‘Nonsense was your word, not mine,’ he’d said. ‘Give me a ring if there’s anything else I can do.’
Now, he made his way downstairs. He’d run out of milk, but black coffee, he decided, might return him to the real world. He glanced at his watch, trying to remember the hovercraft schedule. 07.23. Later than he’d thought.
It was mid-morning before Winter felt well enough to think about getting on the road. He’d phoned Cathy Lamb at the squad office, uncertain whether he was on sick leave or not. Emerging briefly from a meeting, she’d told him to get a note from his GP and forget all about the job. Just now things were mercifully quiet. A long-running drugs operation, designed to disrupt one of the city’s scarier supply chains, had been shunted into the sidings for a week or two and a bid to net half a dozen of the heavier football thugs was developing nicely. Neither initiative, she said, needed Winter’s brand of detective work. Only seconds before she hung up did she mention Terry Alcott’s decision on Plover’s next move. Accepting Maddox’s offer to mount a sting against Wishart, the ACC had decided, was a non-runner. Too dodgy in practical terms. And a potential gift for the defence lawyers.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ Winter grunted.
She’d come into the bedroom seconds later with a handful of tablets and a cup of tea, demanding to know what Winter’s DI had said. Winter told her.
‘Why?’ She frowned. ‘What’s wrong with a confession?’
‘It’s not that. It’s the way we do it. There’s a fine line. Alcott’s talking entrapment. That might give us a problem in court.’
‘So what do we do?’
The ‘we’ put a smile on Winter’s face. He swallowed three of the tablets and sluiced them down with tea.
‘We leave it to the professionals,’ he said. ‘Trust me, eh?’
Maddox left shortly afterwards, phoning for a cab down to Southsea. There was stuff to sort out at her flat and she needed a bit of time on the internet to find a decent deal for Ethiopia. If Winter insisted on driving to the GP’s surgery, then so be it. She’d wrapped her arms around him and promised to be back by nightfall. In the meantime he was to take care.
By twelve o’clock Winter was north of Guildford. The London A–Z was open on the seat beside him. He’d found Home Park Road and circled it in red Pentel. The headache was beginning to ease but the pain behind his eyes still blurred his vision and twice he’d given overtaking drivers a bit of a scare.
On the Kingston bypass, he took a right. Ten minutes later, trapped in a queue of traffic, he was grinding slowly up Wimbledon Hill Road. Another right turn, narrowly avoiding an oncoming bus, and he was in a suburban street, nosing past parked BMWs, only too conscious of the sheer weight of money that had settled in this neighbourhood.
Home Park Road, on the map, stretched for maybe half a mile in a long gentle curve. Winter drove slowly, looking for a pair of new gates and a chestnut tree. Wishart had told Maddox about views of the golf course from the rear windows so the house had to be on the left. Finally, towards the end of the road, Winter found it. Three storeys. Grey brick with newly painted windows. The gates open and a fine view of a gleaming 4 × 4 in the modest sweep of gravel drive.
Winter parked across the road. The Crime Squad had a selection of digital cameras for situations exactly like this. He reached back, easing the neat little Olympus from the bag on the rear seat. The lens extended to 80 mm. Plenty big enough at this kind of range.
Five snaps were enough to capture wide shots of the property and a couple of close-ups of the SUV. The name of the house, newly plated on the pillar beside the gate, was Priory Lodge. The SUV was a Mitsubishi Shogun, black with tinted windows. Winter was debating whether to pop another tablet when there came a knock at the window behind him.
He looked round, squinting into the sunlight. A middle-aged woman was standing on the grass verge. She was small, blonde, still attractive. She was dressed with the kind of casual elegance Winter rarely met in Pompey and the dog beside her looked equally pampered.
Winter wound down the window.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked.
Winter closed his eyes a moment, trying to squeeze the pain away, then got out of the car and flipped his warrant card. Already he suspected the worst.
‘And you are?’
