‘Skip? It’s Jimmy. Ewart’s in the flat. Repeat, the flat. Yeah -’ He nodded. ‘- Soon as you like.’
The DS called back within a couple of minutes. Two uniforms were in position, same frequency. He wished Suttle the very best of luck.
‘You kidding?’ Suttle couldn’t take his eyes off the basement flat across the road. ‘The guy’s toast.’
Dawn Ellis was already down in the street in case Ewart chose not to hang around. Suttle joined her. They crossed the road, pushed in at the sagging gate, stepped around a fold of sodden mattress, descended the stairs to the basement. There were recent splinter marks around the rotting wooden frame where the Yale lock engaged. Someone had already been at the door. These tossers prey on each other, Suttle thought, pressing the bell push.
There was no answer. He did it again. A third time. Then came the slightest movement in the blanket that hung behind the adjoining window and Suttle knew they had to get on with it.
‘We’ve been clocked,’ he told Ellis.
He took a step back, then kicked hard at the point where the lock met the door. First time it held. Another kick and he was in. The place was in semi-darkness. There was a smell Suttle recognised only too well. Somewhere out the back, he heard the crash of breaking glass.
‘Check for gas,’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘Little fucker’s trying to make life hard for us.’
Suttle was in a narrow hall now. Ahead, he could see the grey spill of daylight from an open door. The panel of glass in the middle of the door had been shattered. Suttle pulled at the handle. The door was locked.
‘Ewart!’
He could see him now, out in the tiny oblong of back garden, scrambling over the wall. Suttle kicked hard at the door but it didn’t budge. Shards of glass still in the frame tore at his clothing as he clambered through. Ewart was over the wall, gone.
Suttle jumped for a handhold, saw blood on the roughly plastered brickwork, realised that it was probably his own. At the top of the wall, wondering what had happened to the uniforms, he searched in vain for Ewart. Then he saw him. The basement flat next door must have been open. Still hooded, Ewart had taken a hostage. She was in her seventies at least, frail, bent, pale with shock. Ewart was standing behind her, one arm locked around her neck. In his other hand he had a knife.
Suttle dropped to the ground, wiped the worst of the blood on his trousers, approached the open back door. Ewart’s hand was over the old woman’s mouth. Her milky eyes were huge in her bony face. She looked terrified.
‘Steady, mate.’ Suttle was only feet from the back door now, his hands well away from his body, no threat. ‘I’m a police officer. You haven’t thought this through at all, have you?’
Ewart didn’t answer. He was still panting from the climb, his face grey with exhaustion. He’s been at the merchandise again, Suttle thought. Tosspot.
He inched closer, talking all the time, telling the old woman that it was going to be OK, no problem, that the lad was a bit upset about one or two things, that he’d come to his senses in just a minute, that soon it would all be over.
‘Isn’t that right, Karl?’
At the mention of his name, Ewart blinked. His head went down for a moment and he seemed to waver. Stepping forward, Suttle seized this one opportunity, grabbed for the knife hand, twisted as hard as he could. The old woman began to scream and then Suttle was sideways on as the woman fell towards him. He tried to catch her, to protect her, and then he felt the blade in his own flesh, driving hard through the fold of muscle beneath his ribcage. It was a hot feeling, strange, not that painful, not at once, and he had time to register the old woman collapsing in a heap in the doorway and a blur of black uniform as someone large stepped over him, and then another figure, a face, bending over, very close, and a voice that seemed to get fainter and fainter, telling him to hang on, to get a grip, to stay conscious, telling him that everything was going to be OK.
Winter was reminiscing with his new colleague in the office. It turned out that Babs was a recent addition to the Intelligence team up at Havant, posted down to Major Crimes for the duration of both Coppice and Tartan. She’d come to police work relatively late, after a lengthy stint as a social worker in Leigh Park, and her brisk explanation of this unusual career move had made Winter laugh. After seven years running around after teenage mums and skagged-out junkies, wiping their arses and listening to how stressed they all were, she’d come to the conclusion that most of them needed locking up. Winter loved this kind of repartee, and they were busy swopping horror stories when the phone rang. Winter recognised the voice at once.
