‘She told you about the Pompey situation?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Dave Fallon? The Spanish bounty hunter?’
‘Yeah. She phoned me.’
‘And?’
‘We’re on the move. It’s under control.’ He didn’t go into details.
‘So what else did Lizzie tell you?’
‘Pretty much everything, as far as I can judge. You’re living in a shit hole, son. You should have sorted it out.’
‘I know.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
Suttle stared out through the windscreen. He didn’t have an answer. This was like talking to his dad, he thought.
‘Did she tell you about a bloke called Pendrick?’
‘That’s all bollocks. The woman was upset. She’d been upset for months. When that happens, all bets are off. You should have noticed, son. Then there wouldn’t have been a problem.’
Suttle nodded. Winter was probably right.
‘It’s crazy down here. The job’s non-stop. There aren’t the bodies to go round any more. This isn’t Pompey. You work your arse off and then some.’
‘Great. Except you happen to have a wife. And a daughter.’
‘I know.’
‘And that matters?’
‘Of course it does.’
‘Then sort it, son. Get a fucking grip.’ His hand was in his jacket pocket. He produced a bulky white envelope. When he tossed it across to Suttle it landed in his lap.
‘What’s that?’
‘Money.’
‘I don’t want money. I don’t need it.’
‘Wrong again, son. You need to get out of that khazi of a place, you need to find somewhere fit to live in, and you need to start behaving like a human being. That little girl loves you. And so does your daughter. So take a few decisions, eh? And make it happen.’
Suttle had never heard Winter like this, so forceful, so aggressive. Twenty-plus years in CID had made him the master of ambiguity, of the hidden threat, of the carefully prepared traps that littered every conversation. Not this onslaught.
‘Do I get a say?’
‘Of course you do, son. But do me a favour, yeah? Don’t tell me you’ve been betrayed. Don’t bang on about this guy Pendrick. Lizzie was out of her head. And that was down to you.’
‘My fault, then.’
‘Yeah. Fucking right. So like I say, get a grip.’ His eyes hadn’t left Suttle’s face. ‘Are you listening or do I have to start all over again?’
Suttle wouldn’t answer. He fingered the envelope. It felt like a lot of money. Winter was still watching him.
‘Euros, if you’re wondering. High-denomination notes.’
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘None of your business, son. Sell the place. Buy somewhere half-decent. Then she’ll come back.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’m not stupid. Because I watch as well as listen.’ He held Suttle’s gaze a moment longer then checked his watch. ‘I’m off back to Heathrow in an hour. Where can you get something to eat in this town at ten in the morning?’
Suttle took him to a hotel back by the station. They ordered a full English each, and prior to its arrival Winter raided a neighbouring table for a bottle of HP sauce. There were plenty of very good reasons for living in Croatia but breakfast evidently wasn’t one of them. Even Misty, he said, was starting to pine for a proper plate of bacon and eggs.
‘How is she?’
‘Barking mad. It was my birthday last week. You know what she bought me? A set of salsa lessons. Nightmare.’
The thought of Winter stepping onto the dance floor with the high-kicking Misty Gallagher put a smile on Suttle’s face. He wanted to know about her daughter, Trudy, the third member of Winter’s little ménage. A car accident last year had broken her neck and left her with serious nerve damage. How was she doing?
‘Fine. She’s got a boyfriend, and you know what he does for a living?’
‘Tell me.’
‘He’s a cop. Mad about her. Nuts. But you know something? He’s another one who can’t see further than the end of his dick.’
‘You think I’m like that?’
‘Only you know, son.’
‘That wasn’t my question.’
‘OK, so what were you up to last night?’
‘I was with a woman called Gina Hamilton.’
‘Shagging?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, was it?’
‘Very nice, since you’re asking.’
‘She’s a D/I, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Divorced?’
‘Nearly.’
‘And what else?’
‘Neurotic as hell.’ Suttle was grinning this time. ‘Stuffed animals everywhere. Just like Misty.’
The waitress arrived with breakfast. Winter attacked his black pudding with relish. A tiny comma of HP sauce attached itself to the corner of his mouth.
Suttle wanted to know more about Croatia. In a year or so it’d be joining the EU. After which Winter was back in the firing line for a European Arrest Warrant.
‘You’re right, son. Unless Dave Fallon gets me first.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Serbia. They’ve got proper gangsters there. Misty thinks she can pull some real animal who can sort out the likes of Dave Fallon. It’s a neat idea. I just hope he’s good with salsa.’
Suttle had no idea whether he was joking or not and knew — in any case — that it didn’t matter. This brief glimpse of the old Winter had revived something deep inside him. They’d finished breakfast. Winter mopped his chin with a napkin and Suttle accompanied him back to the Fiat.
