Borrowed Light

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘You’re early, Mist. I thought we shagged on Fridays?’

  She blew him a kiss, told him to let her in. She was freezing. She wanted a drink.

  Winter buzzed her in. By the time she made it to the third floor, he was waiting by the door. Weekdays Mist drank vodka and Coke, easy on the ice.

  ‘You having one too?’ She gave him a hug. Winter caught the faintest breath of cigars.

  He returned to the kitchen, sorted out a Stella and joined her on the sofa in the big living room. Misty Gallagher had been Mackenzie’s long-term mistress. Like countless other men in the city, he’d fallen for her guile, and her frankness, and her gypsy good looks. Winter had always enjoyed her company, but the last couple of years, with Bazza increasingly occupied elsewhere, he and Mist had got way beyond conversation. Winter knew how territorial Mackenzie could be, but so far, fingers crossed, he and Mist were still intact.

  Winter wanted to know why she wasn’t at home tucked up in front of the telly. Wednesdays was Relocation, Relocation, her favourite show.

  ‘I was. Then I got a call from Baz.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s really upset. Really sorry.’ She sipped at the drink. ‘You two had a ruck, am I right?’

  ‘I told him to stuff the job. There’s a difference, Mist. No ruck. Just me out the door.’

  ‘And you meant it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s what he thinks.’

  ‘Then he’s right for once. Thank fuck he bothered to listen.’

  She smiled at him, dipped a finger in the vodka, moistened his lips. Winter loved the way she painted her nails. She always used the same colour, a deep, deep scarlet, and it never failed to stir him. She found his hand, gave it a little squeeze. Winter wanted to know why Bazza had phoned her.

  ‘He wants to say sorry. He wants to make amends. He wants you two to be mates again.’

  ‘Kiss and make up?’ It was Winter’s turn to smile. ‘Quaint.’

  ‘He means it, Paul. He’s serious. I haven’t seen him like this since … you know … that business with the nipper . . .’

  Winter raised an eyebrow. Last year Bazza’s grandson had been kidnapped. For days Mackenzie had barely known how to cope.

  ‘I’m flattered,’ he said. ‘Did he tell you why I walked out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. The man can be a complete twat sometimes, his own worst enemy. It’s happened before, Mist. This time he’s pushed it too far.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I sympathise. I spent years with the man. I know him better than he knows himself.’

  It was true. Before the move to nearby Hayling Island, Mist had lived in a Gunwharf apartment similar to his own. Just her and a million stuffed animals for the nights when Baz chose not to turn up.

  ‘You need another one of those.’ She nodded at his glass. To Winter’s surprise, it was nearly empty. He watched her through the open kitchen door as she raided the fridge for another Stella. Mist never did anything by accident. So just why had she paid him this visit?

  ‘Baz said something else too, on the phone.’ She was back on the sofa beside him.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Us, Paul.’

  ‘Us? How does that work?’

  ‘He says he won’t mind any more. He says he thinks he can wear it.’

  ‘Wear what? You and me shagging?’

  ‘Yeah. And – you know – being together.’

  ‘Really?’ Winter was astonished. ‘So how would that work?’

  ‘He’d just …’ she shrugged ‘… put up with it.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He must be desperate.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Winter felt her stiffen beside him. He patted her knee, said he was sorry.

  ‘No offence, Mist. You mean we’d be …’ He struggled to find the right word. ‘Legit?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Mist nodded. ‘Exactly.’

  Winter looked at her, trying to work it out. Life with Misty Gallagher had always been exciting, not least because of the consequences of being caught.

  ‘You think it would be the same, Mist? No Bazza in the wings? No chance of getting my bollocks ripped off?’

  ‘You’re telling me you’d miss that?’ Her hand had settled on his crotch. Another little squeeze.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘if you’re offering.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘But we have to do something about Baz.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s outside in the car. And he wants to have a chat.’

