Winter followed the instructions from the pretty receptionist on the front desk, hurrying down the wide central corridor, keeping his eye on the overhead signs. Mr Suttle, she said, was in the Department of Critical Care, up on the third floor.
The lift to the third floor was a squeeze. An elderly woman was lying on a trolley with her eyes closed. She had a drip in her arm and her thin, white-shrouded body told Winter she was half-dead already. The hospital porter standing beside her was staring into nowhere as the lift groaned upward and Winter was glad when the doors finally opened again and he could slip away. His memory of last night was far from perfect but he was mildly surprised he didn’t feel a great deal worse.
The Department of Critical Care turned out to be two open wards with side rooms for solo occupancy. Winter recognised the woman sitting outside in the corridor at first glance. The same reddish curls. The same light blue eyes. Even the same frown lines when she looked puzzled.
‘Mrs Suttle?’
She was gazing up at the outstretched hand. Winter introduced himself, said he was a good friend of young Jimmy’s, tried not to breathe last night’s Stella all over her.
‘You’ve seen the boy?’ She nodded. ‘How is he?’
‘Terrible.’ Her lips began to pucker. ’They’re keeping him under sedation. He’s got tubes coming out of everywhere, drips. I’m sure they’re doing their best but … ’ She shook her head.
Winter looked around. There were eight beds in the nearest ward.
‘Is he in there?’
‘Yes. It’s the second bed in on the left. You’d never recognise him.’
Winter peered in. She was right. All he could see was the outline of a body in the bed, the upper half hidden by a thicket of tubes. Winter asked about getting into the ward. Could he just walk in? Would anyone mind?
‘I don’t know. I think the doctor’s coming back in a minute. Maybe you should see what he says first.’
With some reluctance, Winter agreed. While he waited, he wandered along the corridor, back towards the lift. Trying to take his mind off the implications of the impending conversation, he sent Jake Tarrant a text. ‘FOB says thanks for getting me home,’ he wrote. Minutes later, a reply arrived: ‘FOB?’ Winter looked down at it. ‘Fat old bastard,’ he messaged back. Jake countered within seconds. ‘No problem, mate,’ he wrote. ‘Any time, U FOB.’
Winter gazed at the text. Good lad, he thought. Thank Christ someone’s got a sense of humour.
There was still no sign of the doctor. Winter pocketed the mobile, muttered something about being up against the clock and stepped into the ward. Suttle’s name was on the sheaf of charts clipped to the foot of the bed. The sheet was tented over his lower body, only his head, shoulders and arms visible against the whiteness of the pillow. A tube taped to his mouth fed him air from a ventilator at the bedside and Winter counted four drips into his neck and upper arm. He was very pale. All the colour seemed to have drained from his face, even the freckles, and there was a hint of swelling under one eye. His eyes were shut, and as Winter watched he thought he caught a tiny tremble of movement under one eyelid. The boy’s dreaming, he thought. There must be hope.
At length, a nurse appeared. Startled to find a visitor at Suttle’s bedside, she asked Winter what he was up to.
‘I just wanted to see him, make sure he was still with us.’ Winter spared her a glance. ‘Is that OK?’
‘Are you family?’
‘Close friend.’
‘Does his mum know you’re here?’
‘Yes.’ Winter was still staring down at Suttle. ‘Gonna be all right, is he?’
‘Once we sort his blood pressure out, he should be fine. It’s just time, really. Time and rest.’
‘What’s this lot then?’ Winter gestured at the drips.
‘Blood and fluids to keep him hydrated.’
‘And these two?’
‘Analgesic. Plus a sedative for the ventilator.’
‘Is that why he’s out for the count?’
‘Yes. If you’re after a conversation, I’m afraid it could be a bit of a wait.’
Winter nodded. Suttle’s hand felt warm beneath his.
‘You’re not bullshitting me, are you?’ he said softly, his eyes never leaving Suttle’s face.
The nurse took his hand away, then smoothed a rumple on the sheet.
‘Are you talking to me or him?’ she enquired drily.