‘Boss?’
Faraday was across at the Buckland Community Centre. He’d talked at length to the woman who had organised Duley’s history workshop, and she’d given him a name.
‘Kearns,’ he said, ‘Mickey Kearns.’
The name rang no bells with Winter.
‘Who is he?’
‘He seems to be tied up with one of the girls in the class. The woman says he picks her up sometimes from the Community Centre. Apparently he knew Duley, too. She’d seen them talking together, out in the street.’
‘You want me to run a check?’
‘Please.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
Winter hit the PNC icon on his computer screen, typed in his pass code, and waited a few seconds before getting into the right field. Kearns raised several hits but none of them registered with the Christian name Michael.
‘Could be a nickname,’ Faraday said. ‘What kind of ages are we talking?’
Winter scrolled quickly through. There wasn’t a Kearns under thirty, and none lived closer than Gloucester.
‘Try RMS then.’
Winter did his bidding. Babs had struggled to her feet and was standing at his shoulder. Seconds later, Winter had accessed the Records Management System. He typed in the name, sat back.
‘Bingo, boss. Mickey Kearns. DOB 1979. That makes him twenty-five.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Buckland address too.’ Winter read it out.
‘What’s he in there for?’
‘Couple of cautions for suspected football violence … ’ Winter was squinting at the screen ‘ … plus query narcotics.’
‘Possession or supply?’
‘Both. Amphetamine and cannabis but nothing nailed down.’
‘Excellent. What are you doing at the moment?’
‘Chatting Babs up.’
‘I’ll pick you up in five minutes. Be out the front, will you?’
Faraday had been parked up a while by the time Winter made it down to the forecourt. A single glance at the DC’s face and Faraday killed the engine.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Ewart’s done Jimmy Suttle, boss. Knifed him. They’ve taken Jimmy to QA. Ewart’s down the Bridewell. Cunt.’
Faraday was out of the car. He tossed Winter the keys, told him to park it round the back. Then he was gone, running up the stairs to the big double doors and disappearing inside.
Winter got behind the wheel. At first he hadn’t believed the news about Jimmy. Then, as it sank in, he felt chilled to the bone, swamped by a deep sense of impending doom. Not Jimmy, he thought. Not the cheerful face at his apartment door. Not the lad who bothered to concern himself with an overweight old bastard who’d necked too much Bacardi. Not the boy he’d come to think of as some kind of son. News, he thought numbly, couldn’t get worse than this.
He started the car and began to back towards the entrance that led into the car park. Then he had second thoughts. By car, this time of day, the hospital was fifteen minutes away. Faraday would understand and even if he didn’t, Winter didn’t really care. He hadn’t driven for over a year but he adjusted the rear-view mirror, found first gear, signalled right to filter into the traffic, amazed at how quickly it all came back. The lights, mercifully, were green. Turning left, he headed north.
The Incident Room was buzzing when Faraday made it to
the second floor. The Outside Enquiries DS stood up when he walked in and drew Faraday aside.
‘I’ve just had one of the uniforms on, sir,’ he said. ‘One of the guys we sent to Ashburton Road. They arrested Ewart in the house next door, took him down to the Bridewell. He’s still—’
‘What about Suttle?’ Faraday cut in.
‘The guy isn’t sure. He managed to stop the blood loss but the paramedics were talking internal injuries.’ The DS nodded down at his desk. ‘I’m expecting a call from the hospital any time.’
‘Do we have anyone up there with him?’
‘No, sir. Not yet.’
‘Organise it.’
Faraday left. Barrie’s office, at the far end of the corridor, was empty. Faraday stuck his head round the door that belonged to the Management Assistants.
‘Seen the boss?’
‘He’s up at Winchester, sir. Budget review.’
‘When’s he back?’
‘He said five, earliest.’
‘Shit.’
