The interviews were a formality, no more. Oobik, after a day and a half’s rehearsal, had perfected the art of going No Comment, while there was almost a hint of sympathy in Lou Sadler’s performance. Her faith in the script she and Benny Stanton had concocted never wavered for a moment. No, she hadn’t seen Johnny Holman for weeks and weeks. No, she hadn’t asked Max to kill him. And no, she hadn’t arranged for one of Martin Skelley’s vans to pick up his remains. As for the cocaine, she expressed mild surprise that Johnny Holman had either the money or the wit to have acquired a decent stash and suggested that Yates and his mates look elsewhere for the real owners.
‘Try Pompey,’ she’d said as the interview came to a close. ‘They love the stuff over there.’
Back in Ryde, dead on his feet, Faraday had a quiet word with Dawn Ellis, expressing his disappointment at the way she’d handled Sadler in the interview suite. She accepted responsibility for what she’d done, offered neither an apology nor an explanation, but said she had to be back in Pompey as soon as she could be spared. Watching her leave the office, Faraday could only assume she’d been overwhelmed by some personal crisis. Maybe he should listen to canteen gossip more carefully in future. Maybe he wasn’t the only Major Crime detective to be cornered by his demons.
When Suttle appeared, minutes later, Faraday suggested a drink. He wasn’t at all sure where Gosling might be headed next but Parsons had decided against application to the magistrates for yet another custody extension and both Sadler and Oobik would be released on police bail by eight o’clock the following morning. Suttle had pressed Parsons to maintain obs on Sadler, but Gosling was gobbling up budget by the day and Parsons was reluctant to have her name attached to an expensive failure. Sadler, as she’d demonstrated so amply, was a class operator. Even if Dawn Ellis had kept to the script, there was no guarantee they’d have got any kind of result. Now, with all their immediate leads exhausted, that possibility was even more remote. Sadler now knew the case they had to prove. As Parsons pointed out, it was unlikely she’d make it easy for them.
Even Suttle had to admit that Parsons was probably right. Tomorrow he and Faraday would be driving up to London to put a little pressure on Martin Skelley. Whether the delivery information they were after would offer a pathway forward was anyone’s guess. Skelley, like Sadler, obviously knew his way around the criminal justice system and would already have taken steps to make it hard for them. Meanwhile, to his regret, Suttle had yet another downer to share with his boss.
‘What’s that?’ Faraday had just sunk a pint of Goddards and was waiting for a second.
‘I talked to Meg Stanley again. She’s having second thoughts about matching the fresh stuff from Sadler’s horses to the manure at Monks-well Farm. Apparently the manure they shifted at Holman’s place is too wet. There’s fuck all left to analyse after the rain we’ve been having.’
‘Shit.’ Faraday sucked the head off his fresh pint.
‘Exactly.’
‘This woman’s luck is beyond belief.’
‘It is, boss. But she’s played it well too. Like Bev said.’
‘So what haven’t we done? Apart from charge them?’
‘You tell me, boss. You think we could charge them?’
‘No chance. The CPS wouldn’t wear it for a second. Circumstantially, it looks like a stone bonker. But we need something more.’
Suttle nodded. Faraday had collapsed again. All the air had left his fragile balloon. Maybe it was the accident. Or maybe it was a lot more than that.
‘You want to share it, boss?’
‘Share what?’
‘Whatever’s got to you?’
‘You mean apart from all this crap? Five murders, four bodies, two prime suspects and no fucking clue what to do next? You mean apart from all that?’
Suttle laughed. This was better, he thought. Genuine despair, in his experience, never had much to do with the Job.
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘I’m not with you, Jimmy.’
‘Something’s happened. Something’s got to you. Big time.’
Faraday reflected on the question, then took a long pull at his beer.
‘Yeah …’ he said at last ‘… it has.’
He told Suttle about Gabrielle, about the Burns Unit, about the ongoing tussle for the little girl’s affections. He’d sensed for weeks that something had changed in Gabrielle, and now he knew the consequences that lay in wait for all three of them.
