Borrowed Light

by Hurley, Graham

  The thought warmed him. Then, abruptly, he remembered something else. Before leaving Misty’s place, he’d retrieved the holdall she’d stowed away in the loft. It had Johnny Holman’s kit inside and it was still in the Bentley. If his new police friend or any of his mates laid hands on that, they’d all be stuffed. Unauthorised removal of evidence. Perverting the course of justice. Endgame.

  He closed his eyes, shook his head in despair. He knew enough about road traffic accidents to picture exactly what would be happening on the motorway. The guys from the Road Policing Unit would be gathering evidence. Cameras would already have given them a clue or two about exactly what had happened. They’d collect witness statements, measure skid marks, examine impact damage. And finally the low loader from Boarhunt Motors would turn up and cart off the remains of the Bentley for further examination. In the boot of the Bentley was the holdall with Johnny Holman’s clothes. The crime scene of Gail Parsons’ dreams. Horrible.

  It was gone eight o’clock by the time Marie got word that Winter had been transferred to a ward in the main hospital. Only too familiar with Bazza’s impatience in situations like this, she’d finally managed to persuade him to take the Peugeot home. Alone in the big waiting room at A & E, she’d read an ancient copy of Grazie three times before her name was called by a nurse from the treatment area. Mr Winter was occupying a bed in the main hospital. She was welcome to pay him a visit.

  Expecting something far, far worse, she found him sitting up in bed with a borrowed copy of the Pompey News. The only real sign of damage was a bandage around his head. That, and a look of slight alarm when he caught sight of her making her way towards him.

  ‘Baz?’ he said at once.

  ‘I’ve sent him home.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that.’

  ‘He’s really emotional. I haven’t seen him this way for a while.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It was a lovely car.’

  ‘It’s not about the car, Paul, it’s about you.’

  ‘Really?’ Winter looked astonished.

  He made room for her on the bed. She wanted to know how he felt. The miracle, she said, was that no one seemed to have been badly hurt.

  ‘That’s good.’ Winter was pleased to hear it. ‘Very good.’

  He told her what he could remember about the accident. She knew him far too well to believe this was the whole truth, but Winter had a rare talent for finessing difficult situations, and she had no reason to think that this little episode would be any different.

  ‘Are you telling me it was your fault?’

  ‘It might have been. I can’t remember.’

  ‘But that’s what they believe?’

  ‘As far as I can tell …’ He nodded. ‘Yeah. The test comes tomorrow if I get discharged. Odds on, the cone heads will arrest me.’ Cone heads was CID speak for the Road Policing Unit.

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘They’ll interview me. If no one’s died, it’s not a huge deal. I wasn’t pissed and the tox’ll prove it. Hefty fine. Umpteen points. Job done.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’ He gave her the old grin, then reached for her hand. Marie could feel the slightest tremble. Even Winter, she thought, was vulnerable.

  ‘You matter to us, Paul.’ She gave his hand a squeeze. ‘You know that?’

  ‘Yeah?’ He still seemed uncertain.

  ‘Of course you do. And in case you’re wondering, it’s not just me. I know Bazza can be a pain. Lately, I haven’t a clue what’s got into him. But he cares about you, he really does. And he knows how much we owe you too.’

  This, to Winter, had the makings of a speech. Bazza might have put her up to it, but somehow he thought not. Marie, unlike the rest of the world, rarely did her husband’s bidding. Neither was she frightened of him.

  ‘Marie –’ he beckoned her closer ‘– there’s a problem with the Bentley.’

  ‘I know. You’ve just written it off.’

  He shook his head and explained about the holdall in the boot. One way or another, someone had to retrieve it.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it could land us all in the shit.’ He reached for her hand again. ‘Big time.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You want me to tell Baz?’

  ‘No. It’ll only upset him.’

  ‘Fine.’ She smiled. ‘So what do I do?’

