‘This guy with his foxes. He had a gun?’ Faraday was looking at the CSI.
‘Twelve-bore, boss. I’ve had it seized. Just in case.’
Faraday nodded. At the very best it was a punt, but twenty years on CID told him never to discount coincidence. Four bodies with gunshot wounds. Twelve-bore cartridges recovered from the scene. Now this.
Suttle had been talking to one of the uniforms. The Corsa was the closest thing they’d had so far to any kind of breakthrough. Faraday needed to get himself organised.
Suttle led him back towards the Fiesta.
‘We need house-to-house, boss, as soon as. The guy I was talking to just now’s happy to walk us through it. I’m thinking four two-man teams. The properties are well spread out. We’ve got at least three approach roads. CCTV-wise, we’re pretty much fucked. In this immediate area there isn’t any.’
Faraday was torn between gratitude and amusement. This was his call. These were his decisions.
‘Have you finished?’
‘Just trying to help, boss.’ Suttle had no time for irony. ‘You want to use the Airwave in the car?’
Winter took Misty breakfast in bed, a plate of toast loaded with her favourite marmalade. It was nearly nine by now and Misty had had enough of Radio Two.
‘Are you joining me?’
‘No, Mist.’ Winter shook his head.
‘Why not? Doesn’t a girl deserve a bit of conversation?’
‘Later, love.’ He was standing by the door. ‘What’s the plan then?’
Mist gave the question some thought. She was in no great rush to get home. There was an early-spring sale at a few of the classier outlets in Gunwharf. She might wander across and check them out.
‘All in good time though, eh?’ Mist pushed back the duvet with her foot.
Winter hesitated. They were in new territory, and he didn’t know quite what to make of it. Twenty-four hours ago he’d have bundled Misty out of the door ahead of another busy day with Bazza. Now she seemed to have rights of her own.
‘I have to sort a couple of things out, Mist.’
‘Like what?’
He looked at her and laughed. Like two million quid’s worth of toot, he thought. And a London hit man who wanted to put him away for life.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing, Mist. It’s just business, that’s all. Stuff I have to do.’
‘You sound like Bazza.’
‘I’m not fucking surprised. Just think of me when I’m gone, OK?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing,’ he said again. He crossed to the bed and gave her a kiss. She tasted of ginger marmalade. Happy days.
‘So where are you going?’
‘Out. I’m on the mobe if you need to get in touch. Back later, yeah?’
He left the bedroom without waiting for an answer. A mug of coffee he’d made earlier was still in the kitchen, untouched. He took it onto the balcony, looking out over the harbour, trying to foresee the kind of day that lay ahead. The priority just now was the cocaine. He’d need the details from Mackenzie: how much bulk was involved, where it had been stashed, what Holman might be doing with it now. As far as Tommy Peters was concerned, Winter wasn’t convinced. While he bought Mackenzie’s story about the extortion bid, he resisted the temptation to link Peters to the cocaine. It was too easy, too convenient. Bazza always joined the dots up far too fast. Just one reason why they were all in deep shit.
Winter swallowed the last of his coffee and took a final look at the harbour. Down below, on the promenade that skirted the front of the apartment blocks, he noticed a youngish guy in jeans and a leather jacket. He was taking his ease against the railings, studying a mobile phone. He’d been there earlier, when Winter had first pulled the curtains in the lounge. Funny, he thought, tucking the image away.
He took the mug into the kitchen, rinsed it and collected his briefcase en route to the bedroom. He put his head round the door, blew Misty a kiss. The lift in the corridor took him down to the parking lot in the undercroft. The sight of his new Lexus gave him a moment or two of regret. This was the second Lexus he’d had off Mackenzie, top of the range, HDD navigation system, power moonroof, the lot, and sliding his bulk behind the wheel he knew he’d miss it. He turned the key in the ignition, amazed as always that he could barely hear the engine. A wide U-turn in reverse pointed him towards the exit. Seconds later, with an effortless surge of power, he was out in the thin drizzle, firing up the radio.