‘Like what?’
‘Like we sit at home, whenever, and have some infant social worker crawl all over us, all over our private lives, all over our family histories, everything. Like we try and make space for a little girl who will never, never be able to come to live with us. It’s a fairy tale, Jimmy, total make-believe, and the shame of it is that I seem to be going along with it. Why? Because I’ve been up to my neck in all this crap. Why really? Because I can’t, for the life of me, work out how to stop it.’
‘Just say no.’
‘And lose her?’
‘But you just told me it’ll never happen.’
‘I meant Gabrielle.’
‘Really? You’re serious?’ Suttle’s surprise was genuine.
‘Yeah, I think I am.’ Faraday nodded. ‘It’s not something I’d say lightly, but I think it’s probably the case. This little girl’s sweet. And she’s vulnerable. And all the rest of it.’
‘So why don’t you go along with it? Adopt her?’
‘Because it’s impossible. Because the minute she gets better, they’ll fly her back to Gaza. Because the system just won’t permit it.’
‘But should it permit it?’
‘That’s a different question. I’m just telling you it’ll never happen. How do I know? Because people at the hospital, people who do know, have had a quiet word. Why? Because they want to save Gabrielle from being hurt.’
‘You mean from hurting herself?’
‘Yeah, exactly. Well put. Me? I just want us back again. Does that sound unreasonable?’
Suttle shook his head, only too aware that his own relationship, with a baby on the way, probably made it worse for Faraday. No dramas about adoption. No visits to the Burns Unit. No anguished conversations in Isle of Wight pubs. He was still trying to work out how to voice all this when his mobile beeped.
He fetched it out, glanced at caller ID. Winter again. Second time today.
He glanced at his watch then slipped off the bar stool.
‘I’ll be back in five, boss. Mine’s a lager.’
Suttle took the call on the seafront, across from the pub. Winter, he knew at once, had been drinking.
‘Son …’
‘Me. What is it? What do you want?’
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Like what?’
‘Lots of stuff. Good stuff. Better than good stuff. Stuff that’ll make you—’ He broke off.
‘Make me what?’
‘Wet yourself, son. This is crazy. The whole thing’s crazy. You know what?’
‘What?’
‘It’s crazy.’
The line went dead. Suttle gazed across the road towards the pub, wondering how best to pursue this last slim hope.
Chapter Thirty-Two
WEDNESDAY, 18 FEBRUARY 2009. 09.47
It was Faraday, oddly, who raised the issue of Winter. He and Suttle were on the mainland, heading north on the M3. Two hours earlier Sadler and Oobik had both been released on police bail, while Martin Skelley had agreed to make himself available for interview at his Brentford distribution centre at half eleven. On the phone he thought there was a reasonable prospect of having the information they needed.
Faraday wanted to know more about Suttle’s last conversation with Winter.
‘You mean in Pompey? When I went over on Monday night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like I told you, I think he wants out.’
‘But why?’
‘I think he’
s had enough. I think it’s dawned on him that he’s in a bad place.’
‘He’s right.’
‘Of course he’s right, boss. The real question is what he does next.’
‘From our point of view, you mean?’
‘Yeah. Winter’s a player, always has been. Just now my guess is that he’s in a big, big hole. If he can get himself out more or less intact, then that’s exactly what he’ll do. But he may need us to help him.’
Suttle had ghosted this idea past both Willard and Parsons on his return to Ryde, but Willard had dismissed it out of hand. He was disappointed that no grounds existed for arresting Winter for the removal of the girl’s clothes and her phone but he was confident that one day, hopefully soon, Winter would make himself a sitting target for the fate he so richly deserved. No way would Willard deny himself the satisfaction of putting the man away for good.
‘So where’s the advantage?’ Faraday eased into the fast lane.