Back outside the ward, Winter rejoined Suttle’s mum in the waiting room. She’d been watching Winter from the corridor. An audience of stuffed toys on the table in the corner gave the conversation a slightly unreal air.
‘What did that nurse say to you?’
‘She said the boy was going to be fine. He’s just a bit knackered at the moment.’
‘She said that?’ Her eyes were moist.
‘More or less.’ Winter wanted to put an arm round her. ‘But he’ll be OK, I know it.’
‘Says who?’
‘Me.’
‘But how can you be so sure?’
‘Because he just has to be. That’s all.’
She nodded, trying to digest this latest piece of news, then she fumbled for a Kleenex.
‘You know something? I never wanted him to be a policeman.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘And you know something else? Nothing I’d say would make a blind bit of difference.’
‘I know how you feel.’ Winter’s mobile began to trill. ‘He never listens to me either.’ Winter smiled at her, then stepped outside to take the call.
‘Paul?’ It was Faraday. ‘Where are you? We need to meet.’
At Winter’s suggestion, Faraday came to Gunwharf. From the apartment, Winter watched him emerge from the big underground car park and make his way across the ribbon of water that separated the residents from the riff-raff who crowded the nearby shopping malls at the weekend. The weather was beautiful, almost too hot for Winter’s comfort, and Faraday had hooked his jacket over his shoulder as he strolled across towards the apartment block.
Over the last twenty-four hours, with Jimmy close to death, Winter had begun to warm to Faraday. He’d never had any doubts about the man’s effectiveness as a detective. Unlike many DIs Winter had worked with, Faraday knew his business and held his ground. But there’d always been an apartness about him, a sense that something walled him off, and Winter - who knew a great deal about the solitary life - had always found Faraday a bit of a frustration.
Once, not so long ago, a newish DC had described him as a space cadet. That had been completely out of order because the detective in question would never hold a candle to Faraday, but at the same time Winter knew exactly what the spotty youth had meant. Faraday, with his beard and his bird books, wasn’t quite there. You saw the label on the box, you opened it up, but what you got wasn’t a detective at all, not in the usual sense. No, what you got was a real loner, a man much like Winter himself - no real friends, no real appetite for all that chummy bollocks - but a man who somehow lacked the buccaneering spark of mischief that made life in the job so bearable.
As a result, Faraday could often seem detached, humourless, even cold, but yesterday up at the hospital he’d been a real brick. Most blokes Winter knew would have gone ballistic at the sight of a hefty bill to get their clamped motor back, but Faraday hadn’t even mentioned it. Not only that, but he seemed equally oblivious of the fact that Winter had been driving the Mondeo without even a valid licence.
‘Coffee, boss?’ Winter had the pot on.
Faraday grunted a yes, still touring the apartment at Winter’s invitation.
‘Bloody palace,’ he said, stepping back into the big lounge. ‘Bit of a change from Bedhampton, eh?’
Winter nodded. The longer he stayed in Gunwharf, he told Faraday, the more he began to wonder about the rest of his life. Why hadn’t he moved earlier? What was so bloody special about net curtains and a 120-foot garden he could never keep under bloody control?
‘Habit.’ Faraday was standing at the window, enjoying the view. ‘Truth is, we’re all bone idle.’
Winter came in with the coffee. Faraday wanted to know more about Suttle. Winter put a smile on his face and told him the boy was going to be fine. Faraday saw through the fiction at once.
‘How is he really?’
‘Dodgy. Tell you the truth, boss, he looks half dead already. It has to get better than this. Has to.’
‘Did you talk to anyone?’
‘Yeah. But they’re all born liars, aren’t they?’
‘But they know, Paul. They do. Give the lad a couple of months and he’ll be back at Kingston Crescent with a war story for the girlies and a big fat cheque from the Criminal Injuries Board. You know the way it goes.’
‘I do?’
‘Of course you do. And a damn sight better than most. He could have been facing brain surgery. Ever think of it that way?’
‘Christ, no. Brain surgery was a doddle compared to what Jimmy’s going through. What happened to Ewart last night?’
‘Held his hands up.’
‘I’m not surprised. Three witnesses and you try and do a copper? The bloke should be put down. What about Givens? Did he cop to doing him too?’
‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘He says he bought the card off a Somerstown lad. Even gave us a name.’
‘Really?’ Winter reached for the coffee pot. ‘And we believe him?’
‘Don’t know. I’ve asked Dawn Ellis to do the business. He’s nine years old. Don’t hold your breath.’
Winter nodded, shaking his head. Whichever direction this conversation took, he couldn’t rid himself of the image of Jimmy Suttle’s pale chest rising and falling in time with the ventilator at his bedside. A flick of a switch, Winter thought, and the boy would drift away.
‘Coppice,’ Faraday began. ‘Barrie’s got the wind in his sails. A couple of the London tabloids have picked up on Duley, and Willard’s after a headline or two.’
‘Meaning what?’ Winter tried his best to concentrate.
‘Meaning Barrie wants to escalate the operation. Tartan’s on hold for the time being until Ellis sorts out the Somerstown lad. As far as Coppice is concerned, we’re talking a bigger enquiry team. You’ll be pleased to know that includes you.’
‘I get to leave the office?’
‘On specific actions, yes.’
‘Like?’
‘Mickey Kearns. The address on file turns out to belong to his mother. She says she hasn’t seen him for a while but there’s a young lady in Duley’s history workshop who might be able to help us. I got her details yesterday. Apparently she’s close to Kearns. She also thought the world of Duley so she might take us somewhere useful. It’s certainly worth a try.’
‘And that’s down to me?’
‘Yeah.’ Faraday smiled. ‘I’d love to tell you all this is my idea but I’d be lying. Blame Mr Barrie.’
With Faraday gone, Winter pondered the implications of this latest development. Under normal circumstances he’d have been over the moon at the prospect of getting out and about again, but these weren’t normal circumstances. However hard he tried, this morning’s visit to the hospital lay like a cloud over everything. Jimmy could still die. Easily. That kind of injury could wreck your plumbing, send all kinds of shit swilling round your insides, and even a gallon of antibiotics might not keep the resulting infection in check. Your temperature would nudge upwards, then gallop away, and before anyone could raise a finger to help, Jimmy would be spark out, an empty sack of bones connected to the bellows at his bedside.
Winter contemplated the prospect, then shook his head in disgust. Last night’s gutful, he decided, hadn’t done him any good at all. What he owed Jimmy was a bit of optimism, a bit of faith. Over the last couple of years he’d made a decent start on teaching the lad everything he knew about nicking the bad guys and just now was no time to chuck the towel in. If Jimmy was here, he thought, he’d want me out there, belling a few contacts, cupping an ear, listening to the Pompey tomtoms. It was Saturday night, for God’s sake, the perfect opportunity to wade back into the swamp, and as he contemplated the prospect, he began to cheer up.
He thought for a moment about the woman in Duley’s history workshop. Her name was Donna Werbinski, and Faraday had made it plain that he wanted some kind of result by tomorrow. That wouldn’t be a problem but Winter knew that these conversations always profited from a little prior knowledge. Personally, Winter had never heard of Mickey Kearns and before he talked to young Donna he really ought to rectify that.
His first call, he thought, would go to a serial grass called Sammy Lewington. Lewington knew everyone who had a serious finger in the drugs pie, even the apprentices, and if there was anyone in the city who could give him the SP on Kearns, it would be Sammy.
Winter padded through to the bedroom and retrieved his address book. There were two mobile numbers for Lewington. The first didn’t work at all; the second made a connection. A voice dissolved into a prolonged fit of coughing.
Winter smiled. Lewington had always smoked so many fags he couldn’t get through a sentence without hoisting a grolly or two. Clearly nothing had changed.
‘Paul Winter,’ he announced. ‘Thought we might have a beer.’
Lewington, it was clear at once, didn’t want to know. He’d been off the scene for a while. He hadn’t got a clue what was going on.
Winter didn’t believe a word.
‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly why we need a little chat. Bloke called Mickey Kearns might be a good place to start.’
Winter named a bar in Fratton, the Anson, and told Lewington to be there at half five. Then he hung up.
