‘Of course we talk on the phone. Do I remember the last time that happened? No, I don’t. This is a multi-million-pound business.
By six o’clock most days my brain’s exploding. When did I last talk to Lou Sadler? Sorry, guys, can’t help you.’
‘But you’re close.’
‘I like to think we’re friends. Where I come from there’s a difference.’
There was a knock on the door and a woman in her fifties came in. She handed Skelley an A4 envelope and whispered something
in his ear. He checked his watch and nodded. Then she’d gone.
‘I’ve got someone waiting for me downstairs.’ He flashed the smile again. ‘Can’t keep them hanging around.’
He gave Faraday the envelope and hoped their journey up hadn’t been in vain. Anything else they needed, just give him a ring.
‘And this?’ Faraday gestured at the envelope.
‘All the stuff you were after. Good luck, eh?’
Back in the Fiesta, the envelope still unopened, Faraday asked for Suttle’s assessment.
‘We attack him on the fine print, boss. Go to all those drop-offs on the island, build a timeline, check the ferry bookings,
cross-match them with the CCTV, establish just when he could have dropped off the radar for an hour or so and nipped into
Upcourt Farm. Logic says it has to be after dark. In, bosh, out again. Job done.’
‘And afterwards?’ Faraday was gazing round the big asphalt apron. ‘Up here?’
‘My guess is this guy Pavel locked the van, left it here, got his head down, then pushed on next day.’
‘Where?’
‘Take a look.’ Suttle nodded at the envelope. ‘My money’s on somewhere way up north.’
Faraday opened the envelope and shook out the contents. The information he was after was on the second sheet of paper. Pavel
Beginski’s last-ever job for Freezee had been on the Tuesday of last week. After that he’d taken three days’ paid leave in
lieu of holiday and disappeared.
‘So where did he go on the Tuesday, boss?’
Faraday glanced across. His finger was still anchored on the spreadsheet.
‘Carlisle.’
Lou Sadler was already at La Tasca when Winter arrived. A grey day in February was a strange time to be wearing dark glasses
but Winter imagined she’d probably had enough of being eyeballed. Major Crime interviews could be seriously intrusive. And
the cuisine in most custody centres was frankly crap.
Sadler had been studying the menu. Winter shed his leather jacket and sat down.
‘You’re late.’ She didn’t look up.
‘My apologies. It’s a bit of a hike from my place.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ He knew the menu by heart. ‘Those big prawns in chilli and garlic are brilliant. So are the
Patatas bravas.
Me? I’d eat in here every day of my life. Misty’s the same
.
’
‘How is she?’
‘Fine. Sends her best. Hoped you didn’t let all those hairy men get to you.’
‘What hairy men?’
‘The Major Crime lot. The ones who can read can be good company. The rest …’ Winter shrugged and then signalled to a waitress.
‘And you’d know, would you?’
‘Yeah. I used to be one.’
‘So I understand. So what was that like?’
‘OK. Multiple homicides were the best. You’d be amazed what people get up to.’
The waitress had arrived. Winter ordered a San Miguel. Sadler wanted a glass of white wine. Then she turned to Winter again.
‘Let’s get this thing done,’ she said.
‘Thing?’
‘Don’t. I’ve been fucked around enough as it is. Frankly, I could have done without all this.’
‘I bet.’
‘Right. So just tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Tell me what’s in that fucking bin liner. The one you nicked. The one you’ve stashed. The one you talked to me about on the
phone. And do me a favour, yeah? Don’t take me for an idiot.’
Winter did his best to look contrite. Thirty-six hours with Major Crime obviously did nothing for your sense of humour.
‘Johnny Holman must have appeared at your girl’s place. Right?’
‘Wrong.’
‘The guy looked a wreck. Stank of smoke. Stuff all over him, some of it blood. Yes?’
‘You’re making this stuff up.’ She was laughing now. ‘You’re like the rest of them. No wonder you were a cop.’
Winter ignored her. ‘You told him to get changed, ’ he said. ‘Maybe he had clothes there already. Maybe he and the girl were
that cosy. Maybe she lent him a dressing gown. Fuck knows. But either way you got those clothes off him.’
‘And then?’ The laughter had gone. She was listening at last. She gestured for Winter to carry on, but he shook his head and
just looked at her.
‘You tell me,’ he said at length. ‘You tell me what happened next.’
‘You found the clothes, didn’t you?’
‘Johnny’s gear?’ Winter nodded. ‘Yes, I did. Just like I told you on the phone the other day.’
‘I didn’t believe you.’
‘Big mistake.’
‘I thought it was a bluff.’
‘Wrong. I’m good at this stuff, believe it or not.’
‘So where is it, Johnny’s gear?’
‘Silly question.’
‘Somewhere safe?’
‘Somewhere very safe.’
‘And what next?’
‘Good question.’
He let the silence between them lengthen. Then he asked her where she thought Holman’s dirty clothes had gone that night.
‘I think he must have bagged them up. I’ve no idea what happened after that. The whole thing was a nightmare.’
