‘What is it?’
‘I need a word, Baz.’
‘Later, mate. Like it says on the door.’
‘Now, Baz.’
Mackenzie blinked. This was no way to address a future mayor. Especially in this kind of company. He was about to have the
full ruck but thought better of it. He pushed a plate of biscuits towards the councillor and got to his feet.
There was another office, smaller, that Mackenzie reserved for more intimate conversations. A huge blow-up photo of David
James adorned one wall.
A Safe Pair of Hands
was currently under consideration for use in Bazza’s projected poster campaign. Along with
The Real Thing
and
Clean Up Pompey.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are, mush?’
‘Shut the door, Baz.’
‘You shut the fucking door.’
‘Fine.’ Winter pushed it shut with his foot. ‘She’s offering 350K.’
‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘Lou Sadler.’
‘Three hundred and fifty? She’s having a laugh, isn’t she?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘I said yes.’
‘You said
what
?’
‘I said yes. I agreed it, Baz. I did the deal. We need that money by Monday. There’s no point fucking about.’
‘But three fifty’s a steal. It’s outrageous. It’s blind fucking robbery. There’s no way she’s getting away with that.’
‘Fine.’ Winter shrugged. ‘Have you got a quarter of a million handy? For your Spanish friend?’
‘
Our
Spanish friend, mush. And no, I haven’t.’
‘Then three fifty it is. You want the good news? She’ll pay in euros.’ He shot Mackenzie a cold smile and stepped past him.
The door open again, he turned. ‘Something I forgot to mention, Baz. When I go down on the due care charge, they’ll lay a
grand fine on me. You’re
looking at a hundred grand change from Sadler.’ Another smile, warmer this time. ‘Any chance?’
Parsons was on the Isle of Wight by late afternoon. She stepped into the SIO’s office without knocking. Faraday looked up,
surprised to see her. After the best part of an hour spent tidying up, his desk was bare.
‘Boss?’
‘How are you, Joe?’
‘Fine,’ he said vaguely. ‘You?’
She smiled at him, uncertain, then sat down.
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘So how’s it going?’
‘How’s what going?’
‘Everything …
Gosling.
’ She frowned. She’d just noticed the whiteboard on the wall. Yesterday it had been littered with reminders, phone numbers,
names and the odd scrap of heavily underlined information that badged major inquiries force-wide. Now, like the desk, it was
wiped clean.
Faraday was telling her that everything was fine, just fine. Suttle, he said, had been kindness itself.
‘How?’
‘Little ways, important ways. It’s not easy sometimes, boss. You know something about that lad? He understands.’
‘Understands what?’
‘Me. This. The Job. Pretty much everything, really.’
Faraday leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. He had a tiny smile on his face, as if he was privy to some joke or other,
but then his head came down again and Parsons recognised the glint of tears in his eyes. He stared at her, forcing the smile
wider. The tears were running down his cheeks now, and she stood up, edging her bulk around the desk, putting her arms around
him, telling him everything was going to be all right. Then the door opened, admitting Suttle.
‘I’ve got a car round the back, boss,’ he said quietly. ‘You want me to give you a hand?’
Faraday was back at the Bargemaster’s House by half past five. Suttle had accompanied him across on the hovercraft and organised
a taxi from the Southsea terminal. Now, he walked him up the path to his front door. Faraday had the keys in the pocket of
his anorak but told Suttle to ring the bell.
‘She’ll be in,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a meeting.’
Suttle rang the bell, waited, rang again. Nothing. He got the keys from Faraday’s pocket and opened the door. Faraday stood
in the hallway, uncertain in the darkness. Suttle found the light switch and called Gabrielle’s name. Again, nothing. The
house smelled damp and unloved. No one’s been here for a while, Suttle thought, and it’s beginning to show.
In the kitchen, propped against the teapot, he found the note. It was terse.
Merci pour rien
,
it said. Suttle didn’t read French but caught the gist. No name. No scribbled kiss. Just the savage biro strokes of someone
with a lot to get off her chest. Gabrielle was angry. And she’d obviously gone.
He stuffed the note in his pocket, not wanting to upset Faraday any further.
‘So what was the meeting about, boss?’
Faraday was standing in the open doorway, gazing round, an expression of mild curiosity on his face. This house might have
belonged to someone else, Suttle thought, and in a way it had.
‘Meeting?’
‘Yeah. You mentioned a meeting just now, you and Gabrielle …’
‘Ah, yes. The social worker.’
‘
Social
worker?’