Outside on the balcony a sea breeze had made the heat more bearable. Winter fetched his new lounger, fixed himself a restorative glass of ice-cold Stella, and settled down with the Daily Telegraph, determined to put Jimmy Suttle to the very back of his mind. An hour later, he was woken by the familiar trill of his mobile.
Shading his eyes from the sun, he peered at the tiny screen for caller ID. No clues. He put the mobile to his ear.
‘Winter? That you?’
Winter stiffened, recognising the gruff Pompey vowels. The man was angry. He wanted a meet.
‘My pleasure.’ Winter was on his feet now, turning away from the sunshine, stepping into the silence of his apartment. ‘Where, exactly?’
‘You know the Water Margin? You bloody should do, that new pad of yours.’
‘Here, you mean? In Gunwharf?’
‘Yeah. Table by the window. Ten minutes. Old times, eh?’
The Water Margin was an upmarket Chinese restaurant with a fine view of the foot of the Spinnaker Tower. It opened all day at the weekends but this time in the afternoon the clientele was limited to a handful of exhausted shoppers, sampling the last of the lunchtime specials.
Bazza Mackenzie was sitting alone, picking shreds of beef from a bowl of soup. He was wearing a smart-looking pair of tan chinos and a monogrammed burgundy shirt. He’d spent a fortune on his haircut and probably a lot more on the Ralph Lauren shades that lay folded on the tablecloth. To any of his mates from the old 6.57 crew, shock troops for Pompey away games, he’d have been unrecognisable. Misty was right, Winter thought. With twenty million quid in the bank and a tan that had never seen the inside of a bottle, Bazza wants the world to know he’s gone legit.
‘Fancy anything?’ Mackenzie pushed a menu towards the DC. Winter thought he might like a plate of tiger prawns.
‘Number forty-seven,’ he said. ‘Easy on the ginger.’
Mackenzie signalled the waiter, ordering a couple of beers as well. Then he turned back to Winter. He’d never had a talent for small talk.
‘Misty seems to think you’ve got an interest in Mickey Kearns,’ he said. ‘Why’s that?’
Winter took his time. The last thing you did in these situations was let Mackenzie batter you. When it was in his interests, he could be as charming and attenti
ve as you like, but his normal style was altogether more direct, a blend of subtle menace and outright threats that normally worked a treat.
‘Misty?’ Winter said mildly. ‘Keeping well, is she?’
‘You should know, mush. You were all over her a couple of nights ago.’
‘How’s that then?’
‘How’s that? You drag her round half the bars in fucking Southsea and you don’t think word’ll get back? What did they do to that brain of yours? Leave it in the operating theatre?’
‘We had a couple of beers.’
‘Sure. And I’m Marco fucking Polo. Misty says you were after a name. She also swears blind she didn’t help you out. But being the devious bastard you are, you’ve come up with Mickey Kearns. Fuck knows why.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really. Except you can’t stick anything on the boy. And so now, like always, you think you’re going to get a cough out of Sammy Lewington. But it ain’t gonna work like that because Sammy phoned me first. Why? Because he doesn’t fancy it. And you know what? That makes him a whole lot cleverer than you might think.’
Winter looked pained.
‘You’re right, Baz. Bad move.’
‘Mickey, you mean?’
‘Sammy Lewington. And he was always so reliable.’
‘Well, he ain’t anymore. So do us all a favour and leave it out, yeah? Don’t go bothering the man. Just give him a bit of respect for a change.’
‘Respect? Sammy?’ Winter was laughing now. ‘You have to be joking. Things might have changed in this town but you’re not telling me Lewington’s one of them. That man was born frightened.’
‘And you think I don’t know that?’
‘I’m sure you do but there’s more than one way of putting the shits up him. It’s a free world, Baz. We all take our chances, Sammy Lewington included. Shame, though. I quite like the Anson.’
‘I’m not surprised. It’s an arsehole pub.’
The lagers arrived. Winter raised his glass. ‘To Mickey Kearns,’ he said. ‘So why all the drama?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘But I do, Baz, I do. And, one way or another, I’m going to find out. As you’ve probably sussed.’
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