It was Faraday, oddly, who raised the issue of Winter. He and Suttle were on the mainland, heading north on the M3. Two hours
earlier Sadler and Oobik had both been released on police bail, while Martin Skelley had agreed to make himself available
for interview at his Brentford distribution centre at half eleven. On the phone he thought there was a reasonable prospect
of having the information they needed.
Faraday wanted to know more about Suttle’s last conversation with Winter.
‘You mean in Pompey? When I went over on Monday night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like I told you, I think he wants out.’
‘But why?’
‘I think he’s had enough. I think it’s dawned on him that he’s in a bad place.’
‘He’s right.’
‘Of course he’s right, boss. The real question is what he does next.’
‘From our point of view, you mean?’
‘Yeah. Winter’s a player, always has been. Just now my guess is that he’s in a big, big hole. If he can get himself out more
or less intact, then that’s exactly what he’ll do. But he may need us to help him.’
Suttle had ghosted this idea past both Willard and Parsons on his return to Ryde, but Willard had dismissed it out of hand.
He was disappointed that no grounds existed for arresting Winter for the removal of the girl’s clothes and her phone but he
was confident that one day, hopefully soon, Winter would make himself a sitting target for the fate he so richly deserved.
No way would Willard deny himself the satisfaction of putting the man away for good.
‘So where’s the advantage?’ Faraday eased into the fast lane.
‘For us, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘As far as this job’s concerned, I’m not sure. Assuming the cocaine exists, it may well be linked to Mackenzie. If that’s
true, then Winter would know about it. How much he’d know is down to how much Mackenzie’s told him. These guys are canny.
Information’s gold dust. They hate sharing it around.’
Faraday laughed. ‘Sounds like Winter,’ he said.
‘Exactly. Same MO. Ferrets in a sack. No wonder he wants out.’
Faraday nodded. The next question was obvious.
‘You’re telling me he might grass Mackenzie up?’
‘Yeah, I think he might.’
‘On this job? On the cocaine?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You think it’s worth a shot? Some form of approach? Another conversation?’
‘Absolutely.’ Suttle sat back, gazing out at the traffic. ‘Where else do we go?’
Winter awoke to the buzzing of his video entryphone. It was late and he had a headache. Naked, he made his way to the hall.
Mackenzie’s upturned face hung on the tiny screen, demanding to be let in.
By the time he made it up to the third floor, Winter had wrapped himself in a dressing gown, filled the kettle, opened the
door to the apartment and retreated to the bathroom to swallow a handful of ibuprofen. He was still trying to remember why
he’d necked so much malt last night when he joined Mackenzie in the big living room.
Mackenzie, as ever these days, was on a tight schedule. The media were like kids, he told Winter. They needed constant attention
otherwise they lost interest.
‘A whole day without an interview?’ Winter rubbed his aching head, trying to massage the pain away. ‘God forbid, Baz.’
‘You think that’s funny?’
‘I think it’s mad.’
‘Why?’
‘These people will bite you on the arse one day. They’re not kids, they’re animals. One sniff of blood and they’ll be all
over you.’
‘Bollocks, mush. Me and Leo sort out the music. All the other monkeys do is dance.’
He perched on the edge of the sofa, ignoring Winter’s offer of coffee.
‘You gonna sit down and listen to me or what, mush?’
Winter did his master’s bidding. Mackenzie’s suit was new, quiet, nicely cut. Marie’s choice, Winter thought.
Bazza was talking about Lou Sadler. He’d belled her half an hour ago.
‘Why?’
‘Because we need a little chat.’
‘About what?’
‘My toot, mush. I wasn’t kidding about the spic woman. Her name’s Alisa. She’s due next week, Tuesday.’
‘You told me tomorrow.’
‘Change of plan. She’s flying into Gatwick. We meet her at the airport. We do the business. We give her the cheque.
Problema
sorted.’
Winter assumed they were talking about the hit on Brett West. He was right.
‘But what about Tommy Peters?’
‘He’s the middleman. We’ve just cut him out.’
‘And if he objects?’
‘We whack him.’
‘
Whack
him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve told him that?’
‘No, mush. Not yet. First things first, eh?’
Mackenzie went back to Sadler. She said she’d been away for a couple of days. On business.