‘About the child, Leila. Maybe I’ve got the wrong day. Maybe that’s it.’ He started worrying about what day of the week it
was, and when Suttle confirmed that it was Thursday, he checked his watch and sighed.
‘Funny,’ he said. ‘Odd.’
Suttle gazed at him. In truth, he hadn’t a clue what to do next. Should he take this boss of his to his GP? Get him checked
out? Or should he risk a bit of a short cut and ring the people at St James and get him sectioned? Parsons, clearly out of
her depth, had earlier told him to ring Personnel for advice, but Suttle knew she was only covering her back. This man needed
more than advice. He needed a bit of a cuddle.
He stepped across, put his arms round Faraday and held him tight. Faraday stiffened at once, an instinctive act of resistance,
but then he began to relax and moments later Suttle felt a head settle on his shoulder.
‘You’re a good lad.’ His voice was a murmur. ‘A good lad.’
Suttle said it was nothing. Faraday had been a terrific boss. He just needed a bit of time, a bit of peace.
‘“Have been”?’
‘Are. This is just a blip, boss. A pit stop. You know something? You should have left it a bit longer before you came back.
Going through a windscreen isn’t something you can rush. You need to work it through.’
‘Really?’ Faraday was looking at him now, his eyes shiny again.
‘Yeah, for sure. You want a drink? Something to eat?’
‘Yeah.’ Faraday nodded at the fridge. ‘You’re going to join me?’
‘Of course.’
Suttle fumbled around in the fridge. He counted eight cans of Kronenbourg, not much else. He was still looking for glasses
when his phone began to ring. He fetched it out, checked caller ID. Winter.
‘You mind, boss?’
‘Go ahead.’
Winter said he was in his Lexus on the seafront. He wanted to come across to the island. He had something on his mind.
‘Like what?’
‘We have to talk, son. Properly. Just this once, eh?’ He sounded needy, almost plaintive. Fuck me, Suttle thought. Two of
them.
‘I’m not on the island, Paul.’
‘You’re not?’
‘No, I’m back in Pompey.’
He half turned, catching Faraday’s eye. Faraday had guessed who it was on the line. His slow smile was the first faint glimmer
of sanity Suttle had seen all day.
‘Get him round, Jimmy.’ Faraday nodded at the fridge. ‘Party time.’
*
Winter was knocking on the door minutes later. Suttle let him in, wondering how much to say about Faraday. In the end he opted
for nothing. Winter, he knew, could scent frailty or a weakness within seconds. He’d draw his own conclusions.
Faraday was tucked up on the sofa, nursing his second glass of Kronenbourg. Winter made himself comfortable in a nearby armchair.
He was gazing at the hi-fi stack. Faraday’s choice of music had always been a total mystery.
‘Richard Strauss.
Four Last Songs.
’ Faraday tipped his glass in salute. ‘Cheers.’
Suttle returned from the kitchen. A single glance told him that Winter had sussed it all. The blanket tucked round Faraday’s
knees. The slightly manic smile. The way his face had changed.
Winter threw a look at Suttle, an eyebrow raised a millimetre or two, and Suttle just nodded. A couple of years back he and
Winter had been in countless situations like this, needing to check the rules of engagement without putting anything into
words. Suttle’s nod meant fine, go ahead, no problem.
Winter swallowed a mouthful of lager, plucked at the crease on his trousers, decided to direct the thrust of what he had to
say to Faraday.
‘It’s about me,’ he began, ‘and Mackenzie.’
He talked for maybe twenty minutes. At the end of it Suttle knew a great deal about what Winter had been up to with Mackenzie
these past couple of years, where their various adventures had taken them, and he had a very clear notion of what might be
up for grabs. Nothing spelled out. Nothing he could statement, record, turn into evidence. But something deeper and altogether
more personal. Winter and Mackenzie had come to a parting of the ways.
‘Does Mackenzie know this?’ The question, to Suttle’s surprise, came from Faraday.
‘No, boss.’ Winter shook his head.
‘Then I’m glad.’
‘Why?’ ‘Because now you can do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Screw him.’
‘No, boss.’ Another shake of the head from Winter. ‘We.
We
can screw him.’
There was a long silence. Suttle was suddenly grateful for Richard Strauss. This stuff caught the mood beautifully. Something
was dying. And about time too.
‘You mean that?’ Suttle this time.
‘Absolutely.’
‘When?’
‘You’ll have to give it a while.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have to sort one or two things out.’
‘But why not now? Why not just give us everything? Everything you know? That’ll put Mackenzie away for a very long time. The
rest we can discuss.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like what kind of deal the bosses might cut. You’ll need that, Paul.’
