse like that would be perfect.
‘One other thing, Joe.’ Stanley still hadn’t finished. ‘It’s pretty exposed up there, and the caravan is tied down at each
corner. We’re talking guy ropes, basically, secured to anchor points. I took a shot of one of them.’ She nodded at the summary.
‘It’s on page seven.’
Faraday found the photo. It had been taken at night. A big metal eye had been sunk into a crude concrete block. A rope secured
through the eye disappeared vertically out of shot.
‘How much do these things weigh?’ Faraday was trying to imagine them.
‘They’re heavy. They have to be.’
‘Too heavy to carry?’
‘No way. Not if you’re someone like Oobik.’ She gestured at the photo again. ‘Now turn over.’
Faraday went to the next page and found himself looking at another guy rope, secured this time to a thick iron stake.
‘This is from the caravan too?’
‘Yes. And the really interesting thing is the grass around it. Here.’
She dug around in her bag. The sight of a magnifying glass put a smile on Faraday’s face. She passed it across.
‘Take a look at the grass,’ she said.
Faraday did what he was told. The outlines of what could have been a block were clearly visible.
‘You’re thinking someone’s taken the block?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
‘When?’
‘It has to be recent.’
‘How recent?’
‘Not more than a week. The pattern’s survived because it’s winter. In summer we’d have lost it within a day or so. Too much
growth.’
Faraday nodded. This, he sensed, was hugely significant. First the suggestion of a car in the outhouse. Then the need for
all those dustbin liners. Then the clean-up. And now the removal of a hefty chunk of concrete with a handy fixing on top.
‘OK.’ He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. ‘So how do you read this?’
‘What do I think happened?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded towards the pot. ‘Coffee first?’
*
Winter arrived at Misty Gallagher’s in time for breakfast. She was in the kitchen, wrestling a collection of pans from the
dishwasher. Alone in the house, with the central heating at full blast, she made do with a silk dressing gown. Recently she
seemed to have lost the belt.
‘How did you get in?’ She gathered the dressing gown around her.
‘You gave me a key, Mist.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yeah. You want it back?’
She gave him a sharp look, then shook her head.
‘Come here,’ she said. ‘Give me a kiss. Tell me we’re friends again.’
Winter put his arms around her. She let the gown hang
loose and held him tight. She said she’d missed him. She said they were too old to worry about all the stuff that might or
might not happen. He made her laugh and he wasn’t bad in bed when he made an effort, and to be honest they’d had some good
times so what, exactly, was the problem?
Winter laughed. She never failed to stir him.
‘What are you after, Mist?’
‘You, my love. Do you think you can manage it? Just one more time?’
She caught his hand and put it on her breast. Then she kissed him properly before sinking to her knees. Winter watched her
kissing him through his trousers. He’d never been quite sure what love meant but moments like these might be quite close.
‘Here or upstairs?’ She was looking up at him.
‘Your call, Mist. But you’d better stop doing that.’
She took him up to the bathroom, ran a tubful of hot water, tipped in a generous slurp of scented bubbles, soaped him like
a baby until Winter smelled of pine needles.
‘I’ve always wanted to fuck a lumberjack,’ she murmured, giving him a little squeeze.
She led him, pink and newly towelled, through to her bedroom. The bed was still warm from her body. At Misty’s insistence,
Winter lay back while she dribbled oil between her breasts. Then she knelt between his open thighs and planted a row of kisses
across the swell of his belly, swooping lower and lower until he shut his eyes and began to move against her. He felt her
breasts on either side of him, cupping him, and after a while, longer than usual, he gave in and let it happen.