‘So he
was
there?’
‘Of course he was there.’
‘And you came back soon after? Picked up the rest of her things?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But not Holman’s gear?’
‘No. We assumed the old lady must have found them and chucked them out. Turned out I was wrong.’
‘Shame.’ Winter shook his head. ‘Rule one, never assume
anything
.’
‘Don’t be a smart-arse. Just tell me again you’re sitting on this stuff.’
‘I am.’
‘So what was he wearing? Describe the T-shirt.’
‘Bob Dylan. A mug shot, black on white. Plus that line about the Joker and the Thief. Very apt.’ Winter smiled at her. ‘Happy
now? Believe me?’
‘So what do you want?’
‘A cut of what you’ve made on the cocaine.’
‘What cocaine?’
‘Don’t fuck about, Lou. I don’t know what you’ve done with it, and I’ve no idea where it is, but Misty tells me you’re really,
really
good at spotting opportunities. And if two and a half million quid’s worth of my boss’s toot isn’t an opportunity, then you
tell me what is.’
‘Two and a half
million
? You’re having a joke, aren’t you?’
‘We’re talking street prices, Lou. Baz is good at adding up. He’s one of those guys who can count in their sleep. When he
tells me his mate Johnny was sitting on sixty-four kilos of the pure stuff, the wholesale stuff, then I believe him. And when
someone comes along and digs a fucking great hole to get it all out, I buy that too. Why? Because I bimbled along and saw
the hole for myself. The night after they released the scene.’
‘Don’t put a foot wrong, do you?’ Winter sensed she was impressed. Either that or she was taking the piss.
‘Never, love. Not then. Not now. So say we accept you’ve sold it on. Say some other monkey stamps on it and bangs out all
those little wraps. You’ll still be looking at around two and a half million quid. And all that for nicking someone else’s
toot. Ours, as it happens.’
She nodded, said nothing. The drinks arrived. Winter swallowed a mouthful of San Miguel. Sadler’s wine remained untouched.
‘One thing I forgot to ask.’ It was Winter. ‘Did Max give Johnny a hand to dig that hole?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because the way I hear it, Johnny was a little runt. He’d have needed that kind of help. Big time.’
She shook her head. She wasn’t having any of this. Winter helped her out.
‘I’m serious, Lou. It had to be Max, didn’t it? That’s how you got to know about the toot in the first place. Unless shitface
told you first.’
‘Shitface is Holman?’
‘Yeah. That comes from way back. A tribute to his thirst. Tell me something else too. Shitface was putting it about that he
got freebies off you. Is that right?’
‘Off the girl, not me.’
‘Kaija?’
‘Her real name’s Maarika. So yes, it’s true. God knows why, but she put out for him, gave him pretty much everything he wanted.
I told her she was nuts. I told her it would all end in tears. As it turned out I was wrong: it was much worse than that.
Like I say, total fucking grade-A nightmare …’ She reached for the glass at last.
‘So who killed Johnny?’
‘I’m not telling you that.’
‘But he was killed, right?’
‘Yeah. Dead man walking. Maybe someone did him a favour.’
‘Like Max?’
She smiled a tight little smile, said nothing. In the interview room, thought Winter, I’d have her kippered in no time at
all. He’d rarely seen a franker admission of guilt.
She was toying with her glass now. She wanted to know what would happen if she simply got up and walked away. It was a possibility.
She could do it. What then?
‘Then I phone a friend.’
‘Like who?’
‘Like the guy who’s driving the intel cell for Major Crime. I think you’ve met him.’
‘Tall guy? Curly red hair? Early thirties?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He was all right. Had a brain on him.’
‘Exactly. And you know what he’d do with that bag? All that gear of Johnny’s? Once I’d filled him in about how I came across
it?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘He’d do his best to link it to you. Maybe you handled it. Maybe you stuffed it in the bag. Or maybe Max did. Either way,
we’re talking DNA. And why does that matter? Because by now you’ll have told him all about rescuing the girl, and for my money
you’d have left little Johnny out of it. Why? Because you want to keep the little twat at arm’s length. He was nothing to
do with you. You hadn’t seen him for weeks. And he certainly wasn’t with the girl when you and Max turned up. This stuff isn’t
rocket science, love. In your place I’d have run exactly the same story. You got a call, right? In the middle of the night,
right?’
She nodded, said nothing.
‘The girl was upset. She couldn’t tell her arse from her elbow. Johnny’s probably fed her all this shit about a brand new
start in tootle-land. The guy’s covered in blood. He smells like a bonfire. He’s probably pissed. So what’s a working girl
going to do? Run away with a headcase like Holman? No way. She phones you. Am I getting warm?’
Sadler was looking at her glass. She said nothing.
‘So you arrive. With Max. You assess the scene. You know you’re looking at a disaster. You have to make some decisions pretty
fucking fast. This guy Holman is sitting on a great fat whack of toot. Plus he’s probably got a shotgun in the car. You might
even had had a peek inside the car because it’s sitting out there in the road. And even if you can’t see all those kilo bricks,
the girl’s probably mentioned them already. All part of the nightmare. Yeah?’