The guy in the unmarked Skoda watched him flash past. Silver-grey Lexus. Target at the wheel. He lifted his hand towards his mouth. The mike was taped to the buckle on his watch strap.
‘He’s left Gunwharf, boss. Out.’
Jimmy Suttle, at the MIR in Ryde, found himself looking at the overnight logs from the surveillance team that had Paul Winter plotted out at his Gunwharf apartment. Bazza Mackenzie, it seemed, had arrived mid-evening with a woman identified as Misty Gallagher. Gallagher was Mackenzie’s long-term shag and had been first into Blake House. Mackenzie had parked his Bentley in the undercroft and the presumption was that he’d joined Gallagher inside. In the absence of real-time intel from the flat itself there was no proof that they’d been visiting Winter, but – in the dry prose of the reporting officer – it was reasonable to assume that this had been their intention. Either way, the Bentley had been clocked about an hour later, leaving Gunwharf at some speed. After that, there’d been no further movements to or from the apartment.
Suttle sat back. Parsons, as he now knew from Faraday, had secured authorisation at Assistant Chief Constable level for a full intel rig at Winter’s pad. For Gosling this was a significant tactical move, not something you’d undertake lightly, and Suttle could imagine Parsons making her case to the ACC. Winter, she’d argue, had the ear of Mackenzie. If they were talking a significant stash of cocaine at Monkswell Farm, and if some or all of that consignment belonged to Mackenzie, then Winter would be key to what happened next. On these grounds alone, she’d insist, the risks of a B & E would be wholly justified. Breaking and entering would put a couple of techies into Winter’s apartment, and half an hour would be enough to give Gosling a front-row seat as Mackenzie’s empire at last began to self-destruct.
So where did this leave his conversation with Winter last night? Suttle didn’t know. Two pints of Abbot had been enough to persuade him to pick up the phone. The text from Winter had hurt and he wanted to put the record straight. Then had come the news that Winter and Mackenzie had parted company. Suttle couldn’t possibly know whether Winter was being even more devious than usual but there had been something about him when they’d met in the pub that suggested he was telling the truth. Even for Winter it turned out there were limits. For whatever reason it seemed he’d had enough.
Suttle eyed the phone. Should he report last night’s conversation? Cover his own arse and tell Faraday he’d fed Winter a name to see what might happen? Or should he hold his nerve and see how this thing played out? Winter, after all, was under surveillance. Gosling would know exactly where the bone he’d just been tossed might lead him. Which sort of added Winter to the investigation’s intel team.
The irony put a grin on Suttle’s face. It was, he thought, exactly the kind of tactic that Winter himself would have gone for in his CID days. As a young D/C new to the Job, Suttle had watched Winter on countless occasions playing both ends against the middle and emerging, as if by magic, with a result. That had been the man’s MO. That’s what had made him a detective of genius. Winter’s way had never been ethical, and it frequently courted career suicide, but it had made him a star in the gathering darkness that was CID culture. That darkness, as Suttle knew only too well, was thickening by the year. People didn’t make the moves any more. They kept risk at arm’s length. Shame.
He got to his feet, pleased with himself. Winter, he thought. Back on the squad without even knowing it.
Faraday was thinking about Saturday. Saturday, he’d re
alised, was Valentine’s Day, and with his foot hard down on Gosling’s throttle there was just a chance he might be able to swing a couple of hours off. Enough time, fingers crossed, to return to Salisbury, offer his apologies and start all over again.
The other night in the chill of the B & B he and Gabrielle had circled each other like strangers. Gabrielle could think of nothing but the child. Faraday was nursing wounds that seemed to deepen by the day. That tiny strip of territory they’d made their own, the long happy years of give and take, of getting along, of shared laughter at the general craziness of life, had been abandoned. Quite why, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the accident. Maybe that’s what trauma and shock and all the rest of it did to you. Maybe that kind of earthquake shook you to the very foundations and made you question pretty much everything. Certainly it felt that way – a numbness spiked with an acute sense of apprehension – but he was at a loss to know what to do about it. A mist had descended, impenetrable, all-enveloping. He felt, in a word, fogged-in.