‘You mean witness protection? New ID? New start? All that bollocks?’
‘Yeah.’ Suttle nodded. ‘Otherwise he’ll have you.’
‘He’s had me already, son, in ways he doesn’t even realise.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You go so far, and then you go a little further, and then something happens, something horrible, and you realise what kind
of animal you’ve become. That’s bad enough, son, but when it happens twice you know you’ve got to do something about it.’
‘And that’s what’s brought you here? That’s what this is about?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Care to share it?’
‘Not really. Not yet.’
‘But you will share it?’
‘I’ll have to.’
‘And I can take that as gospel? When I talk to –’ he shrugged ‘– whoever?’
‘Willard.’ It was Faraday again. ‘You’ll have to talk to Willard.’
‘That won’t be easy.’ Suttle knew exactly how much trust Willard was prepared to put in Winter. He’d been burned too often,
Faraday too.
‘What do you think, boss?’ Suttle turned to Faraday.
‘About what?’
‘About this. About Winter. About what he’s offering us.’
Faraday’s head went down. For a moment Suttle thought he was going to cry again, but he was wrong.
‘I think he probably means it,’ he said at last. ‘I think here and now it makes perfect sense. The problem with all of us
is tomorrow. Why? Because we never know.’
There was an exchange of looks. Winter’s sense of timing had never been less than perfect. He leaned forward, his voice soft,
sympathy on legs, probably genuine.
‘What’s the matter, Joe?’ He’d never used Faraday’s Christian name in his life, something that sparked a small nod of appreciation.
‘I got something badly wrong,’ he murmured after a while. ‘And I’m supposed to be a fucking detective.’
Suttle stayed overnight at the Bargemaster’s House. Winter had left around ten o’clock, no less determined to bring his association
with Mackenzie to an end, and Suttle had been the one to see him to the door. Winter had paused outside in the throw of light
from the hall, the Lexus keys already in his hand. He wanted Suttle to know that he was serious. Suttle had nodded.
‘You’d better be,’ he said. ‘Because this is your last chance.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘No, I think you do. And I think that’s why you came.’
‘Good call, son.’ Winter had given him a little pat on the arm. ‘Someone must have taught you well.’
Suttle and Faraday had talked a little longer. Faraday was exhausted – Suttle could see it in the sag of his shoulders – and
it was at Suttle’s suggestion that he took himself off to bed. Alone, still downstairs, Suttle had wondered whether to drive
home but in the end decided against it. Lizzie wasn’t expecting him back. She’d assume he was still on the island. Best to
kip over on the sofa in case Faraday did anything silly. Tomorrow, he told himself, I’ll phone Gabrielle. If anyone knows
what to do with the old boy, then it’s probably her.
He made the call from the hovercraft terminal the following morning. He’d spent a comfortable night on Faraday’s sofa, made
him tea at daybreak and told him to have a lie-in. The sight of Suttle at his bedside didn’t seem to surprise Faraday in the
slightest. Nor did he appear to have any interest in what might be happening with
Gosling.
After thirty years in the Job, the light he kept in that special place, the candle that had always lit the pathways forward,
had been snuffed out. He asked how many sugars Suttle had put in the tea. And when Suttle said one and a half, like always,
he seemed pleased.
Gabrielle answered almost immediately. She’d met Suttle on a number of social occasions and knew how close he was to Faraday.
Suttle told her what had happened. Her man wasn’t himself. He’d been taken off the current inquiry. There was no question
of him returning to work for the foreseeable future, certainly not before he’d had help.
‘What kind of help?’ Gabrielle sounded shocked.
‘I’m not sure.’ It was the truth.
‘Is it something physical?’
‘No, not really.’
‘What then?’
Good question. Suttle was watching a seagull chase a fragment of bread roll across the landing ramp. Faraday, as far as he
could judge, had suffered a crisis of belief, but how would you ever put that into words?
‘I think he’s a bit lost,’ Suttle said.
‘Lost, how?’
‘He doesn’t know who he is any more. He doesn’t trust himself. He can’t make decisions. In our business that can be a problem.’
‘
Bien sûr.
So where is he?’
‘At home. In bed.’ Suttle was about to suggest she got over there, saw him for herself, made up her own mind, but Gabrielle
beat him to it.
‘I’m in Salisbury,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the train home.’
Faraday left the Bargemaster’s House at half past nine. He’d checked out Paris flights from Southampton airport and knew that
the next one left early that afternoon. After a peaceful night’s sleep he told himself he was in the mood for some serious
detective work. Not because he couldn’t bear the thought of Gabrielle having a fling with some old boyfriend, but because
he wanted to know who this person might be. Reading the email on her laptop had broken his heart. Now he was left with nothing
but the vaguest sense of curiosity. Shame, he kept telling himself. Just such a shame.