‘My name’s Wishart. Why do you ask?’
Winter looked at her a moment. He wondered where to start.
‘Can we talk indoors?’ He nodded across the road towards the house.
‘Why? What do you want?’
‘I think it’s better inside, Mrs Wishart. Do you mind?’
Winter took her by the arm, felt a moment’s resistance, then they were both walking across the road towards the house. The dog didn’t know what to make of this sudden abduction. Useless, thought Winter.
The house was alarmed, with three locks in the big six-panelled front door. No wonder she needed a bag that size to carry the keys.
Inside, Winter found himself in a spacious hall. A staircase on the right was dominated by a huge oil painting. Winter recognised the jowly face, the set of the shoulders, the pale dead eyes that seemed to follow them as they stepped into the nearest of the reception rooms. Acres of blue carpet and a selection of carefully chosen antiques. Watercolours on the wall, individually lit. It was obvious at once that someone had put a lot of effort into this place. One day Wishart might even spend some time here.
Winter was looking round for somewhere to sit. Staying on his feet was becoming an effort.
‘D’you mind?’ He nodded at an occasional chair near the window, straight-backed, upholstered in blue velvet, edged in gold brocade. It was anything but comfortable.
So far Mrs Wishart hadn’t said a word. Coffee would be nice, thought Winter, and maybe a biscuit or two.
‘We’re looking into the death of a Nigerian gentleman,’ Winter began. ‘Does the name Lakemfa mean anything to you?’
He knew at once that the drive had been worth it. She stared at Winter for a moment, then turned to shut the door.
‘Are you from New Scotland Yard?’
‘Portsmouth.’ Winter offered her a chilly smile. ‘Same gang, though. Same rules.’
‘And this man Lak— whatever. You say he’s dead?’
‘That’s right.’
She nodded, absorbing the news. A milk float whined by outside. Late, Winter thought. He looked up at Mrs Wishart again, trying to gauge her own take on this marriage of hers. Wedlock had clearly feathered her nest but there was something in the set of her face that spoke of disappointment. She knew a great deal, Winter decided, and most of it made her very unhappy.
‘He came here …’ She nodded towards the door. ‘If I’ve got the same man. Maurice brought him home for the weekend. He was charming.’
‘When was that?’
‘Last summer. I can’t remember the date. During the holidays, definitely. My son Charles was down from Oxford. He joined us for dinner that night.’ She looked up. ‘Dead, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘When? How?’
Winter ignored both questions. He wanted to know where Lakemfa belonged in her husband’s life.
‘He was a business associate,’ she said at once. ‘My husband builds boats, sells them abroad – military kit mainly. I gather Mr Lakemfa was a potential customer.’
‘Does your husband often bring clients home?’
‘Not that often, no. To tell you the truth, we like to keep the two parts of our life separate. Maurice runs his business on the south coast. We hold the fort up here. It’s not ideal but I must say it works.’
‘We?’
‘The family.’
‘And Lakemfa? You made an exception for him?’
‘As I say, he was charming. It was a pleasure. I gather he and Maurice were chums down in Portsmouth. Shared interests. You know what I mean?’
Winter nodded. I do, he thought grimly.
Mrs Wishart was asking agai
n about Lakemfa’s death. She wanted to know what had happened. Was it some kind of accident?
‘He fell off his bike.’
‘And died?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
She looked down at him, trying to explore the implications of what Winter had just said. No policeman drove sixty miles because of a traffic accident.
‘So what happened?’ she said slowly.
Winter was looking at the window. A curtain of bubbles, thicker than ever, was rising between him and the view. He asked for a glass of water, wondered whether he still had the tablets in his jacket pocket. With some reluctance Mrs Wishart fetched the water. Winter swallowed the two remaining painkillers.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘So what happened to Mr Lakemfa?’
Winter did his best to concentrate. He normally excelled in these situations. He’d spent his entire career baiting traps and laying ambushes. With this woman he knew it would be no different. Yet all he felt was ill.
