‘Large-denomination notes?’
‘Fifties.’
‘We want it in euros. Preferably five hundreds. We’ll call the exchange rate parity. I make that …’ he frowned ‘… seven hundred notes. A hundred notes in each bundle, that’s seven bundles.’
‘Euros might take a while.’
‘We need it by Monday of next week. Latest.’
‘That could be a problem.’
‘Yeah?’
Winter was trying to work out the implications. A transaction like this would have to be washed through somebody’s books to get round all the money-laundering legislation. That told him a great deal about where the cocaine might have gone. Some kind of company, he thought. Not small.
Sadler wanted to know about his end of the deal. Winter smiled. In the end it was very simple, he said. She’d give him the money. And in return he’d give her two padlock keys and the receipt for a storage compartment. In case she had any worries, he was happy to come with her to collect Holman’s gear.
‘How do I know you haven’t kept anything back?’
‘You don’t. You have to trust me.’
‘And why should I do that?’
‘Because deep down I’m quite a straight guy.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No.’ Winter shook his head, eyeing Angel again. ‘Sadly, I’m not.’
She studied him for longer than Winter felt comfortable with. Then she reached for her bag. The meal was over. She wanted the bill.
‘You remember a girl called Monique?’ she said. ‘Monique Duvall?’
‘Very well.’
‘She asked to be remembered. She said you were sweet.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘She said something else too.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She’d quite like her phone back.’
Suttle finally got hold of Parsons after lunch. She’d been in meetings all morning and hadn’t been picking up.
‘It’s Faraday,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’s very well.’
‘Like how?’
‘Like he’s not communicating.’ Suttle wouldn’t go into details.
‘If you think you’re being loyal, Jimmy, forget it. I need to know how bad he is.’
‘He’s bad, boss.’
‘And that’s all you’re going to tell me?’
‘Yes. I’m not sure he can make decisions any more. I’m not even sure he wants to.’
There was a silence at Parsons’ end. For all his odd little ways, both she and Suttle knew that Faraday had never been frightened of making the tougher calls.
‘Do you think this has to do with the accident?’
‘I’ve no idea, boss. I assume it can’t be a coincidence, but I’m not a psychiatrist.’
‘A psychiatrist? You think it’s that bad?’
Suttle didn’t say anything. In a way he regretted the term but he couldn’t think of anything better. In his view, a fuse had blown deep in Faraday’s brain. A couple of minutes ago he’d found him in his office, staring at his mobile. There was a stack of calls from Gabrielle, recent calls, and none of them seemed to have been answered. When Suttle offered to help, maybe call her himself, make some excuse or other, Faraday had just looked blank. He couldn’t cope any more. Didn’t see the point.
‘You need to come over, boss,’ he told Parsons. ‘You need to sort this thing out.’
*
Bazza Mackenzie was conferencing with the Leader of the Council when Winter and Billy Angel returned from the Isle of Wight. Ignoring the do not disturb notice hanging on Mackenzie’s office door, Winter knocked and stepped inside. The Leader of the Council, a plump woman with some bold ideas on community involvement, was becoming a regular visitor to the Royal Trafalgar. Mackenzie looked up, visibly annoyed.
‘What is it?’
‘I need a word, Baz.’
‘Later, mate. Like it says on the door.’
‘Now, Baz.’
Mackenzie blinked. This was no way to address a future mayor. Especially in this kind of company. He was about to have the full ruck but thought better of it. He pushed a plate of biscuits towards the councillor and got to his feet.
There was another office, smaller, that Mackenzie reserved for more intimate conversations. A huge blow-up photo of David James adorned one wall. A Safe Pair of Hands was currently under consideration for use in Bazza’s projected poster campaign. Along with The Real Thing and Clean Up Pompey.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are, mush?’
‘Shut the door, Baz.’
‘You shut the fucking door.’
‘Fine.’ Winter pushed it shut with his foot. ‘She’s offering 350K.’
‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘Lou Sadler.’
‘Three hundred and fifty? She’s having a laugh, isn’t she?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘I said yes.’
‘You said what?’
‘I said yes. I agreed it, Baz. I did the deal. We need that money by Monday. There’s no point fucking about.’
‘But three fifty’s a steal. It’s outrageous. It’s blind fucking robbery. There’s no way she’s getting away with that.’
‘Fine.’ Winter shrugged. ‘Have you got a quarter of a million handy? For your Spanish friend?’
‘Our Spanish friend, mush. And no, I haven’t.’
‘Then three fifty it is. You want the good news? She’ll pay in euros.’ He shot Mackenzie a cold smile and stepped past him. The door open again, he turned. ‘Something I forgot to mention, Baz. When I go down on the due care charge, they’ll lay a grand fine on me. You’re looking at a hundred grand change from Sadler.’ Another smile, warmer this time. ‘Any chance?’
Parsons was on the Isle of Wight by late afternoon. She stepped into the SIO’s office without knocking. Faraday looked up, surprised to see her. After the best part of an hour spent tidying up, his desk was bare.
‘Boss?’
‘How are you, Joe?’
‘Fine,’ he said vaguely. ‘You?’
She smiled at him, uncertain, then sat down.
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘So how’s it going?’
‘How’s what going?’
‘Everything … Gosling.’ She frowned. She’d just noticed the whiteboard on the wall. Yesterday it had been littered with reminders, phone numbers, names and the odd scrap of heavily underlined information that badged major inquiries force-wide. Now, like the desk, it was wiped clean.
Faraday was telling her that everything was fine, just fine. Suttle, he said, had been kindness itself.
‘How?’
‘Little ways, important ways. It’s not easy sometimes, boss. You know something about that lad? He understands.’
‘Understands what?’
‘Me. This. The Job. Pretty much everything, really.’
Faraday leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. He had a tiny smile on his face, as if he was privy to some joke or other, but then his head came down again and Parsons recognised the glint of tears in his eyes. He stared at her, forcing the smile wider. The tears were running down his cheeks now, and she stood up, edging her bulk around the desk, putting her arms around him, telling him everything was going to be all right. Then the door opened, admitting Suttle.
‘I’ve got a car round the back, boss,’ he said quietly. ‘You want me to give you a hand?’
Chapter Thirty-Five
THURSDAY, 19 FEBRUARY 2009. 17.28
Faraday was back at the Bargemaster’s House by half past five. Suttle had accompanied him across on the hovercraft and organised a taxi from the Southsea terminal. Now, he walked him up the path to his front door. Faraday had the keys in the pocket of his anorak but told Suttle to ring the bell.
‘She’ll be in,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a meeting.’
Suttle rang the bell, w
aited, rang again. Nothing. He got the keys from Faraday’s pocket and opened the door. Faraday stood in the hallway, uncertain in the darkness. Suttle found the light switch and called Gabrielle’s name. Again, nothing. The house smelled damp and unloved. No one’s been here for a while, Suttle thought, and it’s beginning to show.
In the kitchen, propped against the teapot, he found the note. It was terse. Merci pour rien, it said. Suttle didn’t read French but caught the gist. No name. No scribbled kiss. Just the savage biro strokes of someone with a lot to get off her chest. Gabrielle was angry. And she’d obviously gone.
He stuffed the note in his pocket, not wanting to upset Faraday any further.
‘So what was the meeting about, boss?’
Faraday was standing in the open doorway, gazing round, an expression of mild curiosity on his face. This house might have belonged to someone else, Suttle thought, and in a way it had.
‘Meeting?’
‘Yeah. You mentioned a meeting just now, you and Gabrielle …’
‘Ah, yes. The social worker.’
‘Social worker?’
‘About the child, Leila. Maybe I’ve got the wrong day. Maybe that’s it.’ He started worrying about what day of the week it was, and when Suttle confirmed that it was Thursday, he checked his watch and sighed.
‘Funny,’ he said. ‘Odd.’