Faraday returned to the Incident Room. He wanted two DCs and a Tactical Interview Adviser standing by within the hour. He also wanted a full SOC team into Ewart’s basement flat. In the meantime, if anyone needed him, he’d be at the hospital.
Faraday headed for the stairs, then had second thoughts. Winter, he knew, was close to Suttle. Better, he thought, to take him along as well. He put his head round Winter’s door, finding Babs alone at her desk.
‘Winter?’ he queried.
‘Haven’t seen him, boss. Not since he went down to meet you.’
‘Hasn’t been back with any keys?’
‘Afraid not.’
Faraday nodded, glanced at his watch, took the stairs to the back car park. Minutes later, still hunting for his Mondeo, he finally realised what must have happened.
‘Shit,’ he said again.
Winter left the Mondeo on a double yellow line within sight of the A & E entrance. He hurried up the slope towards the big glass doors, stepping round a mother with two squalling kids. At the reception desk he jumped the queue, thrusting his warrant card at the woman behind the PC.
‘DC Winter,’ he said. ‘I’m after a lad called Jimmy Suttle.’
The woman nodded towards a pair of doors. ‘Through there,’ she said. ‘Ask for Sister Barr.’
Winter pushed through the double doors. The first nurse he stopped went away to find the sister in charge. Minutes later, fearing the worst, Winter found himself in the cubbyhole she called her office.
Jimmy Suttle had been admitted over an hour ago. He’d briefly regained consciousness in the ambulance and been transfused with a plasma expander before arrival. By now, she said, he’d be on the operating table.
‘But how is he?’
‘Impossible to say, I’m afraid.’
‘How did he look?’
‘Poorly. I understand he’d been stabbed.’
‘That’s right. That’s what they told us.’
‘Then,’ she tried to sound sympathetic, ‘it’s a question of where and how deep and whether or not anything really important got in the way. I simply can’t help you, I’m afraid.’ She got up, shepherding Winter back towards the waiting area. ‘You’re welcome to stay, of course. In fact you could give next-of-kin details to the front desk if you’re a close friend. There’s coffee from the machine by the door. Someone will come through for you once he’s out of theatre.’
Winter nodded, mumbled his thanks. Back at the reception desk he scribbled down a contact in Major Crimes for a number for Suttle’s mum, then found himself a seat tucked away in an area reserved for teenagers. This corner of the waiting room was empty. He settled himself beneath a poster warning of the dangers of cocaine abuse and stared at the wall opposite. He hated hospitals, loathed waiting about, but just now he was beyond getting angry. He sat for a while, his head back, his eyes closed, trying not to think of this morning, of Jimmy with his wet flannel and his wagging finger, of other times they’d shared together - jobs they’d done, corners they’d cut, the look on the lad’s face when an especially cheeky move had taken a decent scalp. The boy was strong, he told himself. No God in his right mind would let him die. But then he thought about Joannie and this same hospital, these same smells, and the terrifying straightness of the line that led from admission to the worst news any man could ever hear. Would it be the same with Jimmy? Would there even be the time, the opportunity, to say goodbye?
Winter swallowed hard, fumbled blindly in his pocket for a Kleenex, felt tears welling behind his eyelids. Then came a voice he knew, very close, very soft.
‘Paul? You OK?’
He opened his eyes. Faraday’s face was a blur.
‘Boss … ’ he muttered. ‘ … What the fuck’s going on?’
An hour and a half later, Winter got a cab home. He’d stayed long enough to hear the outcome from the operating theatre. Jimmy Suttle was still alive, but only just. His blood pressure was giving cause for concern and the next twenty-four hours would be critical. Ewart’s thrust had sliced through the sheath of stomach muscle, missed his liver by millimetres, but wreaked havoc amongst the densely coiled loops of intestine below his belly. The surgeons had excised the worst of the damage, stitched the intact bits back together again, and given him a powerful dose of antibiotics to try and minimise the inevitable infection. With luck, the registrar had told Winter, the lad might survive, but it would be a while yet before he’d be in any kind of state to receive visitors.