‘For us, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘As far as this job’s concerned, I’m not sure. Assuming the cocaine exists, it may well be linked to Mackenzie. If that’s true, then Winter would know about it. How much he’d know is down to how much Mackenzie’s told him. These guys are canny. Information’s gold dust. They hate sharing it around.’
Faraday laughed. ‘Sounds like Winter,’ he said.
‘Exactly. Same MO. Ferrets in a sack. No wonder he wants out.’
Faraday nodded. The next question was obvious.
‘You’re telling me he might grass Mackenzie up?’
‘Yeah, I think he might.’
‘On this job? On the cocaine?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You think it’s worth a shot? Some form of approach? Another conversation?’
‘Absolutely.’ Suttle sat back, gazing out at the traffic. ‘Where else do we go?’
Winter awoke to the buzzing of his video entryphone. It was late and he had a headache. Naked, he made his way to the hall. Mackenzie’s upturned face hung on the tiny screen, demanding to be let in.
By the time he made it up to the third floor, Winter had wrapped himself in a dressing gown, filled the kettle, opened the door to the apartment and retreated to the bathroom to swallow a handful of ibuprofen. He was still trying to remember why he’d necked so much malt last night when he joined Mackenzie in the big living room.
Mackenzie, as ever these days, was on a tight schedule. The media were like kids, he told Winter. They needed constant attention otherwise they lost interest.
‘A whole day without an interview?’ Winter rubbed his aching head, trying to massage the pain away. ‘God forbid, Baz.’
‘You think that’s funny?’
‘I think it’s mad.’
‘Why?’
‘These people will bite you on the arse one day. They’re not kids, they’re animals. One sniff of blood and they’ll be all over you.’
‘Bollocks, mush. Me and Leo sort out the music. All the other monkeys do is dance.’
He perched on the edge of the sofa, ignoring Winter’s offer of coffee.
‘You gonna sit down and listen to me or what, mush?’
Winter did his master’s bidding. Mackenzie’s suit was new, quiet, nicely cut. Marie’s choice, Winter thought.
Bazza was talking about Lou Sadler. He’d belled her half an hour ago.
‘Why?’
‘Because we need a little chat.’
‘About what?’
‘My toot, mush. I wasn’t kidding about the spic woman. Her name’s Alisa. She’s due next week, Tuesday.’
‘You told me tomorrow.’
‘Change of plan. She’s flying into Gatwick. We meet her at the airport. We do the business. We give her the cheque. Problema sorted.’
Winter assumed they were talking about the hit on Brett West. He was right.
‘But what about Tommy Peters?’
‘He’s the middleman. We’ve just cut him out.’
‘And if he objects?’
‘We whack him.’
‘Whack him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve told him that?’
‘No, mush. Not yet. First things first, eh?’
Mackenzie went back to Sadler. She said she’d been away for a couple of days. On business.
Winter laughed. His headache was beginning to recede.
‘Did she tell you where?’
‘I never asked, mush.’
‘I bet. What else did she say?’
‘She said yes.’
‘To what?’
‘To my invitation. You’re buying her lunch.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. She’s coming over on the hovercraft. I said La Tasca, half twelve.’
‘And she agreed?’
‘Like a shot, mush. Can’t wait to meet you again. Shake you by the throat. Sweet lady. Get her in the right mood, she might even bung you a freebie. See what you can do. Anything less than a million, we’re not interested.’
‘A million?’
‘For my toot, mush. She’s got it and, if she agrees a respectable price, she can keep it. Two hundred and fifty K of what she pays goes to our new Spanish friend. The rest is ours. So …’ he got to his feet, cracked his knuckles ‘… start high. Anything over a million, you’re on 10 per cent. How does that sound?’
He checked his watch and headed for the door, not bothering to wait for an answer. Then he paused.
‘One other thing, mush.’
‘What’s that, Baz?’
‘Today’s Telegraph.’ He flashed a smile. ‘Fill your boots.’