Winter laughed. His headache was beginning to recede.
‘Did she tell you where?’
‘I never asked, mush.’
‘I bet. What else did she say?’
‘She said yes.’
‘To what?’
‘To my invitation. You’re buying her lunch.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. She’s coming over on the hovercraft. I said La Tasca, half twelve.’
‘And she agreed?’
‘Like a shot, mush. Can’t wait to meet you again. Shake you by the throat. Sweet lady. Get her in the right mood, she might
even bung you a freebie. See what you can do. Anything less than a million, we’re not interested.’
‘A million?’
‘For my toot, mush. She’s got it and, if she agrees a respectable price, she can keep it. Two hundred and fifty K of what
she pays goes to our new Spanish friend. The rest is ours. So …’ he got to his feet, cracked his knuckles ‘… start
high. Anything over a million, you’re on 10 per cent. How does that sound?’
He checked his watch and headed for the door, not bothering to wait for an answer. Then he paused.
‘One other thing, mush.’
‘What’s that, Baz?’
‘Today’s
Telegraph.
’ He flashed a smile. ‘Fill your boots.’
Freezee’s southern distribution depot lay on the edge of a west London trading estate beside the M4. Rows of white refrigerated
vans and lorries were parked beyond the chain-link fence and a couple of security guards bent to Faraday’s borrowed Fiesta
to check his ID. His name was evidently on the list of expected callers. The guy with the clipboard was black.
‘You suppliers? Customers? Or what?’
‘Neither. Where do we find Mr Skelley?’
‘Over there, mate. Ask the lady on reception.’
Faraday parked. The girl behind reception was young, neatly turned out, beautiful eyes. Suttle did the honours.
‘Mr Skelley’s expecting you, gentlemen.’ She had a flat London accent. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
Skelley kept them waiting more than half an hour. Suttle helped himself to a copy of the
Sun
from the selection of tabloids on the low glass table while Faraday watched the comings and goings. Business, it seemed,
was brisk. Cut-price burgers were clearly weathering the recession.
Skelley came out in person to collect them. He was a big man, carrying a stone or two of extra weight, but he moved with the
grace and lightness of a ballroom dancer. One look at his face told Faraday that there must be West Indian blood in his family:
the skin colour, the tiny button ears, the tight whorls of greying hair, the blackness in his eyes. His handshake was firm.
There was no warmth in his smile.
‘You guys OK for coffee?’ He was looking at the empty cup.
‘Fine, thanks.’
Faraday and Suttle followed him down a long corridor to an office at the end. A couple of secretaries stepped carefully aside
to let him pass. He acknowledged neither of them.
The office was modest: a desk, a small conference table, no windows. On the plain white wall behind Skelley’s chair hung a
framed photograph. Faraday had once been to Derwent Water on a birding expedition. He recognised the distant whale hump of
Skiddaw.
‘Nice.’ He especially liked the gleam of silver grey on the water. ‘Fantastic light.’
Skelley wasn’t interested in small talk. Nor did he apologise for keeping them waiting. He wanted to know how he could help
them. He had a light Scouse accent and his habit of twirling a pen between his fingers spoke of a deep impatience.
Faraday briefly described the thrust of Operation
Gosling.
He and D/S Suttle were exploring various lines of enquiry. Whether or not Skelley had any Freezee vans on the Isle of Wight
within a certain time frame was one of them.
‘Why?’ The question was blunt.
‘I’m afraid I’m not prepared to discuss that, Mr Skelley. We’re simply after the information we discussed on the phone.’
‘And if I don’t give it to you?’
‘Then we’ll continue the conversation elsewhere.’
‘Down the nick?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded, unsurprised, and pulled a drawer open. Moments later Faraday found himself looking at a complicated spreadsheet
tallying the movements of various Freezee vehicles.
‘My PA’s highlighted the one you want in yellow,’ Skelley said.
Faraday followed the yellow band. The vehicle in question was a long-wheelbase Transit. It had left the London depot at 06.15
on Monday morning, driven down to Portsmouth, crossed to Fishbourne on the car ferry and spent the whole day on the Isle of
Wight. By 23.18 on Monday night it was back in Brentford.
‘Do you have a delivery schedule for the island?’