Back at his apartment Winter sank onto the sofa. The sight of the teapot where Suttle had left it in the kitchen reduced him to tears again and he stared blankly at the darkening spaces of the harbour, knowing that there wasn’t enough Scotch in the world to soften the news he was dreading. Would they phone if he died in the night? And would Winter be able to cope if they did?
He shook his head, knowing that this was the last place he wanted to be, alone with his misery. He studied the phone for a moment or two. The list of people he could call was pathetically short. He thought of Dawn Ellis, then shook his head. They’d been close in the past, and she was a nice kid, but he felt uneasy about bothering her, especially since she’d been part of the same incident. He thought, too, of Faraday. Up at the hospital, he hadn’t even mentioned the Mondeo, even though Winter’s parking had attracted the attention of the clampers. But no, he realised it couldn’t be Faraday. For one thing the DI would be busy at the Bridewell, sorting Ewart out. And for another there was a limit to just how intimate you could be with your boss.
Winter got to his feet, utterly bereft. He wandered up and down the big living room for a while, toying with a handful of sleeping pills and an early night, but that - too - was less than perfect. He’d be awake by three, thinking too hard, listening for the phone, worrying himself to death. No, there had to be another solution, someone who’d pour beer down him, someone who knew a thing or two about how resilient the human body could be, someone he could trust to cheer him up. A name came to him and he paused, studying his own reflection in the big picture window. Of course, he thought.
Eight
Friday, 15 July 2005, 19.32
The city’s Bridewell, which also served as the central police station, was a low, unlovely brick-built establishment connected by an underground corridor to the nearby magistrates’ courts. Holding cells housed newly arrested shoplifters, stroppy drunks on disorderly charges, and various other sweepings from the city’s streets. Karl Ewart occupied Cell 6.
The Custody Sergeant was manning the desk when Faraday arrived. He confirmed that Ewart had been processed, fingerprinted, photographed and given access to the duty solicitor. He’d no visible injuries and an examination by the police surgeon had found nothing else amiss.
‘Who’s duty?’
‘Michelle.’ The Custody Sergeant nodded towards an office door. ‘She’s waiting for you now.’
Faraday nodded. Michelle Brinton was a plump, freckle-faced solicitor in her late thirties. Port
smouth had come as a bit of a shock after five years practising in her native Tavistock but she’d coped well with the ceaseless drumbeat of big-city crime, and won respect amongst the detectives who’d dealt with her.
She was on the phone when Faraday went into the office. She brought the conversation to a close. She knew Jimmy Suttle well.
‘How is he?’
‘Rough.’
‘But he’s going to pull through?’
‘We hope so.’ Faraday helped himself to the spare seat. ‘You’ve talked to Ewart?’
‘I have.’
‘This thing is complicated. There’s more to it than Jimmy. We’ve arrested him on suspicion of fraud as well as attempted murder. I’ve no idea whether he’s discussed any of that with you.’
‘He hasn’t.’
‘Well, maybe he should have done. There are implications we need to explore.’
‘I’m sure.’ She reached for a pen, scribbled herself a note. ‘Fraud in connection with what, exactly?’
Faraday hesitated. He liked this woman but he owed Karl Ewart no favours.
‘Pompey season tickets,’ he said briskly. ‘Bought on a nicked debit card. Face value, we’re talking about a sum in excess of eight thousand. We think that’s down to Ewart.’
‘Would you care to tell me why?’
‘I’m afraid not. Ewart is clearly a violent individual. He has some serious questions to answer.’ Faraday checked his watch. ‘I’ll leave the rest to the interview team, if you don’t mind.’
Winter’s third call at last brought someone to the phone. A woman’s voice, Pompey accent.
‘Is Jake there?’
‘He’s in the shower. Just finished.’
‘Tell him it’s Paul.’
Winter hung onto the phone. In the background he could hear a television and the more distant yelling of kids. EastEnders, he thought.
One Under Page 15