Freezee’s southern distribution depot lay on the edge of a west London trading estate beside the M4. Rows of white refrigerated vans and lorries were parked beyond the chain-link fence and a couple of security guards bent to Faraday’s borrowed Fiesta to check his ID. His name was evidently on the list of expected callers. The guy with the clipboard was black.
‘You suppliers? Customers? Or what?’
‘Neither. Where do we find Mr Skelley?’
‘Over there, mate. Ask the lady on reception.’
Faraday parked. The girl behind reception was young, neatly turned out, beautiful eyes. Suttle did the honours.
‘Mr Skelley’s expecting you, gentlemen.’ She had a flat London accent. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
Skelley kept them waiting more than half an hour. Suttle helped himself to a copy of the Sun from the selection of tabloids on the low glass table while Faraday watched the comings and goings. Business, it seemed, was brisk. Cut-price burgers were clearly weathering the recession.
Skelley came out in person to collect them. He was a big man, carrying a stone or two of extra weight, but he moved with the grace and lightness of a ballroom dancer. One look at his face told Faraday that there must be West Indian blood in his family: the skin colour, the tiny button ears, the tight whorls of greying hair, the blackness in his eyes. His handshake was firm. There was no warmth in his smile.
‘You guys OK for coffee?’ He was looking at the empty cup.
‘Fine, thanks.’
Faraday and Suttle followed him down a long corridor to an office at the end. A couple of secretaries stepped carefully aside to let him pass. He acknowledged neither of them.
The office was modest: a desk, a small conference table, no windows. On the plain white wall behind Skelley’s chair hung a framed photograph. Faraday had once been to Derwent Water on a birding expedition. He recognised the distant whale hump of Skiddaw.
‘Nice.’ He especially liked the gleam of silver grey on the water. ‘Fantastic light.’
Skelley wasn’t interested in small talk. Nor did he apologise for keeping them waiting. He wanted to know how he could help them. He had a light Scouse accent and his habit of twirling a pen between his fingers spoke of a deep impatience.
Faraday briefly described the thrust of Operation Gosling. He and D/S Suttle were exploring various lines of en
quiry. Whether or not Skelley had any Freezee vans on the Isle of Wight within a certain time frame was one of them.
‘Why?’ The question was blunt.
‘I’m afraid I’m not prepared to discuss that, Mr Skelley. We’re simply after the information we discussed on the phone.’
‘And if I don’t give it to you?’
‘Then we’ll continue the conversation elsewhere.’
‘Down the nick?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded, unsurprised, and pulled a drawer open. Moments later Faraday found himself looking at a complicated spreadsheet tallying the movements of various Freezee vehicles.
‘My PA’s highlighted the one you want in yellow,’ Skelley said.
Faraday followed the yellow band. The vehicle in question was a long-wheelbase Transit. It had left the London depot at 06.15 on Monday morning, driven down to Portsmouth, crossed to Fishbourne on the car ferry and spent the whole day on the Isle of Wight. By 23.18 on Monday night it was back in Brentford.
‘Do you have a delivery schedule for the island?’
‘Next page.’
Faraday turned over. The list of drop-offs began in Ryde, after which the driver had made calls in Sandown, Shanklin, Ventnor, Freshwater, Totland, Yarmouth, Newport and finally Cowes.
‘You’ve got addresses for this lot?’ Faraday tapped the list.
‘Obviously.’
‘Can we have them?’
‘That might take a while.’
‘We’re happy to wait, Mr Skelley.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
He held Faraday’s gaze for a moment or two, then lifted the phone and murmured instructions.
‘Half an hour,’ he said, replacing the phone. ‘You’re in luck.’
‘What about timings?’
‘You’ll have to go round and check.’
‘Doesn’t the driver keep a log? Can’t you ask him?’
‘Sadly, no.’ The same mirthless smile. ‘The guy’s Polish. He left us at the end of last week.’
Suttle produced a notebook and jotted down the details. Guy called Pavel Beginski. Worked for Freezee for eleven months. Lived at a couple of addresses in west London, most recently in Shepherd’s Bush.
Borrowed Light Page 36