  Winter told her to phone Fratton police station. She’d need to talk to the road traffic guy in charge of this evening’s little episode. She should explain that there was stuff in the Bentley that she needed and could she have it back? Items like mobiles they were bound to hang on to in case Winter had been on the phone when he crashed, but there’d be no reason to deny her access to a holdall.

  ‘They’ll take the car to Boarhunt Motors. That’s the nominated garage. My guess is the skipper in charge will send some minion up there to fetch the holdall. Fingers crossed you’ll get a call to collect it from Fratton nick.’ He paused. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘So what’s inside?’

  ‘Bits and pieces of clothing. The stuff needs a wash. Badly.’

  ‘You want me to do that too?’

  ‘No way. Just give it to me. I’ll sort the rest out.’

  Marie gazed at him for a long moment but had the good sense not to ask any more questions. As an afterthought, Winter suggested she delay the call until tomorrow morning. Doing anything about it now might smack of panic.

  ‘It’s that bad?’ She looked almost amused.

  ‘No.’ Winter shook his head. ‘It’s much, much worse.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  MONDAY, 16 FEBRUARY 2009. 09.35

  After a weekend of limited activity, Operation Gosling cranked itself up again. DCI Parsons, thanks to a full day with the Policy Book and associated files, had decreed a comprehensive intel review for the Monday morning. Like Faraday and Suttle, she thought that Johnny Holman, Kaija Luik and Lou Sadler probably represented their best pathways forward. There’d still been no sightings of either Luik or Holman, and two costly days of surveillance on Sadler had yielded very little beyond an evident passion for horse riding. The so-called golden hours on Gosling had come and gone. No sudden breakthroughs. No windfall bits of evidence. No signed confessions. From this point forward, the emphasis would be on graft.

  The meeting took place in the SIO’s office. Parsons had limited attendance to herself, Faraday and Suttle. Dribbles of intel had come in over the weekend and she pressed Suttle for an update.

  Suttle wanted to concentrate on Lou Sadler. Land Registry and DVLC checks had confirmed ownership of two properties, her apartment in Cowes and the terraced house she’d cited as Luik’s address. Experian credit checks had shown no outstanding loans against the red Renault Megane convertible or any other purchase. There were no entries against her name on the PNC, and Hantspol’s Records Management System, a treasure trove of intelligence, simply carried a report from the Vice Squad on her stewardship of the escort agency Two’s Company.

  In Suttle’s view the agency offered potential for money laundering, but without a full financial investigation this would be difficult to develop further. As it was, he’d tasked a financial investigator to use the Revenue and Customs gateway process to obtain details about her declared income and any other source of employment. That process, mounted on the back of terrorism legislation, was still incomplete.

  ‘So what are you saying, Jimmy?’ As ever, Parsons wanted the head lines.

  ‘In broad terms, I think she’s kept her nose clean. The Vice guys think she’s running a decent business. The punters are happy, the girls are well paid, she keeps the books up, she’s got a reputable accountant, she even pays her taxes. Based on this lot –’ his hand rested on the file ‘– I’d say she wouldn’t have much time for the likes of Mr Holman. The guy’s chaos on legs. Too much hassle. Too much grief.’

  ‘So why has she been lying to us about the
Cowes address? And why is she being difficult about the photo of Luik?’ This from Faraday.

  ‘I don’t know, boss. There’s definitely a piece missing. There has to be.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘If I knew that, I’d tell you.’

  Suttle had said exactly the same thing to Parsons. She smiled.

  ‘What about Luik and Holman?’

  ‘Still nothing, boss.’

  ‘Media?’

  ‘Zilch. The County Press published Holman’s photo on Friday. I was hoping for something over the weekend but so far we’ve got sod all.’

  Parsons was brooding. ‘We need that photo, the one of Luik, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do we have an address for this webmaster of Sadler’s? The guy we assume is sitting on it?’

  ‘No, but I can go back to Sadler.’ Suttle paused. ‘We threaten her with warrants? One for her? One for the webmaster?’

