‘Has DCI Parsons mentioned Winter at all?’ Faraday asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And what? You want my personal view? I’d arrest him this morning. ’
‘On what grounds, sir?’
‘Taking the piss. I don’t know who had the conversation but it’s got Winter’s MO all over it. He must think we’re simple.’
‘It was me, sir.’ Suttle had come to brief Faraday on Brett West’s whereabouts. ‘It was me who had the conversation.’
‘Surprise, surprise. You’re supposed to be dealing in intelligence, Suttle, not fairy tales. Winter’s in a tight corner. He knows the game’s up. Personally I’d ignore him but what happens next isn’t my decision. Where is he, by the way?’ Willard was looking at Suttle again. ‘Anyone care to tell me?’
The executive jet touched down at Malaga Airport at 17.23 local time, slowed by headwinds over the Pyrenees. It taxied to a halt some distance away from the line of holiday jets, awaiting a welcome from the charter company’s local rep. He arrived in a luxury minibus and shepherded Bazza’s party into the cool of the airport’s business centre. Arrival formalities were over in minutes. Bazza had prebooked a black Mercedes saloon. Before he sat down with the rep to complete the hire form, he handed Winter a brown leather shoulder bag.
‘There’s twenty-five grand in there,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t fucking lose it.’
From the airport Bazza followed signs for the city of Malaga. A mile or so down the road he slowed for a rest area beside the motorway. Parked at the far end was a white van. Bazza drew in behind it and killed the engine. Tommy Peters got out. Someone reached across the front of the van and opened the passenger door. Without a backward glance Peters climbed in. Moments later the van was pulling out of the rest area to rejoin the motorway.
Bazza followed, tucked in behind the van. Winter sat beside him, impressed. Bazza had always painted himself as the master of improvisation, thinking on his feet, pulling stroke after stroke, plucking victory from the jaws of defeat, but this was very different. Someone had thought about this, planned it, made proper arrangements. Tommy Peters, Winter thought, with his Lonsdale T-shirt and his Costa del Sol connections. Hence the money.
‘We’re going to a place along the coast, mush.’ Bazza’s gravelly voice was barely a whisper. ‘Tommy knows a new development there. It’s private, empty, cushty. He knows the people who’re doing the biz on it. We’re gonna drop you outside a bar they’re building at the back end of the site. What you do is you go in. You’ll have the place to yourself. It’s still fitting out but there’ll be a table there. There’ll be drinks too, and maybe something to eat if the bloke’s offering. And then you’ll phone Westie.’
Winter took the proffered mobile. With it was a scrap of paper with a number in Bazza’s handwriting.
‘Where is he?’
‘In Malaga somewhere, fuck knows. You tell him where you are.
You tell him I’ve just bought a fucking big stake in the place. You give him the impression I’m gonna be huge around here. The directions are written out for you on a table in the bar. And then you tell Westie you’ve got a couple of hours, tops, before you have to get back to the airport.’
‘What if he wants to meet somewhere else?’
‘He won’t. Because you also tell him you’ve got the money.’
‘The twenty-five grand?’ Winter was looking at the shoulder bag.
‘You told me last night he was expecting a hundred.’
‘Doesn’t matter, mush.. It’s all in tens. It looks a lot. Just don’t let him count it. Not that he’s going to have time.’
‘No?’
‘No. All you’ve got to do is sort the cunt a drink, sit him down and have a little chat. Then it’s over.’
‘Over?’
‘Forget it. Leave it to Tommy.’
Winter nodded, paying closer attention to the van. It looked like a builder’s van. There were dents in the plastic rear mudguard and the back doors were secured with a twist of rope. With most of Spain a building site, Winter thought, there must be thousands of vans like this all along the coast. In so many ways it was perfect.
They were in the city centre now, heading down a dual carriageway beside the port. The van threaded through the traffic, Bazza behind. A big sign for Almeria took them east, beneath the battlements of a castle. Beyond the traffic intersection Winter glimpsed a circular building half-hidden by smaller blocks.
‘That’s the bullring,’ Bazza told him. ‘Me and Marie went once.
Fucking animals, the Spanish.’