He drew a deep breath, looked briefly up at the ceiling. More bubbles.
‘The vehicle outside,’ he said. ‘Is it yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you had it?’
‘A couple of months. No, longer. Before Christmas. Is the date important? Do you want me to check?’
‘Yes, please.’
She left the room again. Winter heard the sound of footsteps overhead. Then she was back with a manila file. Very efficient, he thought.
‘October the sixteenth.’ She was checking the date on the garage invoice.
‘It was new?’
‘Yes. One of Maurice’s little surprises. He called it an early birthday present.’
‘When is your birthday?’
‘December the fourteenth.’ She was looking worried now. ‘Why do you ask?’
With some difficulty Winter got to his feet. He walked slowly across to the window and steadied himself against the frame. A Mitsubishi Shogun. Bull bars. Tinted windows. Black paint scheme. Just as he’d thought.
‘What did you drive before this?’
‘Exactly the same. A Shogun.’
‘Same colour?’
‘Yes. Same everything.’
‘So why change it?’
‘Good question. To tell you the truth, I was never quite sure. Maurice said there was a problem with the gearbox. He thought it was going to pack up on me, might be expensive.’
‘Really?’ Winter turned to face her. ‘How did he know?’
‘He’d borrowed it for a week. He said he needed a four by four so we swapped cars. Have you ever driven a Jaguar? I didn’t get on with it at all.’
Winter eyed her for a moment, knowing he was close now, a single question away. Dates, he told himself.
‘You bought the new car on the sixteenth of October.’ He nodded at the dealer invoice. ‘When did your husband borrow the old one?’
‘That’s easy.’ Her eyes drifted across to the window. ‘It would have been the week before. He’s impulsive that way, my husband. He makes a decision and then simply gets on with it.’
Faraday was in conference with Brian Imber when DS Michaels appeared at his office door. The surveillance boys had just checked in to say their goodbyes. There was an entry in the log that might be of interest.
Michaels made room at the door. One of the two DCs from the surveillance unit stepped into view.
‘About eleven o’clock this morning, sir. A taxi turned up. We’ve got the firm and registration.’
‘And?’
‘A woman got out, middle-aged, white. She went into the home, stayed maybe five minutes, not much more. There was another guy in the back but we never got a good look at him.’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘It’s Pelly, sir. He obviously knew the guy in the taxi. Came out, chatted through the window.’
‘Did this person get out of the cab at all?’
‘No. That’s the point, really. The whole conversation happened through the open window. Odd, we thought.’ The second of the two surveillance DCs was beside him now, nodding in agreement. Might be worth following up, might not. Faraday’s shout.
Faraday thanked them. Withdrawing the surveillance unit had, in the end, been Willard’s decision and Faraday had expected little else. Major Crimes inquiries often relied on momentum. If you didn’t break the case in the first three days, things could get sticky.
Faraday got to his feet. He thanked the two DCs for their help and there was an exchange of handshakes. Their departure left Dave Michaels in the open door.
Faraday sat down again.
‘What do you think?’
‘Worth a tickle. I know Barber and Webster are free. They were up here just now, cadging a coffee. I’ll have a word with Pete Baker, yeah?’
Faraday nodded his agreement and Michaels went to find the DS in charge of outside enquiries. Imber reached for the door with his foot and pushed it shut.
‘Have you talked to young Tracy recently?’
Faraday shook his head. The last time he’d had a proper conversation with Barber was over the weekend.
‘She went up to town,’ Imber said. ‘She’s got a girlfriend up there. Paula Adamson. Paula’s well placed at Six, high-flyer, got herself involved in Jetstream.’
Jetstream, Imber explained, was the MI6 codename for intelligence operations mounted against our European allies. Some of their more ambitious initiatives extended deep into the Balkans.
‘Paula and Barber have been a item for nearly a year. I gather the relationship extends to the odd professional favour.’ Imber smiled. ‘Barber wanted a steer on Pelly. Turns out he’s cat three, starred.’
