‘You mean Leila.’
‘Oui.’ Her head settled on his chest again. ‘Et toi, chéri.’
Chapter Twenty
SATURDAY, 14 FEBRUARY 2009. 04.12
Winter woke up in the early hours, groggy after an evening’s drinking. Misty had always favoured king-sized beds and it took him several moments to realise that she wasn’t there. He lay on his side in the darkness, trying to pin down what had roused him. Then, very faintly, he heard her voice. She was along the corridor somewhere, maybe in the bathroom, and she seemed to be having some kind of conversation. She’s on the mobile, he thought vaguely, drifting off again.
It was daylight when he came to again. He reached out, feeling for Misty, finding a breast, half-remembering the earlier episode. She stirred in her sleep, rolling away from him, and he looked at the long curve of her back for a while before slipping out of bed and reaching for her dressing gown. He padded downstairs and put the kettle on. The breakfast bar was still littered with empty cans, and smears of Bolognese sauce had congealed on the hillock of spaghetti Misty hadn’t bothered to finish.
He scraped the food into the waste bin and hunted for the tea bags. He was trying to work out where she kept her sweeteners when he heard the purr of an engine outside. From the front room he could see the half-moon of gravel that served as a drive. A small stocky figure was getting out of a dark blue Bentley. Mackenzie.
He let himself in. Winter was back in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure whether he still had rights to Misty Gallagher but the teapot, he thought, could stretch to three cups.
Mackenzie didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see him.
‘Awright?’ He settled onto one of the bar stools and nodded up at the clock on the wall. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes, mush. We’re out of here by nine.’
‘Why the rush, Baz?’
‘Tell you later.’ He nodded at the third cup. ‘I’d let the old slapper kip on for a while if I were you.’
Winter showered and dressed. They drove back towards the mainland. Winter had left Misty asleep in bed, disturbed by the realisation that the early-morning conversation that had woken him up must have been with Mackenzie. That’s how he had known Winter was in residence. But why drive across?
Mackenzie was lighting a small cheroot. He wanted to know about Tommy Peters.
Winter described yesterday’s exchange. In his view Peters was in deep financial shit and was calling in debts that didn’t exist. The stuff about Brett West and the possibility of extradition proceedings was a clever move to put pressure on them both. There didn’t seem to be a shred of evidence to back any of this stuff up, and 250K was a lot of money to give away for no good reason.
‘You think he’s making it up?’ Mackenzie swerved to avoid a paper boy.
‘Yeah.’
‘A tenner says you’re wrong, mush.’
‘You believe him?’
‘I do.’
‘And you think we should bung him?’
‘Tommy fucking Peters?’ He shot Winter a look. ‘Do me a favour.’
Winter was lost. Mackenzie appeared to know more about all this than he’d previously let on. What a surprise.
‘What did he say about the toot?’
‘He was outraged. He thought I was taking the piss to begin with. When he realised you meant it he gave me an earful. I get the impression he hasn’t got much time for drug dealing. He thinks we’re lowlife. Maybe he’s right.’
Mackenzie looked briefly pained. Winter wanted to know more about what was happening in Spain. Was Peters right about extradition?
‘Yeah, but that’s not the point. Down there these things are always more complicated than they look. The guys with the real power are the politicians. When you get something like this, the police often can’t be arsed. They’ve got more crime on their doorstep than they know how to handle. The last thing they need is all the hassle that goes with trying to nail down people like us. It’s mañana, mush. Bury the file. Forget it.’
‘So how come it’s still live?’
‘Because there’ll be some greedy little spic politician who’s smelling money. Our money. Something like this, they can make life tough for us. They can lean on the police. They can talk to the papers. They can stir up a shit storm, push for extradition, exactly the way Peters says, until the moment comes when we bung them a whack of moolah and they call the dogs off.’
‘That simple?’
‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen it happen a million times in the property game. Planning consents. Water supplies. Access roads. Whatever. There’s always a price, and unless you pay it you get fuck all. This thing’s no different. But 250K’s way over the top, and you know why? Because Tommy fucking Peters would skim a huge slice off the top.’
Winter nodded. In some ways, he thought, this rant made sense. No wonder Mackenzie wanted to become a politician.
‘So what do we do, Baz?’
‘We talk to Rikki. And we find out what kind of money they really want.’
Riquelme was the guy Winter had met last year, when he’d narrowly avoided arrest at Vigo airport. He lived out on the Galician coast, importing industrial quantities of cocaine, and now seemed to act as some kind of agent for Mackenzie.
‘He knows these people?’
‘Rikki knows everyone.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense, Baz. The last time I looked, Malaga was on the other side of Spain.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Rikki has the connections. He knows the way these things work. I trust the guy with my life, mush.’
Winter nodded, saying nothing, all too aware they might have to. They were back on the mainland now, heading west on the motorway. Was this the moment to talk about Lou Sadler? About Kaija Luik? About a black plastic bin liner that was, he hoped, still in Misty’s loft? He thought not. Instead, he asked where they were going.
‘QA.’ Mackenzie indicated left for the exit road. ‘ We’ve got to pay a little visit.’
The Queen Alexandra hospital stood on the slopes of Portsdown Hill, with views across the city below. A recent makeover had transformed the place, giving it the look of a huge multi-storey hotel.
Mackenzie drew up outside the main entrance and told Winter to find a parking space while he dived inside and sorted out some flowers. When Winter wanted to know who they were visiting, Mackenzie grinned. Mate of yours, he said. Mate of mine too, once upon a time.
Winter slipped behind the wheel and took the Bentley into the biggest of the parking lots. Minutes later he discovered Mackenzie prowling among the pre-wrapped bouquets in the atrium. Finally he went for an extravagant bunch of lilies.
‘Here, mush.’ He thrust the flowers at Winter. ‘You do the honours.’
Ward D6 was up on the third floor. Winter stepped out of the lift and body-checked round a catering trolley, following Mackenzie, who’d already found the nurses’ station and was bent over a pretty redhead finishing a conversation on the phone. He wanted to know where to find Mr Leyman. Winter stared at him, still holding the flowers, suddenly aware of what lay in store.
Leyman was in a bay at the far end of the ward. His bed was beside the window, and the brightness of the light threw his huge body into silhouette. Mackenzie, once again, was in the lead. He rounded the end of the bed, perched himself on the mattress and gave Leyman a little pat.
‘Been in the wars, Col?’
Winter could see Leyman properly now. He was sitting upright in bed, the sheet tucked over the swell of his belly. His lower face was swollen, purpled with bruising. His teeth were wired together, stretching his mouth into an idiot grin, and when he tried to talk he could only manage a handful of noises.
‘Well, mush?’ Mackenzie glanced across at Winter, then nodded at the flowers. ‘You gonna hand those over or what?’
Winter couldn’t take his eyes off Leyman. I did that, he thought. I set him up. I took advantage. I squeezed out the pathetic scraps of gossip that earned him this beating.
‘For you, Col.’ Winter pushed the flowers towards him. ‘All the best.’
Leyman couldn’t take his eyes off Mackenzie. He was terrified. Winter could feel it, smell it. His eyes were huge in his head. He tried to say something. A thin trickle of pinkish saliva was the best he could manage.
‘Give him a wipe, mush.’ Mackenzie had spotted a box of tissues on the bedside table. ‘Poor bastard.’
Winter didn’t move. He knew exactly what Mackenzie was up to. Leyman was a warning. This is what happens, Mackenzie was telling him. This is where you’ll end up if things get out of hand.
A cleaner had paused beside the bed. She thought the flowers were lovely. She’d go and find a vase.
Leyman was still staring at Mackenzie. Finally he managed what sounded like a sentence. Mackenzie shook his head. He hadn’t a clue what Leyman was on about. He wanted him to try again. Winter spared him the effort.
