Authors: Graham Hurley
‘Did you?’ It was Jimmy Suttle. He had a pint of lager in one hand and a copy of the
News
in the other. He pulled out the other chair with his foot and sat down.
‘Did I what?’
‘Shag her? Last night?’
‘Might have done.’ Winter speared the last cube of beef. ‘What do you think?’
Suttle swallowed a mouthful of lager. The best part of a day with Richardson’s DVDs had given him some extremely intimate glimpses of Maddox in action and he still couldn’t picture Winter’s bulk on the receiving end. For one thing, Winter was far too mean to pay for it. For another, Maddox didn’t look like the kind of woman to offer him a freebie. Which probably meant a stand-off.
‘You didn’t,’ he said at last. ‘But you’re regretting it.’
‘Close.’
‘You did. And you’re regretting it.’
‘Afraid not.’
‘What, then?’
‘You want the truth? We watched a couple of French movies and talked about a bloke called Arthur Rimbaud. She told me a bit about herself and then put me to bed.’
‘At her place?’
‘Of course.’
‘And kissed you goodnight?’
‘Maybe.’ Winter reached for the paper napkin. ‘Maybe not.’
Winter had never done coy before, emphatically not with Suttle, and the young DC couldn’t believe it. Whatever spell this woman cast, she certainly had the measure of Paul Winter.
‘She’s in there, isn’t she? Under your skin?’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Proves it.’ Suttle began to laugh. ‘Look at you. French movies? Arthur Thingy? This is student talk. Whatever happened to the fanny rat we all know and love? Talk any woman into bed? Where did all that go?’
‘Good question.’ Winter pushed his plate away and glanced at his watch. ‘I talked to Cathy Lamb this morning. She’s happy we go after him.’
‘Who?’
‘Who?’ Winter looked up in surprise. ‘Wishart, of course.’
Ten minutes on the internet had already given Winter a business address for Simulcra. Wishart ran the company from an office in Baltic House, an unlovely modern colossus at the motorway end of Kingston Crescent. The fact that Wishart was less than a minute’s walk from the nick that housed the Pompey Crime Squad Winter viewed as an exceptionally good omen.
Simulcra was on the seventh floor. An outer office was manned by a middle-aged woman with brutally cropped hair and an expensive tan.
‘Been somewhere nice?’ Winter had already pocketed the warrant card.
‘Bali.’
‘OK, was it?’
‘Lovely. What can I do for you, Mr Winter?’
‘I’d like a word with Mr Wishart.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s in Poland.’
Winter was looking at the framed photo on the wall behind her. Half a dozen men in dinner jackets were seated at a circular table at some function or other, beaming at the camera. Winter recognised a member of the Shadow Cabinet plus a female TV reporter who’d made her name in the first Gulf War. Maurice Wishart was sitting between them.
A phone began to ring. The woman behind the desk was still looking up at Winter. Was there any way she might be able to help him?
‘Not really.’ Winter nodded at the single door that must have led to Wishart’s office. ‘When’s he back, then?’
‘Thursday.’ The woman reached for the phone. ‘Late-morning flight out of Warsaw.’
Suttle stayed in the car while Winter sorted out a search warrant. The duty magistrate was evidently an easy sell because Winter was back behind the wheel within minutes.
‘Showed her the SOC report on Camber Court, plus the arrest docket on Singer. Evidence of cocaine seizures both times. Is it reasonable to conclude that Mr Wishart may also be using the white powder?’ Winter lodged the warrant on the dashboard with a satisfied nod. ‘We think yes.’
Port Solent was tucked into a northern corner of
Portsmouth Harbour. On Friday, at Camber Court, Wishart had supplied an address in the big horseshoe-shaped block of flats that dominated one end of the marina. Winter picked his way through the thin drift of midday traffic and joined the motorway out of the city. To the left, across the grey expanse of the harbour, Suttle watched the tiny white sail of a yacht tacking towards Spithead and the open sea.
‘Bit harsh, isn’t it?’ Suttle reached for the warrant. ‘All this for a toot or two?’
‘Cathy’s up for it. She’s been talking to Alcott. The suits are pissed off about
Tumbril
and want to make a point or two about all those fucking Rotarians who think they’re beyond the law. Nicking Singer chuffed Alcott to bits.’ Winter nodded. ‘Payback time.’