Faraday had only the vaguest notions about MI6 protocols. Category 3, it seemed, was a restricted access file. The accompanying star meant that there was no way Paula Adamson would impart its contents, not even to her very best friend.
‘That means Six have taken a very great interest in Pelly. Quite why, I don’t know.’
‘Have taken?’
‘Are taking. The file is still live. Barber at least got that far.’ Imber got to his feet and checked his watch. ‘It’s just a thought, Joe, that’s all. Bosnia might not be too far off the mark, eh?’
Winter found the dealership without difficulty. The last of the tablets, coupled with a large Scotch from a pub on Wimbledon Hill Road, had settled his stomach. The headaches he could cope with, just, but only he knew how close he’d come to throwing up over Mrs Wishart’s nice new carpet. As it was, he’d been forced to beat a retreat, leaving an apprehensive figure framed in the downstairs window watching him make it back to the car. Only an empty Sainsbury’s bag, hastily retrieved from the boot, had spared him serious embarrassment.
Now, he slipped the Subaru into a space in Customer Parking. The low glass sweep of the showroom was a showcase for a range of Mitsubishis. In the middle of the display was a brand new Shogun. For £32,499 Winter could join the rest of the Wimbledon housewives who needed four-wheel drive and desert-proof air conditioning to make it down to the shops.
Winter found a waste bin for the knotted Sainsbury’s bag, then pushed into the showroom and began to prowl amongst the gleaming saloons. Within seconds a young sales executive was at his elbow.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ He smelled of aftershave.
Winter produced his warrant card. He was trying to trace a Mitsubishi Shogun taken by the dealership in part exchange for a new model. He had the registration number and the date of the transaction. Could the young man oblige with a couple of other details?
‘Like what, sir?’
‘Fetch the file and I’ll tell you.’
The executive hesitated a moment, then disappeared into a back office. He returned minutes later.
‘If you’re after customer details, sir, there might be a problem. Under the Data Protection Act we—’
Winter cut him short. He’d already acquired current keeper det
ails from Jimmy Suttle. PNC was giving a name in Kingston upon Thames.
‘Jami Singh? Thirty-four Findon Way?’ Winter was reading from his pocketbook.
The executive was deep in the file. A single glance told Winter the information was spot on. The executive looked up.
‘What are you after then?’
‘Number one, I need to know the state of the vehicle when you took it on. Number two, you can tell me what you normally do before you offer it for resale.’
‘Like?’
‘Like a bit of a scrub up.’
‘Oh.’ He looked relieved. ‘I see.’
He went back to the file, flipped through it, then paused, his finger on a scribbled note at the top of the last page. He looked up. He seemed surprised.
‘We normally give PX vehicles a proper going-over but on this one there was no need. The customer had given it the works already. Steam clean. Full valet. The lot.’ He showed Winter the note on the file. ‘The vehicle was pristine, saved us half a day in the car wash.’ He glanced up. ‘You’ve no idea how rare that is.’
*
The taxi firm operated from the lower half of premises two streets back from Shanklin’s North Road. Darren Webster knew it well. On the wilder Saturday nights, he told Tracy Barber, he and his mates would abandon their cars and share a cab back to Newport. The firm offered police discount for off-duty coppers. Sweet deal.
Barber found a parking space across the road. Darren Webster pushed in through the boarded-up front door. A seating area at the front was empty except for an elderly woman with bleached hair and an enormous pile of shopping. Two controllers at desks behind the counter were working the taxi fleet. Barber looked round. According to Webster, this place had once been a greengrocer’s, and she could still detect the faintest of smells. Onions, she thought. Or maybe leeks.
‘Darren.’ One of the controllers was young, no more than twenty. She abandoned her headphones and leaned over the counter to give him a hug. ‘Where were you? Friday night?’
‘Busy.’ Webster shot a look at Barber. ‘Murder job.’
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