‘He’s saying thank you, Baz.’
‘Pleasure, mush.’ Another pat. ‘You mind if Paulie here takes a photo? Just you and me?’
Mackenzie had brought a little Nikon. He gave it to Winter, told him which buttons to press. Then he stood beside Leyman with the flowers between them and mugged a smile for the camera. Leyman, Winter knew, wanted anything but this. He sat in bed, his upper body sagging, the wreckage of his face frozen in the rictus grin. Beside him, on the little table, a single straw in a glass of orange juice.
Mackenzie wanted the camera back. Winter handed it over. It was his turn to pose beside the bed. Another shot. More humiliation.
‘Ready, mush?’ Mackenzie was waiting.
Winter looked at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head, gave Leyman’s hand a squeeze and left. Only when he got to the ground floor did he realise he still had the keys to the Bentley.
The news about Kaija Luik found Jimmy Suttle in the tiny office that served as Gosling’s intelligence cell. It was nearly midday. In an hour or so, with Parsons’ blessing, he’d be on the hovercraft back over to Pompey. His partner Lizzie was planning an expedition to Winchester. It seemed she had something special in mind.
‘Here …’ Parsons closed the door behind her and handed Suttle a printed email.
Suttle scanned it quickly, knowing that easyJet were the last airline to respond to Gosling’s request for passenger lists. According to their sales department, no tickets had been issued in the name of Luik for flights since last Saturday.
‘So where does that take us?’ Parsons had sat down.
‘It probably means no one called Kaija Luik has travelled to Estonia over the past week.’
Suttle went through the various other carriers Gosling had contacted. Nothing from the coach companies. Nothing from the ferries across the North Sea. Nothing from SAS, Air Estonia, KLM and a host of other airlines. And now nothing from easyJet.
‘Maybe she’s using an assumed name,’ said Parsons.
‘I asked Sadler that. She said she couldn’t remember seeing her passport.’
‘Meaning Luik might not be her real name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we’re stuffed, aren’t we? She could be anyone when it comes to passenger lists. Plus she might have taken a different route. Or gone by train.’ Parsons shrugged. ‘It happens.’
‘Of course it does, boss. But it’s unlikely. And what’s more important, it makes a pattern. Sadler’s fending us off. She’s keeping us at arm’s length.’
‘What about the photo she’s supposed to be sending?’
‘It still hasn’t arrived.’
‘So why? Why is she being so obstructive?’
‘Because she doesn’t want us to talk to the girl.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘I’ve no idea. We can tie the girl to Holman. We’re still assuming Holman has absconded with whatever he dug up. D/I Faraday thinks he planned the whole thing with the girl in mind.’
‘I know. He told me.’
‘So maybe Sadler thinks that too.’
‘Or knows it.’
‘Giving her every incentive to throw us off the scent?’
‘Exactly.’ Parsons retrieved the email. ‘So where is she now? This Kaija Luik?’
Suttle shook his head, said he didn’t know. But that, in a sense, was secondary to a more important question. Just what had happened to Johnny Holman?
‘This is a guy in a bit of a state. He’s got a raging thirst. He’s totally chaotic. He may have killed four people. He may have burned his house down. A guy like that can’t hide for ever.’
‘Unless they’ve gone somewhere else.’
‘Abroad, you mean?’
‘Of course.’
Suttle nodded. It was a possibility. But the Border Agency had been sitting on his details since Wednesday. That still left a three-day window during which he could have fled the UK, but he’d still have been taking a sizeable risk.
Parsons agreed, then consulted her watch. She was due to conference with the local D/I in Newport. For the time being, she said, she was happy to keep Sadler under surveillance. Doubtless the time would come for a proper extended interview but the more they had to throw at her the better.
Suttle needed a catch-up on the surveillance. How was it going?
‘Not much so far. It turns out the woman’s got a bit of a thing about horses. She went out to some kind of stables this morning, treated herself to a ride.’