He looked up from his desk to find Suttle looking at him. He hadn’t a clue how long he’d been there.
‘Sorry, boss,’ he began. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’
‘Not at all.’ Faraday rubbed his eyes. ‘What do you want?’
‘This address in Cowes we’ve got for the Estonian girl. It turns out to belong to Lou Sadler.’
Faraday was trying to concentrate. Kaija Luik, he told himself.
‘I thought she’d gone home? Back to Mum?’
‘She has, according to Sadler. But that’s not the point.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No. Sadler’s still not come up with a photo of the girl, but I organised a spot of house-to-house.’
‘And?’
‘No one’s seen any activity at the flat for weeks. A couple who live across the road seem to think it’s been empty for a while.’
‘No Kaija?’
‘No, boss. And no Johnny Holman.’
Misty Gallagher told herself she must have been asleep again. She surfaced from beneath the duvet wondering what it was that had woken her up. Then came a noise, a knocking sound, and the low murmur of voices, men’s voices, close enough to be in the living room.
She looked at her watch – nearly ten o’clock – trying to remember whether Winter had mentioned anyone dropping round – maybe someone to fix the Freeview box, which had gone wrong, maybe something else. But how had they got in?
She slipped quietly out of bed and reached for Winter’s silk dressing gown, the one he’d nicked from the Al Burj in Dubai. Ideally, she’d have called him here and now, asked him what was going on, but she’d left her mobile in the living room. Unless she fancied going to sleep again and blanking the whole episode, her only option was to go next door and ask what the fuck these guys were up to.
She opened the door, hesitated. The voices were much clearer now. There seemed to be two of them. There was a problem about a tuning glitch, a brief discussion about wavelength. The Freeview box. For sure.
She stepped into the living room and found herself face to face with two youngish guys, both in white overalls. A silver metal case lay open on the carpet and one of the light fittings was dangling from the wall. She looked across at the TV. No one had touched the Freeview box.
Both guys were staring at her. She knew about guilt. She’d been round men for most of her adult life. She knew what to look for when a bloke found himself way up shit creek without a paddle. Whatever these two were doing was very definitely illegal.
One had the grace to smile.
‘Lovely,’ he said.
‘Lovely?’
‘The dressing gown. Very nice. My partner would kill for that.’
She ignored him. She was looking at the dustsheet spread beneath the light fitting. In the middle was a tiny curl of cable with a single glass eye on the end.
‘What’s that?’ She nodded at it.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing, bollocks. Who the fuck are you? How did you get in?’
‘Health and safety.’ It was the other one this time. He was trying to keep a straight face. ‘We have the magic key.’
She spotted her mobile, grabbed it. The taller of the two guys said there was no need to make a fuss. It was all cool. They were off. They were sorry to have bothered her.
‘What about the light?’ She was outraged.
‘You want us to fix it?’
‘Of course I fucking do.’
The guy shrugged and picked up a screwdriver while his mate repacked the box on the carpet. For the first time she realised who she was looking at. The haircuts. The attitude. Their bent little smiles. They way they looked at her.
‘You’re Filth, aren’t you?’
‘Charming. Do we get tea as well?’
‘Fuck off out of here.’
‘Pleasure.’
The light fitting was back in place. The dustsheet had been neatly folded and tucked away. Not a single clue remained.
‘See, missus?’ The tall one was shepherding his mate towards the door. ‘We was never here.’
Winter was at the Trafalgar, looking for Bazza Mackenzie. The girl on reception said she’d seen him a few minutes ago, heading down towards the gym. The gym was in the hotel basement. Winter took the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, beyond the office Winter shared with Stu, a long corridor ran the length of the hotel. Pipework still hung from the ceiling but Mackenzie had made an effort with the rest of the decor, painting the rough plaster walls a startling white and hanging a series of cheerfully framed photos at one-metre intervals. Most of the photos came from Fratton Park, moments of glory from last season’s winning FA Cup run, but towards the end he’d chosen a couple of shots from the boxing nights he staged on the pier: two young lads battering each other senseless, a classy black guy standing over the body of the Wecock Farm novice he’d just knocked unconscious.