‘It’s worse.’
‘How?’
‘Max is her brother.’
‘Whose brother?’
‘Maarika’s.’
‘Fuck. So Max isn’t at
all
pleased.’
‘No –’ she shook her head ‘– he wasn’t.’
‘You want to tell me the rest?’
‘No.’
‘You understand what I can do with Johnny’s gear?’
‘Yes.’
‘What next then?’ Winter grinned at her. ‘Your call.’
Faraday and Suttle didn’t go back to the island that afternoon. Instead, they drove to Portsmouth and checked into the Major
Crime suite at Fratton police station. Parsons was at her desk, preparing an interim report on
Gosling
for Willard. Stony-faced, she listened to Faraday’s account of the interview with Martin Skelley. At the end of it she seemed
just a little brighter.
‘You’re right, Joe,’ she said. ‘We test Skelley’s account to breaking point. Every single link in that chain. Start on the
island, like Jimmy’s suggesting. Track the delivery van. Draw up a timeline.’
‘And the van itself?’
‘Seize it. Bosh it. One dead body? Loads of cocaine? No one’s forensically perfect.’
‘It’s been a while, boss.’ This from Suttle. ‘They’ve got steam-cleaning equipment at the depot. We saw it.’
‘Doesn’t matter. People make mistakes.’ The light was in her eyes again. She drew a brisk line through her draft report. ‘Get
people up
to London. Take a look at his place in the Lake District. Do some work on his comms. Analyse the billings. Put them alongside
Sadler’s. New start, Joe. Just get it done.’
Faraday retired to his office and phoned the satellite MIR at Ryde. After this morning’s release of Oobik and Sadler, more
than half of Faraday’s detectives had been returned to the mainland with the result that the investigation was running at
half-throttle. Now
Gosling
had to be cranked up again.
The Outside Enquiries D/S was still at his desk. Faraday told him that Suttle was on his way over with the new brief. He himself
would be staying on the mainland overnight and returning first thing tomorrow.
‘Eight a.m.,’ he said. ‘Squad meet.’
He put the phone down to find Parsons standing at his open door. She’d had Personnel on again, wanting an update on Faraday’s
well-being.
‘You look knackered, Joe. Do whatever won’t wait, then have an early night. Mr Willard sends his best, by the way. I’ve told
him everything’s in hand again.’
It was gone seven when Faraday returned home. The lights were on in the kitchen and one of the windows was open upstairs.
Gabrielle, he told himself. She must have come back.
He parked the CID Fiesta behind his ancient Mondeo and let himself into the house. The kitchen was empty but Gabrielle’s laptop
was open at the end of the table she often used for work. He stepped into the living room, wondering whether she might have
fallen asleep on the sofa, then carefully made his way upstairs. The bedroom door was ajar. He could hear the familiar rise
and fall of her breathing. He eased the door open until he could see her slender shape under the duvet. Her face on the pillow
was turned towards him. In the soft spill of light from the hall she looked utterly at peace, the old Gabrielle.
He smiled, gladder than he knew that she’d come home at last. A small toast, he told himself. A glass or two of something
decent in celebration. He found a bottle of Rioja in a cupboard downstairs. He uncorked it and poured himself a glass. Then
he took it through to the kitchen, gazing at the stove, wondering whether to get something ready for when she woke. Would
she be hungry? Did he have anything fresh he could knock into the kind of alfresco meal they’d always enjoyed together?
He decided that could wait. For the time being he’d just settle down and enjoy the wine. He sank into the chair at the end
of the table. Then his eyes strayed to the laptop and he began to read. He was
looking at Gabrielle’s in-box. She must have been reading the email on the screen. It was in French. It had arrived a couple
of hours ago.
Ma petite,
it went
.
Je suis si heureux de savoir que tout va bien pour toi. Tes photos de la petite Leila sont extraordinaires. Je suis très fier
de toi et de tes efforts. Tu as toujours été courageuse, toujours tenace, mais maintenant plus que jamais. Ca me fait énormement
plaisir de te donner un peu d’argent. Ca a été merveilleux de te revoir après toutes ces années. Reviens à Paris une fois
de plus. Et reste plus longtemps. Je t’embrasse. Philippe.
Faraday, still nursing his glass of wine, read it again. This was somebody who knew Gabrielle very well. His name was Philippe.
He’d seen photos of Leila that Gabrielle must have sent him and he wanted her to know how proud of her he was. It had been
great to see her after all these years, and it had been an absolute pleasure to give her a little money. She must come to
Paris again. And this time she must stay longer.
Faraday looked up, trying to focus on the clock above the stove. ‘A little money’ was clearly an understatement. This was
the man who had made Leila’s transfer to the UK possible. This was the guy who’d given her £87,000. Only days ago, over the
meal in the pub, Gabrielle had told him the money had come from a rich Arab she’d met through a friend at the university in
Orleans. Not some old flame from Paris. She’d been lying to him. And now Philippe couldn’t wait for her return.