Suttle gazed at him. In truth, he hadn’t a clue what to do next. Should he take this boss of his to his GP? Get him checked out? Or should he risk a bit of a short cut and ring the people at St James and get him sectioned? Parsons, clearly out of her depth, had earlier told him to ring Personnel for advice, but Suttle knew she was only covering her back. This man needed more than advice. He needed a bit of a cuddle.
He stepped across, put his arms round Faraday and held him tight. Faraday stiffened at once, an instinctive act of resistance, but then he began to relax and moments later Suttle felt a head settle on his shoulder.
‘You’re a good lad.’ His voice was a murmur. ‘A good lad.’
Suttle said it was nothing. Faraday had been a terrific boss. He just needed a bit of time, a bit of peace.
‘“Have been”?’
‘Are. This is just a blip, boss. A pit stop. You know something? You should have left it a bit longer before you came back. Going through a windscreen isn’t something you can rush. You need to work it through.’
‘Really?’ Faraday was looking at him now, his eyes shiny again.
‘Yeah, for sure. You want a drink? Something to eat?’
‘Yeah.’ Faraday nodded at the fridge. ‘You’re going to join me?’
‘Of course.’
Suttle fumbled around in the fridge. He counted eight cans of Kronenbourg, not much else. He was still looking for glasses when his phone began to ring. He fetched it out, checked caller ID. Winter.
‘You mind, boss?’
‘Go ahead.’
Winter said he was in his Lexus on the seafront. He wanted to come across to the island. He had something on his mind.
‘Like what?’
‘We have to talk, son. Properly. Just this once, eh?’ He sounded needy, almost plaintive. Fuck me, Suttle thought. Two of them.
‘I’m not on the island, Paul.’
‘You’re not?’
‘No, I’m back in Pompey.’
He half turned, catching Faraday’s eye. Faraday had guessed who it was on the line. His slow smile was the first faint glimmer of sanity Suttle had seen all day.
‘Get him round, Jimmy.’ Faraday nodded at the fridge. ‘Party time.’
*
Winter was knocking on the door minutes later. Suttle let him in, wondering how much to say about Faraday. In the end he opted for nothing. Winter, he knew, could scent frailty or a weakness within seconds. He’d draw his own conclusions.
Faraday was tucked up on the sofa, nursing his second glass of Kronenbourg. Winter made himself comfortable in a nearby armchair. He was gazing at the hi-fi stack. Faraday’s choice of music had always been a total mystery.
‘Richard Strauss. Four Last Songs.’ Faraday tipped his glass in salute. ‘Cheers.’
Suttle returned from the kitchen. A single glance told him that Winter had sussed it all. The blanket tucked round Faraday’s knees. The slightly manic smile. The way his face had changed.
Winter threw a look at Suttle, an eyebrow raised a millimetre or two, and Suttle just nodded. A couple of years back he and Winter had been in countless situations like this, needing to check the rules of engagement without putting anything into words. Suttle’s nod meant fine, go ahead, no problem.
Winter swallowed a mouthful of lager, plucked at the crease on his trousers, decided to direct the thrust of what he had to say to Faraday.
‘It’s about me,’ he began, ‘and Mackenzie.’
He talked for maybe twenty minutes. At the end of it Suttle knew a great deal about what Winter had been up to with Mackenzie these past couple of years, where their various adventures had taken them, and he had a very clear notion of what might be up for grabs. Nothing spelled out. Nothing he could statement, record, turn into evidence. But something deeper and altogether more personal. Winter and Mackenzie had come to a parting of the ways.
‘Does Mackenzie know this?’ The question, to Suttle’s surprise, came from Faraday.
‘No, boss.’ Winter shook his head.
‘Then I’m glad.’
‘Why?’ ‘Because now you can do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Screw him.’
‘No, boss.’ Another shake of the head from Winter. ‘We. We can screw him.’
There was a long silence. Suttle was suddenly grateful for Richard Strauss. This stuff caught the mood beautifully. Something was dying. And about time too.