The van was picking up speed now, helped by a succession of green lights. The city began to thin but views of the sea were screened by an unending ribbon of bars, shops and newish-looking beachside developments. Then, suddenly, the sprawl of suburbs had come to an end and the Mercedes was purring past a huge cement factory. Winter sat back, gazing out at a queue of waiting lorries. Picturesque? He thought not.
Beyond the cement works the road began to dip, and minutes later the journey came to an end. Rincon de la Victoria was a prosperous seaside town wedged between the mountains and the sea. Early evening had softened the brutal heat and the café-bars along the main street were beginning to fill. The van pulled left and there was a puff of blue smoke from the exhaust as the driver changed gear for the climb. The road wound through a residential estate - high whitewashed walls, heavily secured gates, glimpses of an occasional pool - and then they were out on the bare mountainside. On the left yet another development. The van slowed, indicating left. Winter caught sight of a huge roadside placard -
Las Puertas del Paraiso.
The Gates of Paradise.
At this time of the day, as Mackenzie had promised, the place was empty. The Mercedes bumped over the construction road that threaded through the half-built complex. At the end the diggers had levelled a turning space in front of a low two-storey building, more complete than the rest of the development. Beyond, Winter could see nothing but rocky brown scrub.
The van had pulled round in a tight circle. Bazza brought the Mercedes to a halt outside the building.
‘Out you get, mush. The bloke’s name is Hernandez. Don’t forget the fucking phone.’
Winter stepped out of the Mercedes. He could taste the sea on the warmth of the wind. Bazza gunned the engine, leaving him in a cloud of dust. The Wild West, he thought. Without the charm.
The bag looped over his shoulder, he climbed the bare concrete steps that led to a pair of imposing glass doors. Everything was unfinished but the doors opened with a sigh to his first push. Inside, in the gloom, he could smell cement dust and the damp of drying plaster. Ahead, through an opening with no door, lay what he assumed to be some kind of lounge. On the rough concrete floor a table with two chairs at right angles. On the table two bottles of San Miguel. Beyond the table the long curve of a bar covered in blue plastic sheeting.
‘
Buenas noches
.’
A thin stooped figure in jeans and a stained white shirt had stepped out of the shadows behind the bar. He looked close to retiring age. When Winter asked if his name was Hernandez, he shrugged as if he didn’t know. He gestured for Winter to join him in the lounge and nodded at the beers on the table.
‘You want a glass?’ Thick English, heavily accented.
‘Yeah.’
‘Please. You sit there, at the end.’
The table was laid for two, at right angles, just a fork and a plate. Winter studied them a moment, then rearranged the placings face-to-face, aware of Hernandez watching him. Beside his plate was a sheet of paper with directions to
Las Puertas del Paraiso
from nearby Malaga. The directions were in English and Winter looked at them for a while before reaching for one of the bottles. The beer was ice cold. Nice.
Hernandez disappeared, returning with two glasses. Winter drank the first bottle quickly, opened the other. Then he turned his attention to the phone.
Westie answered on the third ring. He was evidently expecting the call.
‘You got here OK then?’
‘Yeah.’ Winter told him how to find the development in Rincon.
There was a pause before Westie answered.
‘What the fuck are you doing out there?’
‘Don’t ask, mate. I’ve got what you’re after. Just turn up and it’s yours.’
‘Let’s meet somewhere closer.’
‘I can’t, son. I’m back to the airport for seven. It’s either here or
adiós.
Your call, Westie.’
There was another silence. Winter tried to picture Westie’s surroundings. Had he found somewhere to live? Was he in a café? Or walking the beach, eyeing the talent? And how would he get out to this godforsaken place? A virtual stranger to this new life of his?
Finally he was back on the line.
Las Puertas
rang a bell
.
What was Bazza’s interest?
‘He owns the fucking place.’
‘Yeah?’ He began to laugh. He’d be with Winter in half an hour.
Be nice to see him again.
Winter put the phone down and emptied his glass. His bartender was nearly invisible in the gloom. Winter gestured at the empty bottles.
‘Any chance of another, Mr H?’
Suttle had scored an early result with easyJet. Faraday, working slowly through the pile of paperwork on his cluttered desk, wanted the details.