Suttle scanned the warrant. Operation
Tumbril
had become the talk of every canteen in the county, a million quid’s worth of covert investigation that hadn’t produced a single arrest. There were accountants and solicitors in Pompey who were still raising a glass to Bazza Mackenzie for seeing off the
Tumbril
squad.
‘We think Wishart’s linked to Mackenzie?’
‘I doubt it. If he uses charlie it may ultimately come from Bazza but that’s not the point. It’s broader than that. Put twats like Singer and Wishart in front of the magistrates and you’ll get front page in the
News
, guaranteed. These guys aren’t immune. That’s Cathy’s line, anyway.’
‘So we’re sending a message?’
‘Exactly.’
Winter brought his Subaru to a halt in the big car park at Port Solent, and opened the boot. A sledgehammer lay inside, long-handled with tape wound around the shaft. These days, forcing an entry called for a battering ram, backup, gauntlets, a hard hat and
half a day on the computer with the Risk Assessment form, but Winter had never seen the point of all these complications. Now, he lifted the sledgehammer out with a grunt and gave it to Suttle. The long curve of the apartment block loomed beyond the bars and restaurants that lined the marina basin.
Suttle shouldered the sledgehammer.
‘Isn’t this a bit hasty?’ he queried. ‘Shouldn’t we at least knock first?’
‘No point.’ Winter was locking the car. ‘He’s not going to hear us in bloody Poland, is he?’
Wishart’s flat was on the third floor. Winter led the way along the corridor, tallying off the numbers. Three doors from the end, he paused, rapped twice, waited for a moment or two, then stepped back to give Suttle the space he’d need.
‘You want me to bosh it?’
‘Yeah.’
Suttle eyed the two keyholes. Mortice locks were always trickier. Backing off from the door, he swung the sledgehammer. The first impact splintered the wood around the mortice. On the second, the door shifted slightly as the lock gave. The noise was deafening, echoing down the corridor. Already Winter could hear the rattle of nearby chains as other residents unlocked their own doors to investigate.
‘Now the Yale.’
Suttle aimed the ram at the little brass disc. He was beginning to sweat with the effort. This time a single blow was enough. The door burst open.
‘What on earth’s going on?’
A woman in her sixties had appeared behind them in the corridor. She was wearing a turquoise shell suit and a pair of slippers. The Pekinese under one arm had a scarlet bow.
‘CID, madam.’ Winter gave the dog a tickle under its chin. ‘Drugs Squad.’
Without waiting for a reaction, he waved Suttle into the apartment and pushed the door shut behind them. When it swung open again, he put a chair under the handle.
‘Nice.’ Suttle had dropped the sledgehammer on the sofa. Now he was at the window, checking out the view. ‘You think he’s got one of those?’
Winter followed his pointing finger. Dozens of yachts and motor cruisers stirred beside rows of wooden pontoons.
‘Derek?’ Winter was on his mobile to the Duty Inspector. ‘DC Winter. Crime Squad. We’ve just done a door at Port Solent. You need to take a look for the damage report.’ He gave the address and hung up before turning round to inspect the rest of the place.
The living room was generous and Wishart had been careful not to clutter the big, open stretch of cool grey carpet. The sofa occupied one corner, positioned for the view and the big digital TV, and there was a modest dining table against the wall opposite. Beside the sofa, magazines lay piled on a small occasional table, and Winter flicked through them. Copies of
The Economist, Jane’s Defence Weekly
and
Flight International
. Night-time reading for the busy entrepreneur who couldn’t leave his job at the office.
‘Guess who …’ Suttle had found a photograph, housed in a stand-up frame. Winter stepped across and took a look. Maddox.
‘Where was this?’
‘By the CD player.’ Suttle nodded at the stack of audio equipment in the corner.
Winter was taking a proper look at the photo. Maddox was sitting at a restaurant table, surveying the
remains of an elaborate dessert. An empty bottle of wine was upended in the cooler beside her tidied plate, and the photographer had perfectly caught the warmth of her smile as she raised her glass in a celebratory toast. Her other hand was draped around the figure beside her. Wishart had left his jacket on the back of the chair. The pale dead eyes were narrowed in anticipation of the flash and the expression on his face spoke of the deep pleasures of ownership. For the first time, to his intense disappointment, Winter began to question Maddox’s account of the limits she set to her working life. She saw this man socially. She’d lied.