‘Next page.’
Faraday turned over. The list of drop-offs began in Ryde, after which the driver had made calls in Sandown, Shanklin, Ventnor,
Freshwater, Totland, Yarmouth, Newport and finally Cowes.
‘You’ve got addresses for this lot?’ Faraday tapped the list.
‘Obviously.’
‘Can we have them?’
‘That might take a while.’
‘We’re happy to wait, Mr Skelley.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
He held Faraday’s gaze for a moment or two, then lifted the phone and murmured instructions.
‘Half an hour,’ he said, replacing the phone. ‘You’re in luck.’
‘What about timings?’
‘You’ll have to go round and check.’
‘Doesn’t the driver keep a log? Can’t you ask him?’
‘Sadly, no.’ The same mirthless smile. ‘The guy’s Polish. He left us at the end of last week.’
Suttle produced a notebook and jotted down the details. Guy called Pavel Beginski. Worked for Freezee for eleven months. Lived
at a couple of addresses in west London, most recently in Shepherd’s Bush.
‘Is he still in the UK?’
‘No.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘No idea. He didn’t tell me.’
‘Then how do you know he’s not around?’
‘Because he said he’d had enough of us. The money was good when the pound was strong. Nowadays the pound’s shit so …’
he shrugged ‘… guys like him go looking elsewhere. France? Germany? Somewhere in Scandinavia? Depends how hard you want
to look.’
Faraday nodded. This was turning into a repeat performance of the interviews with Lou Sadler. Immigrant labour again, always
on the move.
Suttle wanted to know about the booking-in process. Skelley was watching him carefully.
‘I’m not with you, son.’
‘What happens when these vans come back?’
‘Empty, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘We give them a bit of a sweep-out.’
‘Who does that?’
‘The driver.’
‘Pavel?’
‘In this case, yes. There’s a hose too, and scrubbing brushes and all sorts if he fancies it. You get inspected in this business.
Those guys can be evil, believe me. Any complaints –’ the edge of his hand came down on the desk ‘– the driver gets the sack.
There and then. On the spot.’
Faraday nodded. He’d spotted CCTV cameras on the gate. How long did Freezee keep the recorded pictures?
‘Four working weeks.’
‘So last week …?’
‘We’ve still got them. You’re telling me you want them?’
‘Yes, please.’
Skelley nodded. His hand reached for the phone again, then paused.
‘Anything else? Before I drive the poor fucking woman mad?’
‘Yeah …’ It was Suttle. ‘You say this Polish guy, Pavel, left on Friday last week. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘So he worked the rest of the week, yes?’
‘I assume so.’
‘And you’d have a schedule of the jobs he did?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yes, please.’ Suttle nodded at the phone.
Skelley made the call. Faraday’s eyes were on the photo of Derwent
Water. It was some small comfort that Suttle was way, way ahead of the game.
Skelley was off the phone. He had a meeting scheduled any time now. He wanted to know what else they wanted.
‘Lou Sadler …’ It was Faraday this time. ‘Do you know her, by any chance?’
‘Of course I know her. She’s a tenant of mine. She and those horses of hers.’ He paused. ‘You know something? That little
farm was the first property I ever owned in my life. And you know why? Because I spent the best part of a year and a half
in the nick down the road, Parkhurst. My cell was up on the fourth floor. If I stood on tiptoe I could see clear over the
prison wall. There was countryside all the way over to Cowes – fields and little farms – and I told myself that one day I’d
buy myself a bit of that. And you know something? That’s exactly what happened. It took a bit of time but I did it. Upcourt
Farm. Nothing special. Nothing fancy. But mine.’
‘You know Upcourt Farm?’
‘Of course I do. I just told you.’
‘But you know Upcourt Farm in the context of this inquiry?’
‘All I know is the rents get paid. There’s a South American woman lives in the farm itself. Colombian lady. Mad as a box of
frogs. Nice though. Makes you laugh.’
‘And Lou?’
‘What about her?’
‘You know her well?’
‘Well enough. We’ve met socially, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Do you speak regularly? On the phone maybe?’
Skelley hesitated, recognising the trap that Faraday was trying to lay. Most phone calls were a matter of record. Call billings
could offer rich pickings in a situation like this.