  *

  Winter phoned Mackenzie a few minutes later and told him to come up. Mist had disappeared into the bathroom. She’d switched on the little radio he kept in there and over the fall of the water in the shower Winter could hear her singing along to Radio Two. Carly Simon. ‘You’re So Vain’.

  Mackenzie had rain on his coat when he appeared in the hall outside. He said he’d been out on the Millennium Walk, getting some fresh air, having a think. Winter took his coat, offered him a drink. Mackenzie never did contrition, couldn’t quite make it work.

  ‘Listen, mush.’ He’d downed the first Scotch, wanted another. ‘If sorry makes any difference, I’m really fucking sorry. That’s an apology, by the way.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Winter was sitting across from the sofa, the remains of his Stella untouched.

  ‘Yeah. You and me, mush, we made a team. Maybe I forgot that. Maybe there were some little things I should have attended to. Like I say, I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘Is it, mush?’ There was a tiny spark of hope in the question.

  ‘Yeah. Like I just said to Mist, it means you must have been listening.’

  ‘I was, mush, I was. Don’t think I haven’t been taking you for granted, I fucking have. I know it. I’m like that. I take everyone for granted. You, Marie, Ezzie, Stu, Mist, the whole fucking world. It’s what I do. It’s what I am. Fucking deaf, mush. That’s me.’

  This had the makings of a speech. Winter wondered how well it might play in front of an audience of Pompey Rotarians.

  ‘Something else too. About Mist. She’s told you what I said on the phone? I fucking mean it, mush. I know you’ve been knobbing her for years. Fuck, I told you to help yourself a couple of times. But that’s different. What I’m saying now is … you know … get it on properly, if that’s what you both want. I know Mist does. Fuck knows why.’ He risked a grin before stripping the cellophane from a small cigar.

  Winter didn’t respond. When Mackenzie asked for a light, Winter said he didn’t have one.

  ‘You’re telling me not to smoke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK.’ He left the cigar, unlit, on the table.

  ‘So why are you here, Baz?’

  ‘You want the truth? We’re in the shit.’

  ‘I don’t understand we.’

  ‘You and me, mush.’

  ‘How does that work? I’ve been looking after your best interests. I’ve spent most of the last couple of years keeping you out of the shit. So what else haven’t you told me?’

  Mackenzie was nursing the last of his drink now, head down, shoulders hunched. Mist was right, Winter thought. He’d never seen him so forlorn, so physically diminished.

  ‘You remember Tommy Peters, mush?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s been pushing me for money, serious moolah. Like every other cunt these days, he’s finding it hard to make a living. He thinks I owe him, big time. He’s been talking silly figures. He’s totally lost it.’

  ‘How much?’

  Mackenzie wouldn’t answer, not at first. Winter just looked at him, waiting. Finally the head came up.

  ‘He’s after 250K.’

  ‘That’s hush money. Blackmail.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what di
d you say? What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him to fuck off. I said I’d paid him the rate for the job, twenty K, cash on the nail, notes on the fucking table, and that was that. In fact it was you, mush, that gave it to him.’

  Winter nodded. A couple of years ago Mackenzie had taken out a contract on a man called Brett West. West had a distinguished record as Bazza’s favourite enforcer but had gone seriously off-piste. Tommy Peters had blown his face off in an unfinished bar north of Malaga, and killed his girlfriend as well. Winter, as bagman, had been a metre away from them both. The memory of that hot afternoon had never left him.

  ‘So what’s Peters saying now?’

  ‘He still wants the money. We’re talking stand-off, big style.’

  ‘Any threats?’

  ‘Yeah. Plenty.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like he might grass us both. Unless.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘I said he’d never do that.’

  ‘But he might.’

  ‘I know, mush.’ His head went down again. ‘But there’s something else I think he’s done already …’

  He let the silence between them stretch and stretch. Mist was still under the shower. Carole King. ‘It Might As Well Rain Until September’.

  Mackenzie was evidently finding the next bit hard. Winter saved him the trouble.