Winter turned the frame over and began to prise off the back. Suttle’s grin grew broader.
‘You really think he’s hidden it in there?’
‘Hidden what?’
Suttle stared at him, then began to laugh.
‘What are you really after? What’s all this about?’
Winter was looking at the photo again. Suttle circled round behind him.
‘That’s taken in the flat.’ He pointed at the photo. ‘Richardson’s place.’
Winter felt the relief flooding through him. Then his eye was caught by a detail in the background. He was trying to visualise the layout at Camber Court. He remembered the dining table in the middle of the the huge living room, one end of the table close to the window, the other opposite the door.
‘There’s panelling on the wall here.’ He touched the glass frame with his finger. ‘I don’t remember panelling at Richardson’s.’
Suttle peered at the photo.
‘You’re right. So it’s not the flat at all. It has to be some restaurant, right?’
‘Right.’ Winter’s heart sank again.
‘Is that a problem?’ Suttle was watching him closely. ‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Yes, it is. I can see it in your face. She’s a tom, mate. It’s what she does for a living. For fuck knows how much, she lets him take her out before they get it on. How’s that for a night’s work? Decent meal? Quick fuck afterwards? And all on the meter?’
Winter had pulled himself together. He told Suttle to sort through the rest of the living room. After that, he wanted a proper search of the adjacent kitchen.
‘And you’ll take the bedrooms, eh?’
‘That’s right.’
Winter left the room before Suttle had time to protest. He still had the photo. The master bedroom lay at the end of the hall. Next door was a second bedroom that Wishart had converted into a study. Already Winter was dreading what he might find.
He started with the study, lowering the venetian blinds for a little privacy. A desk occupied most of one wall, flanked by a filing cabinet. Above the desk hung a calendar featuring a group of black women posing in some kind of zoo.
Winter fired up the PC and began to sort through the contents of an in-tray which lay beside it. Most of the stuff was domestic bills. Wishart was prolific with the heating, spent a fortune on his telephone, and used the Tesco Shop ’n’ Drop service to keep his fridge stocked.
Towards the bottom of the pile Winter found last month’s Amex account. The billing ran to three pages. Most of it was routine – rail fares, petrol, three-figure payments to a vintner – but a handful of entries caught his eye. Three were to Steve Richardson: £ 800 a pop for Maddox’s services. Another was a £ 980 payment
to the Chichester branch of Monsoon. The third showed the name of a restaurant in Petersfield, Mon Plaisir. The bill came to £ 113.56, exactly the kind of sum you’d end up spending for two people in an upmarket restaurant, and when he checked through the billing again he found three more entries for what sounded like a pub restaurant, with smaller sums that were still substantial enough to warrant a meal for two. The Humble Duck. Sidlesham.
Winter scribbled a note of the restaurant billings together with the dates. There were a million people in the world that Wishart might have invited for a leisurely pub supper. God, even Mrs Wishart might have driven down for an evening with her workaholic husband. But Winter was already haunted by the image of Maddox at the restaurant table and something told him that cosy get-togethers had been a regular feature of their life together.
The PC was live now. Slightly surprised to be spared the need for a password, Winter double-clicked on Outlook Express and waited for the rest of his delusions to crumble. Seconds later he was looking at a long list of messages. To his relief, scrolling backwards through the months, nothing had Maddox’s name on it. On the contrary, most of the traffic seemed to be commercial, messages to clients or would-be clients, many of them abroad.
Dozens of the emails had pinged to and from West Africa – confirmations of flight bookings to Lagos, various addresses in Nigeria – and Winter found his gaze returning time and again to the calendar hung on the wall over the desk: the month of February overprinted on a huge colour photograph. He studied it for a moment or two, wondering exactly why Wishart should have given pride of place to a bunch of
exuberant African women posed in front of a cage of lions. Then, struck by a sudden thought, he abandoned the emails and began to go through the first of the desk drawers. He found Wishart’s address book under a brochure for Greek holidays. He went straight to M but drew a blank. Under R Wishart had scribbled Steve Richardson’s details – the Camber Court address, a phone number and an email listing. Beneath, in the same scribble, was a circled M.