Car parking at the airport presented him with a challenge: short or long stay? He went for the latter, not caring any more
where the next few days might take him. He took the shuttle bus to the terminal building and studied the destinations board.
The Air France flight to Orly was already showing. He bought a single ticket, browsed the bookshop, wondered about a paper,
decided against it. The flight left at 14.45, giving him four hours to kill. Maybe a nap, he thought, heading across the concourse
towards a distant row of seats.
Suttle had to wait until late morning before he could get in to see Parsons. With Faraday off the plot, she’d had to take
hour-by-hour
command of
Gosling
herself, something that Suttle knew she’d resent. Over the last couple of years Faraday had been the most reliable of Deputy
SIOs, a trusty backstop who’d been more than happy to take on the bulk of the work. Now, as Parsons was about to discover,
that pressure could be crushing.
She was alone in the office vacated by Faraday. The news from west London was less than brilliant. Martin Skelley was away
in the north on business. His sidekick, a woman, had been difficult about giving the Scenes of Crime team access to the van
that had toured the Isle of Wight. In the end she’d had no choice, but neither Parsons nor Meg Stanley anticipated any kind
of forensic result. It was ten days since the van had been on the island, ample time – in the words of one D/C – to steam-clean
the arse off it.
Parsons wanted to know about Faraday. Suttle told her about taking him home and about staying the night, and managed to steer
her away from any referral to Personnel. Faraday, he said, was now being looked after by his partner. She, surely, would know
what to do.
Parsons agreed. She’d already had a word with Mr Willard about the situation. In due course, given a thumbs up from the appropriate
medical authority, it might be possible for Faraday to return to active duty in one capacity or another. He still had a year
to serve before he could retire on a full pension, and these were early days to bring his career to a premature end. On the
other hand it would be unrealistic not to accept that his days on Major Crime were probably over. Maybe something on the community
involvement front, she murmured. Or maybe a stint talking to kids in schools.
Her hand was reaching for the phone.
Gosling
was grinding ever onward. She wanted Suttle back at his desk, developing the intel on Skelley, looking for any tiny cracks
that
Gosling
might explore. Suttle lingered, not wanting to leave.
‘You heard about Stanton?’
‘Who?’ Parsons was only half listening.
‘Benny Stanton. Sadler’s brief. The guy from London.’
‘What about him?’
‘It turns out he represents Skelley as well.’
‘Really?’ He’d got Parsons’ attention at last. ‘Are we sure about that?’
‘Positive. I got it from a Met source. It tells us nothing that we didn’t know before, boss, but it makes that link with Sadler
all the more important.’
‘Good. You’re right, Jimmy. Excellent.’ She paused. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve had a long conversation with Winter.’
‘Another one?’
‘A different one. This time I think he’s serious.’
‘About what?’
‘About giving us Mackenzie.’
‘Really?’ She was listening again.
‘Yeah, really. And you know who might be the key to all this? Assuming we’ve got it right?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Martin Skelley.’
Gabrielle was at the Bargemaster’s House by midday. Thinking Faraday might still be in bed, maybe even asleep, she let herself
in very quietly and made her way upstairs. The bedroom door was wide open, a scatter of Faraday’s clothes on the floor.
‘Joe?’
She called his name again, went from room to room, stepped back outside, looked in the garden, went to the front of the house,
eyed the rising tide, felt a choking wave of panic deep inside her. Something terrible had happened. She knew it. For a moment
or two she wondered whether to get her bike out and ride up the waterside path towards the bird reserve at the top of the
harbour in case he’d gone for a walk, but then she remembered Jimmy Suttle on the phone, only hours ago. She knew cops always
favoured understatement. In which case Faraday very definitely had a problem.
She hurried inside again and dug in her bag for her mobile. She’d logged Suttle’s number from the previous call. He took a
while to answer.
‘Jimmy?’ By now she was tearful. ‘He’s gone.’
Faraday landed at Orly in the last embers of a sensational sunset. Away to the left of the aircraft, as it wobbled down the
approach path, the middle of Paris was necklaced with lights in the gathering darkness. Before joining the departures queue
back at Southampton, Faraday had bought a map of the city. The address he wanted, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, was within
walking distance of Charles de Gaulle – Étoile on the Metro. A shuttle bus from the airport would take him to the RER station.
From there it was a short hop to the middle of the city.