‘Brett West took the Thursday morning flight to Malaga.’ Suttle was reading from notes. ‘He travelled under his own name. There were no delays on the flight and he’d have been in Malaga by two o’clock in the afternoon. Beyond that I’m afraid we haven’t a clue.’
‘How did he get to the airport?’
‘Speedycab.’
‘That’s Mackenzie’s firm, right?’
‘Yep. I’ve got a name and contact number for the driver. When do you want it actioned?’
‘As soon as.’
‘Then I’ll do it myself. What are we after?’
‘A link to Mackenzie. Just using one of his cabs is not enough.
We need evidence of payment. If he got a freebie, that could be very interesting. What else?’
Suttle brought Faraday up to date. On the basis of Production Orders, he’d be talking to West’s bank on Monday, looking for transaction details on his two accounts. The same went for his credit card. The force telephone unit was in touch with Orange, and billings on his mobile, with luck, should be available within days.
Faraday nodded. These were routine enquiries, strands in the net that Major Crime threw over life after life. In normal circumstances, with the prospect of a suspect in the custody suite, data like this could trap a man in a lie and occasionally open the door to a confession. But that, Faraday sensed, wasn’t going to happen. Not for a while at least.
‘You think he’s coming back?’ he asked.
‘No chance, boss.’ Suttle shook his head. ‘Not until we find him.’
Winter was on his third San Miguel when he heard the clatter of a diesel. Moments later there was the sound of a door slamming, then came the clump of footsteps on the concrete steps outside. He pushed back his chair and looked round. Not one figure silhouetted against the blaze of evening sunshine, but two.
Westie’s tall frame stepped into the bar. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. Beside him, smaller but just as lean, was a woman. In the dusty gloom it was hard to be certain but at first glance Winter thought early twenties. Her bare legs were long and tanned. Her hair fell in blond ringlets around a wide pretty face and the smile was unforced.
‘Renate,’ Westie announced.
Winter stood up and offered the woman the spare seat. Westie, uninvited, took the other. Hernandez ghosted in with a third chair which he placed at the head of the table.
‘So how come …?’ Westie gestured round. Bare electric cables hanging from the ceiling. Unglazed window frames. A thin silt of cement dust underfoot.
‘I like it. It’s like a film set. It’s cool.’ Renate leaned across the table and put a hand on Westie’s arm. She wore a silver bangle on her slim brown wrist. Her English was near-perfect.
‘Known Westie long?’ Winter enquired.
‘Since yesterday. He comes to my gallery. He likes my pictures. He has taste, your friend. He knows what to say, how to say it. We can get a drink here?’ She nodded at the empty bottles on the table then began to wind a strand of hair around a single finger.
Winter signalled to Hernandez. Two more San Miguels appeared. ‘Sorted then?’ Winter was back with Westie, full of admiration.
‘No more Pompey slappers?’
‘Never, mate. No fucking way.’
‘And what about the flat?’
‘It’s up for sale. Say the word and the mortgage is yours. Good bloody riddance.’
‘No regrets? None at all?’
‘Are you blind, mate?’ He nodded towards Renate. ‘Or just fucking old?’
He wanted to know about the money. Winter, increasingly uncomfortable, noticed that Hernandez had disappeared.
‘It’s down there, Westie. In the bag.’
‘You’ve counted it?’
‘No, but Baz has. First thing this morning. Before I got the plane down.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Early.’
‘How early?’
‘Bloody early.’
‘Which airport?’
Winter sat back. Even the girl could sense the hesitation in his voice.
‘Pub quiz is it, Westie? Think of a question? Any question?’
‘Not at all, mate. Down here we call it conversation. I’m just asking which poxy airport you flew out of this morning. Gatwick? Big place off the M23? Bournemouth? Heathrow? Only you’re starting to make me nervous, mush.’ His eyes flicked down to the bag. As they did so Winter heard the lightest footfall in the shadowed spaces behind the bar.
It was Tommy Peters. He’d appeared from nowhere. He had an automatic in his right hand. The silencer made the gun look enormous. The girl had seen it too. Her hand went to her mouth. Westie had his back to the bar. His big mistake was to look round.