  ‘You think he’s helped himself to all that toot at Johnny Holman’s.’

  ‘I know he has.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because he’s that kind of bloke. Just wades in.’

  ‘But how did he know about it in the first place?’

  ‘Because I told him.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I told him, mush. Biggest mistake of my fucking life. It was when we were fixing to fly down to Spain to sort out Westie. Me and Tommy had a couple in a place in London. We got a bit hammered. I was twatting around. I admit it. Big-time London hit man, all that shit, you have to let them know you carry a bit of weight. To be honest I can’t remember exactly how much I told him, but it would have been enough. He’s got a brain, that guy. More than I fucking have.’

  Winter turned away, then got up and went to the window. This was far, far worse than he’d ever imagined. Two million quid’s worth of toot could put him away for an age. Add conspiracy to murder, and he’d be spending the rest of his life in some khazi of a prison. Possibly in Spain.

  ‘You’re sure about Peters?’

  ‘As far as I can be. It all fits. It all makes sense.’

  ‘Has he been in touch recently?’

  ‘A week ago. That’s when he got really heavy.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he’d hit us where it really hurt.’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘Us.’

  Another silence, longer this time. Out in the darkness of the harbour, the lights of the Gosport ferry.

  ‘Do we know where to find Peters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you really think he’d burn that place down? With everyone inside? Abduct Johnny Holman? Nick the toot?’

  ‘I’d put money on it, mush, if I fucking had any. The guy’s a complete psycho. He wouldn’t think twice about any of it.’

  Winter watched Mackenzie get up and help himself to more Scotch from the bottle on the side. He seemed to have developed a limp.

  ‘Tell me about Lou Sadler, Baz.’

  Mackenzie put the bottle, uncapped, to one side. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘Just answer the question, Baz.’

  Mackenzie hesitated, not liking any of this. Then he went back to the sofa.

  Sadler, he said, was a Scummer. She’d once been mates with Misty. Mackenzie had met her a few times, way back, and as far as he knew she was now running a brothel somewhere on the Isle of Wight. Good-looking woman if you didn’t mind a bit of weight. Fucking smart too.

  Scummer was Pompey-speak for anyone from Southampton. Winter wanted to know whether Sadler might have had anything to do with the fire and the toot.

  ‘No way. It’s Peters, mush. I know it fucking is. The man’s an animal. We have to get him off our backs.’

  ‘And how do we do that?’

  ‘You talk to him. You get him to level about the toot. Then we do a deal.’

  ‘What kind of a deal?’

  ‘Fuck knows. The way I’m feeling right now, I’m gonna leave it to you. You sort it. You decide the split. You make it sweet enough for him never to come calling again. Otherwise …’

  ‘Otherwise what, Baz?’

  ‘Otherwise we might be back with the Westie solution. Comprendes?’

  Winter said nothing. He studied his slippered feet, wondering where this conversation might go next. Then he heard the bathroom door open and he looked up to find Misty Gallagher standing beside the sofa, combing her wet hair. She was wearing Winter’s dressing gown, open at the front.

  ‘You coming to bed, Paul? Or what?’

  Winter was watching Mackenzie. He got to his feet, drained the Scotch, headed for the door. Then he paused, turned back into the room.

  ‘See you tomorrow, mush.’ He nodded at Mist. ‘Sweet dreams, eh?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  THURSDAY, 12 FEBRUARY 2009. 06.24

  Faraday was dreaming of Petra. It was the end of a long afternoon. He and Gabrielle had climbed away from the Valley of the Tombs and the endless shuffle of weary tourists. Away to the south, following their instincts through the trackless scrub, they found a perch among the rocks. Up here, in the clean winter air, they threw long shadows across the shale. Gabrielle had a sketch pad. She squatted beside a thorny bush, laid chalks in the dust, squinted into the dying sun. Her hands were powdered blue and green and violent crimson from the chalks.