  ‘Absolutely. And make sure she knows we mean it. Shake the tree first, Jimmy. See what falls out.’

  Suttle made himself a note and checked his watch. If Parsons had no objection, he’d like to spend the night in Pompey rather than staying over in Ryde.

  Parsons said that was fine by her, as long as Suttle was back for Tuesday half eight. As an afterthought she asked if all was well.

  ‘Never better, boss.’ Suttle ducked his head, hiding a grin. Lizzie, his partner, would be back from the hospital by six. She was due, late-afternoon, for a scan.

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘Christ, no. It turns out she’s pregnant. We’re having a nipper.’

  ‘Really?’ Faraday was beaming. ‘Terrific news, Jimmy.’

  Paul Winter was arrested at 10.37, moments before his discharge from the QA. The uniform, a P/C called Dave McCutcheon who’d recently transferred to Hantspol after ten years policing in the West Midlands, had spent a peaceable hour or so at Winter’s bedside while he waited for a final visit from his consultant. They’d talked about Pompey mostly – where to eat in Gunwharf, the comprehensives to avoid for the uniform’s eleven-year-old and the iniquity of shelling out £700 for a season ticket at Fratton Park. By the time Winter had the all-clear from the consultant – nothing broken, no evidence of brain damage, no need for outpatient visits – he and Dave were close to becoming mates.

  A traffic car took him into the city. Winter sat in the back as they swung south onto the M275, gazing out at the harbour, trying to match this familiar stretch of road with the crazy paving of images from Saturday night. One of the nurses at the hospital had taken a hard copy of the accident report from the News website. The Saturday edition of the paper had been too late to cover the incident and the next edition didn’t appear until noon on Monday, so this brief summary was all he had in the way of reference. There was a photo alongside the text, and Winter had taken a moment or two to recognise the upturned Bentley, nestled alongside an enormous French container truck en route to the ferry port. Among the surrounding wreckage there were two other cars and a white van. The police spokesman had reported no life-threatening injuries and the headline spoke of ‘miracle escapes’, a phrase that took Winter back to the photo of the Bentley. That was me in there, he’d thought to himself. That could have been my tomb.

  At the Central police station, Winter stood in front of the custody Sergeant as they shuffled through the booking-in process. He’d been arrested on suspicion of driving without due care and attention, a charge that was unlikely to end in a prison sentence. It was highly unusual for his ex-colleagues to go to these lengths for a due care, but Winter had the sense that old debts were being settled. In his CID days Winter had posted a number of victories in this same custody suite, bending the procedural rules to suit himself, and he failed to raise even a flicker of a smile from the custody skipper. Potentially, he grunted, the incident had been extremely grave. Under the circumstances Winter was lucky not to be facing a charge of causing death by dangerous driving.

  The duty solicitor, whom Winter knew well, took the same view. They had half an hour together in a side office before the interview. When Winter asked about disclosure, the brief took him through the witness statements the traffic guys had gathered at the scene. The information, as ever, was carefully rationed, but the brief left Winter in no doubt that a Not Guilty plea was going to be extremely difficult to sustain. All four drivers, plus a couple of passengers, had described the moment when the Bentley joined the motorway from the slip road. The driver was going way too fast. He hadn’t a clue what he was doing. No one else had a chance.

  ‘Dickhead? Would that be fair?’

  Winter agreed. In their shoes he’d feel exactly the same way. Problem was, he couldn’t remember a thing.

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And that’s what you’ve been saying all along? At the hospital?’

  ‘Yeah. First thing I know is hanging upside down in the Bentley wondering what the fuck’s going on. It’s still a bit woolly after that, but ask me how I got there and I wouldn’t have a clue.’

  The brief looked at him a moment, knowing perfectly well that Winter was lying, then shrugged. Using amnesia instead of going No Comment was a rational defence. He’d used it once himself.

  ‘Fine.’ He got to his feet. ‘Thank Christ you’re still in one piece.’