The door to the gym lay beyond the photos. Winter peered through the square of wired glass. The gym was cavernous, running the depth of the building. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined three walls, offering endless views of the gym’s only occupant. He was on the small side, not young. He was dressed in blue trackie bottoms and was belting the life out of a punchbag that Winter had never seen before. He moved the way a seasoned boxer moves, his head hunched between his shoulders, his face peeping out between his gloved hands, his eyes steady, focused on the bag. The blows came in quick flurries, bam-bam-bam, two lefts and a right, and in between he danced on his toes, bobbing and weaving, as if the bag might fancy a poke back.
Winter watched him, fascinated, wondering how many four-star hotel guests had skills like these. Then his attention was drawn to the top half of the tracksuit neatly folded over a nearby rowing machine. On the back, in big white letters, Royal Navy.
‘All right, mush?’
It was Mackenzie, standing behind him. Winter had no idea how long he’d been there.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Mate of mine. Billy Angel.’
‘Handy, isn’t he?’
‘Too right. Should be, too. He’s a PTI down Temeraire. Been there a while.’
HMS Temeraire was the navy’s School of Physical Training. Mackenzie eased Winter to the left and they both watched Angel for a while. He’d increased the tempo by now, maybe aware of the watching faces through the window, and Winter noticed tiny droplets of sweat spraying from his shorn scalp when he flicked his head. There were dark patches on the grey singlet too, and when he finally called it a day it was Mackenzie who pushed in through the door, grabbed a towel and tossed it across.
‘Billy? Paul Winter, one of my team.’
The two men exchanged nods. Angel was sitting on the rowing machine, gently sliding the seat back and forth, sucking air into his lungs. Winter wondered whether to take issue with the word ‘team’ but decided against it. Angel had the scariest eyes he’d ever seen.
Mackenzie had evidently recovered since last nig
ht. There wasn’t a hint of contrition in the way he bossed the conversation. He was in control again. This was his hotel, his world. People like Winter did his bidding.
Minutes later, back upstairs in Mackenzie’s office, Winter wanted to know more about Angel.
‘Guy’s been around for years, mush. He runs on the seafront most mornings, calls in for a little sesh here when he fancies it. Makes a change from skinny fucking women wanting to look at themselves all day. Lovely bloke. Handy too.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. And I’d know, believe me.’
He gave Winter a nod, leaving the rest unspoken. Winter was tempted to ask about Kieron O’Dwyer. Was this the two-punch hero that had put the lad in hospital?
‘What next then?’ Mackenzie wanted to move on. He was playing the executive now, the busy CEO with a great deal on his mind. Since coming upstairs, his mood seemed to have darkened. Last night was plainly history. ‘You’ll need Tommy Peters’ details, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Anything else? Only I’ve got no time to fuck about.’
‘Lou Sadler?’
‘Forget Lou Sadler. Lou Sadler’s got fuck all to do with anything. I pay your wages, mush. You do what I tell you. And right now that means Tommy Peters. Here.’ He pulled open his desk drawer and slid a white envelope towards Winter. ‘There’s five hundred quid in there. Go to London. Talk to Peters. Buy him a meal. Give him a nice time. But get him fucking sorted, yeah?’
Winter looked at the envelope, then picked it up. He’d rarely seen Mackenzie this blunt, this aggressive. Last night he’d seemed on the edge of some kind of breakdown. Now he was back at full throttle.
‘I meant what I said yesterday, Baz. This isn’t for me any more. I’ll do what I can about the toot, maybe Peters too. After that you’re on your own.’
‘You think it’s that easy?’
‘I think I’ve had enough.’
‘Then think again, old son. And while you’re about it, have a proper think about what happened with Westie down in Malaga. You know why? Because it isn’t just Mr fucking Peters you should be worried about. It’s me too. Like I said downstairs, we’re a team. Someone wants out, that’s a huge fucking problem.’
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