‘Has anyone checked this place out?’
‘Not yet. It’s down as an action. If you want the details, talk to Outside Enquiries.’
She threw him a brief smile and left the office. Suttle waited until the clack-clack of her heels had disappeared down the corridor, then lifted the phone. He knew the relief skipper on Outside Enquiries from way back.
‘George? It’s Jimmy. Have you got a moment?’
Faraday returned to the Burns Unit at half past one, leaving Gabrielle at the guest house. Last night’s modest celebrations had caught up with her and she wanted to snatch an extra hour or so in bed. Back at the unit, Leila was asleep. Faraday peered in through the glass panel in the door. Riham was in the armchair beside the bed. She was wearing headphones but also appeared to be dozing.
Faraday wondered whether to rejoin Gabrielle at the guest house but decided against it. The room depressed him – the muddy yellows on the wall, the faint smell of neglect – and now the sun was out again he fancied a stroll, lungfuls of fresh air to clear the last of his headache, maybe down by the river. At Riham’s request, he’d bought a bag of olives and some halloumi cheese from the delicatessen Gabrielle had found, and he stepped into the treatment room where the patients’ fridge was kept.
He put the olives and the cheese in the fridge and was about to leave when a nurse he hadn’t seen before came in. She was carrying a box of toys, which she left on a chair. She was young, with a soft face and a twinkly nose stud.
‘You must be Gabrielle’s friend,’ she said.
‘Joe.’ Faraday extended a hand. ‘How did you know?’
‘I was with Leila this morning. She was due for a change of dressings on one of her hands. She told me about your beard.’
‘Through Riham? The translator?’
‘No.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘She’s a very bright little girl. We talk in mime mainly but we talk. She’s obviously got a problem with her hands but she does her best. She told me you had a beard.’ She touched her own chin.
The thought that Leila could establish relationships like this hadn’t occurred to him. He wanted to know more. How many other nurses did the little girl chatter to?
‘I’m not a nurse. I’m what they call a play specialist. I’m the one who distracts them when all the nasty stuff happens. The older ones call me their Good Angel.’
‘As opposed to bad?’<
br />
‘Definitely.’
‘And Leila? You’re her Good Angel?’
‘I am. She thinks I’m funny. I make her laugh.’
Faraday was eyeing the box of toys. He liked the idea of a Good Angel.
‘So what do you think of our Leila?’
‘I think she’s amazing. Truly amazing. I know she’s got a lot of support – the Arab lady, your Gabrielle – but the pain these children go through is horrible, and not having your mum and dad around must be very tough.’
‘You think she’s getting better?’
‘Much.’
‘You really see a difference?’
‘A huge difference. I know part of that’s down to all the treatment and stuff, but what matters is her and Riham. They’re close, really close, you can see it. Children need one special person. They need to reach out. Maybe it’s a trust thing, I don’t know, but Riham has been there for her, twenty-four/seven. It gives her strength, confidence. Like I said, there’s a smile back on her face.’
Children need to reach out. The sister had said exactly the same thing only yesterday. Poor Leila, Faraday thought. Poor Gabrielle.
‘And what about her future?’ he said carefully.
‘She’ll go back. She’ll have to go back.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We had a little girl like this before. She came from Uganda. Once she was better we had to send her home. She had no family in this country. Just like Leila.’
‘But what about …’ he hesitated ‘… adoption?’
‘That takes an age. I don’t know enough about it. All I know is that the children first have to go back to where they came from.’
‘And Gabrielle knows that?’
The play specialist looked at him. The question had thrown her.
‘You’re asking me?’ she said.
Winter was back at Misty’s place by two o’clock. He’d helped himself to the Bentley at the hospital, driven back down to Portsmouth and phoned her from Blake House, leaving a message asking her to get in touch. When she finally returned the call she said she felt vile. Too much vodka. Not enough sleep.
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