  The interview itself lasted barely half an hour. In the absence of tox results from the blood sample and a detailed examination of the Bentley, the RPU officers were simply after Winter’s version of events. Winter, with an air of faint bemusement, talked them through what little he said he remembered. He’d been on Hayling Island for most of the afternoon. He’d been returning the car to its owner. He must have been joining the M275 from the westbound dual carriageway. End of.

  Pushed for more detail, Winter simply shrugged. He was aware of accounts from other witnesses. He was perfectly prepared to believe that he’d got it wrong. No, he didn’t make a habit of using his mobile at the wheel, though they were welcome to check his billing records. And no, he couldn’t remember having a drink. He was sorry about all the grief he’d caused, and if any of this stuff came back to him then they’d be the first to know. In the meantime, though, he’d be happy to cop a Guilty plea.

  The lead interviewer, a sergeant on the RPU, didn’t believe a word.

  ‘You make it sound like it was someone else,’ he said.

  ‘Nicely put, skipper.’ Winter shot him a smile. ‘A bit of your life goes missing, it’s the weirdest feeling.’

  ‘Really? I’d call it carelessness … and that’s being kind.’

  The brief was about to lodge a protest – oppressive behaviour – but Winter put a hand on his arm.

  ‘No hard feelings, skipper. Like I say, I got it wrong. Do what you have to do. Be my guest.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Winter smiled again. ‘As ever.’

  *

  At about the same time, Marie went to Fratton police station. She’d had a call from a P/C Collinson just after breakfast and phoned Winter to tell him, but his mobile was on divert. The holdall, said Collinson, was ready for collection. She was to present herself at the front desk and ask for him by name. He’d pop down with the bag and ask her to sign a form. Simple.

  Marie got to Fratton just after two. She’d never much liked this part of the city – the sudden plunge into discount stores, burger bars and clusters of fat women keeping a weary eye on their kids – and she’d taken a cab to spare herself the hassle of trying to find a parking space. Steps led to a pair of doors at the front of the building. She’d made a bit of an effort with a nice skirt and blouse and had added a dab or two of Coco Chanel. What she needed, above all, was confidence.

  The tiny reception area smelled of new paint. She lingered for a while, flicking through a copy of the giveaway force newspaper, Frontline, while a distressed-looking man in his sixties reported the theft of his bicycle. Finally, she got the c
hance to ask for P/C Collinson. By now mild nervousness had become dread. Winter never spelled out these things but the contents of the holdall were clearly of enormous importance. Why clothes, for God’s sake?

  Collinson was young, fresh-faced and had just read the manual on customer relations. The holdall was black and had seen better days. Collinson put it on the counter.

  ‘Is this the one, Mrs Mackenzie?’

  Marie hadn’t got a clue. Winter had never described it.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Do you mind having a look inside? Just to check everything’s there?’ Marie hadn’t been expecting this. Collinson sensed her hesitation. ‘It’s more for our sake than yours, Mrs Mackenzie. Nothing personal, but you’d be amazed at the strokes some people try and pull. The money they say’s gone missing? All that nonsense? I’m afraid we just have to cover ourselves.’

  Marie gave him a warm smile. Of course she understood. She unzipped the holdall. Inside was a black bin liner. She took it out.

  ‘You want me to check this too?’

  ‘Please. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Marie opened the bin liner and began to pull the contents out. Jeans, a T-shirt, a fleece, a pair of mud-caked baseball boots. There was no hiding the bitter, acrid stench that came with this stuff. Marie pulled a face. She’d never had to think so fast in her life.

  ‘Sorry about this …’ She waved a hand under her nose. ‘My husband’s been helping a friend clear his garden. I know he likes bonfires but this is ridiculous.’

  She had the jeans now and she began to go through the pockets, aware that Collinson was watching her.

  ‘Everything in order, Mrs Mackenzie?’ He had the form ready for her signature.

  Marie was stuffing the clothes back inside the bin liner. ‘It’s a set of house keys I’m after. That’s why I wanted the holdall back.’