He was emerging from the Metro by half past five. The Champs-Elysées was thick with rush-hour traffic. He ducked across on
a green pedestrian light, heading for the avenue de Friedland. He didn’t know
Paris well but realised at once that this was an affluent area: four-star hotels, extravagant pavement displays outside florist
after florist, suited waiters hurrying from table to table in expensive-looking café-bars.
The rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré ran north-west. The address he was after lay on the left-hand side. Opposite, of all things,
was a police station. Faraday stood on the pavement for a moment or two, watching a couple of detectives in dark suits deep
in conversation at the foot of the station steps. They were laughing together, sharing a joke and a cigarette, another long
day coming to a close. That was me once, he thought.
The address on Philippe Stern’s card, as Faraday had imagined, belonged to an antiques shop. It was closed. There was no light
on inside the shop, and he stepped close to the plate-glass window, peering in. The objects on display spoke of Africa, maybe
some long-forgotten outpost of the French empire: two wooden carvings of what looked like lions, a handful of brass pots,
a native drum with a bold motif in thick black zigzags around the top, a fold of carpet in rich blues and reds. He wiped the
glass, trying to get a better view, trying to penetrate the darkness inside. The shop seemed somehow neglected. There were
no prices on display, no sign of the hard sell.
He was still trying to imagine what kind of man would own a place like this, and what kind of living he might make from it,
when his attention was caught by a handwritten card he hadn’t noticed before. It was crudely taped to the glass door of the
shop.
En Cas d’Absence, Votre Contact au
06
03
144
045
.
He stared at it, fumbled for his mobile, then had second thoughts. He made a note of the number, stepped back.
Next door to the shop was a bar-brasserie. Unlike the places he’d passed earlier, it was narrow and slightly scruffy. A wall-mounted
TV was showing horse racing. There were a couple of punters at the bar, laying tote bets. An older man at a table near the
back was reading a copy of
L’Équipe
and picking at a bowl of
frites.
He too had the look of a cop. The way he’d glance up from time to time, scoping the faces around him. The way his hand lingered
on the barely touched
demi
of lager beside the plate.
Faraday found an empty table and ordered a beer. He still had the phone number from the shop next door. For the first time
he wondered exactly what he was going to do about this man. Did he want a conversation? Or would it be enough to come back
tomorrow, stake the shop out and wait until Stern arrived so he could at least put a face to his raging fantasies?
If that was the case, then maybe he’d go into the shop and spend a
while browsing, watching all the time for tiny clues that might explain this sudden revival in Gabrielle’s interest. Her
last birthday had been a couple of months ago, just before Christmas. She was still only thirty-seven. Was Philippe Stern
someone of Faraday’s age? Did she have a thing about older men? Or had she originally bedded him because of his youth? Because
of his vigour and vitality? Because he drifted from day to day in this select little quarter of Paris – handsome, arty, rich,
untroubled by the need to earn a proper living?
Knowing that he had no idea, Faraday decided to defer the decision. Tomorrow seemed an age away. He’d have something to eat
and find a hotel nearby. Expensive, maybe, but what the fuck. He was suddenly very tired.
Willard summoned Suttle to an evening meet in the Major Crime suite at Fratton nick. For the second time in two days Suttle
found himself on the hovercraft, bouncing back across the Solent, wondering just what lay in store. Not for a moment did he
underestimate the implications of the decision he was asking his bosses to make. Over the last couple of years, since turning
his back on the force, Winter had destroyed the last shred of any trust they might once have had in him.
This latest initiative, as Suttle would be the first to admit, reeked of self-interest. Pompey’s rogue ex-cop was clearly
in the shit and desperate for a deal that would keep him out of prison. The prospect of a long sentence for Winter was the
answer to Willard’s prayers, yet the payback for keeping him out, as Winter knew only too well, was huge. Bazza Mackenzie.
Pompey’s top face. On a plate.
None of this, as it turned out, was lost on Willard. He was waiting in Parsons’ office. Of Parsons herself there was no sign.
He asked Suttle to go through what had happened last night. He wanted no embellishments, no omissions, just a bare account.
Suttle obliged. The fact that the meet had taken place at Faraday’s house raised an eyebrow or two.
‘How is he? Faraday?’
‘Bad, sir. And he’s disappeared.’
‘So I understand. Do we know where?’
‘No, and neither does Gabrielle. She’s his partner.’
‘How’s she taking it?’
‘Not well. I get the impression things haven’t been great between them lately. I think she’s blaming herself.’
‘Has she any idea where he might have gone?’
‘None. I think that’s part of the problem. She’s everything to him. He’s not a man with many friends.’