Winter wanted to know how to get onto the motorway north but Suttle had something else on his mind.
‘You want out, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Out of where, son?’
‘Croatia. Serbia. Abroad. Wherever.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I’ve been watching. Like you always told me to.’
Winter shot him a look, then extended a hand.
‘Glad to hear it, son. Take care of her, eh? And Grace too.’
Winter turned to go but Suttle called him back. He was holding the envelope. There was no way he could take this money.
‘Leave it then.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. Any fucking where. It’s not for you, son. It’s for them.’
Three weeks later Lizzie was back behind her old desk at the Pompey News. The editor had agreed to let her work three regular days a week plus freelance payments for supplementary features she put together in her spare time. This was a blessing for her mum, who found Grace a bit of a handful, and it also permitted Lizzie to kid herself that very little had really changed. She still got her daughter up every morning. She still put her to bed every night. The only difference was that now she had more to think about than dripping taps, elderly neighbours and incessant rain.
Suttle, meanwhile, banked nearly £37,000 in euros. That same afternoon he wrote a cheque for exactly the same amount and sent it to Lizzie. He’d talked to her a couple of times on the phone, prior to nonsense conversations with his daughter, and had managed to avoid a row. Soon, he promised Grace, he’d be down to Pompey to take her out for a treat or two. Whatever else happened, he explained sternly, she wasn’t to forget him.
His relationship with Gina Hamilton, meanwhile, appeared to have stalled. Performance reviews had given way to some kind of operational involvement in a long-running corruption case and she was working all hours. For his own part, Suttle was equally under the cosh. A pensioner couple had been found battered to death in their Sidmouth bungalow and to date no one had a clue who’d done it.
Late one night, as knackered as ever, Suttle lifted the phone to Gina Hamilton. Still numb from losing his daughter, he’d begun to hate the silence of Chantry Cottage. Most television these days was for the brain-dead, and conversa
tions with the cat were a poor substitute for real life.
‘I miss you,’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Be honest, Jimmy. I know exactly what you’re missing.’ She laughed. ‘Me too, as it happens.’
Three weeks later, for the first time, Lizzie had a girlie night on the town with Gill Reynolds. Gill had forgiven her for walking out on Chantry Cottage and they were friends again. They went to a bar in Gunwharf, a minute’s walk from Paul Winter’s old apartment. Lizzie had banked the cheque from her estranged husband and was quietly checking house prices in Southsea. Jimmy would, in the end, turn his back on the West Country. Of this she was quite certain.
For a Friday night the bar was unusually empty. Gill had just booked a holiday in Sri Lanka, a fortnight she intended to share with her latest conquest. This was a guy she’d been dating for less than a month, but already she knew that she’d stumbled on someone who would change her life.
‘He’s really bright, Lou.’ She sucked the last of her vodka and Red Bull. ‘And the good news is he loves me.’
‘Married?’
‘Yeah. For now.’
‘Kids?’
‘Two.’
‘So how’s he going to explain a couple of weeks in Sri Lanka?’
‘No idea. I’ve already bought the tickets, though, so there has to be a way.’
It was at this point that Lizzie’s mobile began to ring. Not recognising the number, she ignored it. Moments later it rang again. Same number. This time it was a text with an accompanying photo. Gill had gone to the bar for refills. Lizzie stared at the text. For a second or two it made no sense, a message from a distant planet, just random nonsense. Then she forced herself to look again, to piece it together and try and understand. ‘She’s a beauty, I promise you. Any time you fancy it. XXXX’
Lizzie’s finger strayed to the attachment. She opened the photo. It was Pendrick. He looked thinner and somehow younger. He was standing in the cockpit of a sizeable yacht. The yacht was anchored in some kind of lagoon. Pearl-white sand. A fringe of palm trees. Not a soul on the beach. Pendrick was grinning the way she recognised from the photos she’d found in his file box. And he was blowing her a kiss.
Lizzie stared at the image, at the beach, at the nut-brown figure so carefully posed against the view. This was a face that she barely remembered, from a time she wanted to forget. So far, the police had shown no interest in calling her back for another interview and for that she was deeply grateful.
‘Lou?’ Gill was back with the drinks. She’d seen the photo. ‘Who’s that?’
Lizzie didn’t answer, shielding the phone. Gill wasn’t having it.
‘Show me, Lou. Gimme, you old slapper.’
Lizzie shook her head. The image of Pendrick still hung on the tiny screen. She gazed at it a moment longer, telling herself to get a new mobile, then her finger found the delete command and the face was gone.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-f518a1-e067-ac46-c7ab-f399-5ba0-321be6
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 30.09.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.36, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Hurley, Graham
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
Western Approaches djs-1 Page 34