‘You mean that?’ Suttle this time.
‘Absolutely.’
‘When?’
‘You’ll have to give it a while.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have to sort one or two things out.’
‘But why not now? Why not just give us everything? Everything you know? That’ll put Mackenzie away for a very long time. The rest we can discuss.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like what kind of deal the bosses might cut. You’ll need that, Paul.’
‘You mean witness protection? New ID? New start? All that bollocks?’
‘Yeah.’ Suttle nodded. ‘Otherwise he’ll have you.’
‘He’s had me already, son, in ways he doesn’t even realise.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You go so far, and then you go a little further, and then something happens, something horrible, and you realise what kind of animal you’ve become. That’s bad enough, son, but when it happens twice you know you’ve got to do something about it.’
‘And that’s what’s brought you here? That’s what this is about?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Care to share it?’
‘Not really. Not yet.’
‘But you will share it?’
‘I’ll have to.’
‘And I can take that as gospel? When I talk to –’ he shrugged ‘– whoever?’
‘Willard.’ It was Faraday again. ‘You’ll have to talk to Willard.’
‘That won’t be easy.’ Suttle knew exactly how much trust Willard was prepared to put in Winter. He’d been burned too often, Faraday too.
‘What do you think, boss?’ Suttle turned to Faraday.
‘About what?’
‘About this. About Winter. About what he’s offering us.’
Faraday’s head went down. For a moment Suttle thought he was going to cry again, but he was wrong.
‘I think he probably means it,’ he said at last. ‘I think here and now it makes perfect sense. The problem with all of us is tomorrow. Why? Because we never know.’
There was an exchange of looks. Winter’s sense of timing had never been less than perfect. He leaned forward, his voice sof
t, sympathy on legs, probably genuine.
‘What’s the matter, Joe?’ He’d never used Faraday’s Christian name in his life, something that sparked a small nod of appreciation.
‘I got something badly wrong,’ he murmured after a while. ‘And I’m supposed to be a fucking detective.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
FRIDAY, 20 FEBRUARY 2009. 08.12
Suttle stayed overnight at the Bargemaster’s House. Winter had left around ten o’clock, no less determined to bring his association with Mackenzie to an end, and Suttle had been the one to see him to the door. Winter had paused outside in the throw of light from the hall, the Lexus keys already in his hand. He wanted Suttle to know that he was serious. Suttle had nodded.
‘You’d better be,’ he said. ‘Because this is your last chance.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘No, I think you do. And I think that’s why you came.’
‘Good call, son.’ Winter had given him a little pat on the arm. ‘Someone must have taught you well.’
Suttle and Faraday had talked a little longer. Faraday was exhausted – Suttle could see it in the sag of his shoulders – and it was at Suttle’s suggestion that he took himself off to bed. Alone, still downstairs, Suttle had wondered whether to drive home but in the end decided against it. Lizzie wasn’t expecting him back. She’d assume he was still on the island. Best to kip over on the sofa in case Faraday did anything silly. Tomorrow, he told himself, I’ll phone Gabrielle. If anyone knows what to do with the old boy, then it’s probably her.
He made the call from the hovercraft terminal the following morning. He’d spent a comfortable night on Faraday’s sofa, made him tea at daybreak and told him to have a lie-in. The sight of Suttle at his bedside didn’t seem to surprise Faraday in the slightest. Nor did he appear to have any interest in what might be happening with Gosling. After thirty years in the Job, the light he kept in that special place, the candle that had always lit the pathways forward, had been snuffed out. He asked how many sugars Suttle had put in the tea. And when Suttle said one and a half, like always, he seemed pleased.
Gabrielle answered almost immediately. She’d met Suttle on a number of social occasions and knew how close he was to Faraday. Suttle told her what had happened. Her man wasn’t himself. He’d been taken off the current inquiry. There was no question of him returning to work for the foreseeable future, certainly not before he’d had help.
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