  She drew on her sketch pad while Faraday wandered among the shards of loose rock, pausing here, stooping there, gathering fragments for no purpose. In a while, his pockets heavy with stones, he found the very edge of the view. A thousand feet below was the bottom of a wadi. It lay in deep shadow. He braced himself, felt a tickle of sweat beneath his cotton shirt, lobbed one stone, then another, then a third, pausing each time to count the seconds before impact. The bark of the stones shattering on the dry riverbed echoed away down the wadi, becoming fainter and fainter, rubbed out by distance and by time.

  Soon he had just one stone left. It was heavier and flatter than the rest. In some ways he wanted to keep it but knew he shouldn’t. He knew it belonged to the wadi, to this bare biblical landscape, to the rough clatter of the stones he’d tossed before. And so he stepped to the very edge of the wadi and peered over before spinning the last stone into oblivion. The stone left his hand. He began to count. He got to ten. Twenty. Thirty. Nothing happened. Bewildered, he turned to shout to Gabrielle. But Gabrielle had gone.

  From far away came another sound. Somebody knocking, somebody calling his name. Groggy, damp with sweat, he struggled up onto one elbow, fumbled for the light. The alarm clock he’d propped beside the bed told him it was half past six. He got out of bed and made it to the door.

  It was Jimmy Suttle. He was standing in the dimness of the hotel corridor.

  ‘Sorry, boss. I thought I ought to give you a shout.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘They’ve found the Corsa. Or what’s left of it.’

  It was barely light when Winter woke up. He peered at the thin stripe of grey between the bedroom curtains, aware of a shape hanging over him. It was Misty. He could feel the warmth of her body, smell the scent she always wore. Obsession. Musky with a hint of citrus.

  ‘You OK, Paul?’

  For a moment he wondered why he shouldn’t be. Then he remembered.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered. ‘Fine.’

  ‘You want to try again?’

  ‘What?’

  She didn’t answer. He lay back, his head on the pillow, his eyes closed. He’d never had a problem with Misty before, not until
last night, but for reasons he couldn’t explain it hadn’t happened. Maybe it was the visit from Bazza. Maybe it was the prospect of the days that lay ahead. Maybe it was the realisation that this thing with Misty was suddenly theirs for keeps. He didn’t know.

  ‘How’s that?’ She’d ducked beneath the duvet. He could picture her fingernails. He could feel the hot scald of her tongue.

  He grunted his approval, let out a tiny sigh.

  ‘More?’

  ‘More.’

  Her face appeared, hooded by the duvet. She was smiling. She kissed him on the lips, on the chest. Then she disappeared again.

  Minutes later, she was back beside him.

  ‘Thank Christ for that.’ She reached for a cigarette. ‘I was beginning to worry.’

  Faraday rode out to the site where they’d found the Corsa, Jimmy Suttle at the wheel of the borrowed Fiesta. They were in the south of the island, among the tangle of lanes that webbed the downland around the Brighstone Forest. A track led deep into the woods, and Suttle switched on the headlights as the trees grew thicker. Soon, ahead, Faraday spotted the flapping line of police aware tape. A couple of uniforms waved them to a halt. Beyond the tape Faraday could see the burned-out shell of the Corsa. The CSI who’d worked on Monkswell Farm was bending into the carcass of the vehicle, locked in conversation with a fireman. Faraday joined them.

  What remained of the car had been reported by a local in search of foxes. He’d found the Corsa around half past three in the morning. The fire was out by then but the bodywork, he’d said, was still warm.

  Faraday was looking at the remains. The rear windows had shattered and there were tendrils of rubber hanging from the wheel hubs. Scraps of charred fabric clung to the blackened seat frames and the plastic trim on the dashboard had largely melted.

  ‘Accelerants?’ Faraday was looking at the fireman.

  ‘Yeah, big time. The FI’s on his way, and it’s his shout, but I’d say whoever did this knew what he was about. Cold night like last night, you’d never have the front windows down, would you?’

  FI meant Fire Investigator. Winding down the windows before setting the fire guaranteed a draught.