Authors: Graham Hurley
‘No.’ Barber took his arm. ‘And unless your Serbo-Croat’s better than mine, we’re out of here.’
Maddox had never been to the Churchillian in her life. A favourite haunt of Winter’s in his more sentimental moods, the pub lay on the crest of Portsdown Hill with sensational views out over the city.
‘How’s the steak and kidney?’
‘Brilliant.’ Maddox waved her fork at the roomful of busy diners. ‘They must make this stuff in industrial quantities. Still tasty, though. Very clever.’
Winter grinned at her, then drained the last of his Stella. Maddox had opted for red wine and Winter had
bought her a bottle. Three glasses down, she’d finally mustered the courage to take off her dark glasses.
‘There. Tell me the truth. Go on.’
Winter gazed at her a moment, then reached out and turned her face towards the view. Reflected in the window, against the blackness of the night, the bruising was almost invisible.
‘You look great,’ he said. ‘See for yourself.’
She laughed at him, told him he’d missed his vocation. Nurse, maybe. Or full-time liar. Winter scoffed at the thought. Nothing felt more natural than Maddox in this mood. To his immense satisfaction, he knew he could ask her anything.
‘Tell me more about Wishart. You say he’s had dealings in Africa. What’s all that about?’
‘I haven’t a clue. I know he’s been there a lot. Nigeria, mainly. It must be on business, must be. Maurice wouldn’t go anywhere for anything else.’
‘What’s he selling?’
‘I don’t know. Like I said, he got involved with those chums of his on the Hamble, the ones with the construction yard. It was Maurice who persuaded them to try their hand at the military market, just in a small way. He showed me some of the advertising once. Sweet they were, these little boats. Like something my brother used to play with in the bath. Tiny things. Cut-price gunboats. Perfect for the Affs, apparently.’
‘So who gets to buy them? He ever give you names?’
‘Never. And to tell you the truth I was never that interested. But I’m sure he’d sell them to anyone. In fact he’d sell anything to anyone. Life’s just a series of dots to Maurice. The buzz comes from trying to join them all up.’
Winter smiled at the image. He’d once said something very similar himself, in answer to some prat question about the job. The real scalps, he’d pointed out, fall to the guys with the straightest rulers. Connect the right dots in the right order, and you’ve got yourself a result. Simple.
‘When’s he back, then?’
‘Tomorrow. He phoned this afternoon, says he needs to talk to me.’
‘To apologise?’
‘To explain. Maurice doesn’t do apology.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said there was nothing worth explaining. He’d lost his rag and that was that. I told him I didn’t want him in my flat ever again and that Camber Court wouldn’t feel the same without Steve Richardson.’
‘We bailed Richardson,’ Winter pointed out. ‘He’ll be back in residence.’
‘Of course, but I think he’s lost the taste for it. Whoever put the fear of God in him, it worked. He’s low, really low. The last thing he wants is another knock on the door.’
‘So Wishart’s got nowhere to screw you?’
‘Exactly. And he’s not best pleased. He even offered to up the money. A thousand and not a penny to Steve. We could go to a hotel. His place. Mine. The back of the car. Anywhere. The man’s crazy for it. Couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t say yes.’
‘It’s not it, my love. It’s you.’
‘I know. And that’s why I don’t have a choice. I have to put him out of his misery.’
‘How?’
‘By saying no.’
‘He won’t believe you.’
‘He doesn’t. And that’s another problem. Just how
do you tell a man you’ve never really fancied him? To Maurice, it’s simple. He’s spent a fortune on me so the argument’s over. I’ve become an investment, a kind of bank account. He’s God knows how much in credit so he can just take what he wants when he wants. Then he gets little me on the phone like he did this afternoon and it all kicks off again. I don’t want him screwing me; I don’t want him giving me money; I don’t want ever to see him again. End of story. Does he listen? Does he ever …’
Winter gazed out at the view a moment, the island shape of the city etched with street lights against the blackness of the Solent beyond. In less than a day, he thought, Wishart will be returning to the remains of his front door, crudely secured by the firm Hantspol retained for forced entry. Inside, he’ll find a calling card from DC Paul Winter and a photocopy of the magistrate’s warrant. No illegal substances had been found on the premises, neither was there a scrap of evidence to suggest they ever would be, two points Wishart would doubtless be making to his powerful friends at headquarters.
‘Is he a vindictive man?’ Winter enquired.
‘Totally. He once told me he’d been crossed in business, badly stitched up. And you know how he sorted it out?’
‘Tell me.’
‘He had the man killed. Bought a contract. Paid the going rate.’
Winter blinked. For once three pints of Stella suddenly seemed a bad idea.
‘He did
what
?’
‘Had the guy murdered.’
‘This was abroad?’
‘God no. It was here.’
‘In England?’
‘In Portsmouth.’ She paused, suddenly concerned, reaching for his hand. ‘It’s come back, hasn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘The pain.’ She gave his hand a squeeze, then touched his forehead. ‘I think we should go.’
Faraday and Tracy Barber sat in an Indian restaurant on Ryde High Street. Earlier they’d booked into a small hotel down near the Esplanade. Tomorrow morning, Willard would be sending half a dozen DCs across, bright and shiny after this evening’s ongoing celebrations over the Newbridge job.
Tracy Barber had already said her piece. They’d stepped into a domestic set-up they couldn’t possibly understand. She’d no idea whether Pelly slept with his wife or not. All the gossip suggested that he had trillions of other women on the go but what she didn’t question for a moment was the closeness of their relationship. He was deeply protective where Lajla was concerned. He cared for her. In return, she very obviously depended on him. Was that kind of dependence fuelled by sex? Had it ever been? She hadn’t the remotest idea.
Listening, Faraday could only agree. The more time he spent with Tracy Barber, the more he warmed to her. She was very robust, very straightforward, and yet she had a woman’s intuitive feel for the nuances of relationships, for the patterns iron filings made when they were drawn to a force more powerful than themselves. In this sense she reminded him a little of Eadie. The same comforting certainty in her own judgement. The same courage to step in when she felt it was necessary.
‘She must have phoned him when we first arrived
tonight,’ Faraday said. ‘You remember how we waited outside in the corridor? While she was supposed to be sorting out her daughter?’
‘Sure.’ Barber was demolishing the last of her prawn korma. ‘And what does that tell you?’
‘That she couldn’t handle us by herself. Where she comes from, people like us are probably bad news.’
‘Sure. That’s why she needed Pelly back in a very big hurry. He’s the prop. He’s her shield. When we were there alone with her, she was just lobbing the answers back, one-word stuff, ping-pong, waiting for him to walk in the door.’
‘You don’t think she’s got a problem with the language?’
‘No, she’s been here too long for that. Ten years in a country, you should be pretty fluent.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t get out enough.’ Faraday was determined to test every excuse. ‘Maybe you don’t get a lot of conversation out of gaga eighty-somethings.’
‘No.’ Barber shook her head. ‘It’s more complex, I know it is. She was petrified tonight; couldn’t wait for Pelly to come to the rescue. The little girl felt it as well, didn’t you notice?’
Faraday nodded. Fida, too, had been in tears by the time they’d left.
‘So what are we looking at?’
‘I don’t know. Except that I don’t buy the stuff about Unwin. You’ve been right about Morgan all along. The man talks bollocks. My bet is Morgan got that little story about the row out of her, gossip really, and then built on it. The little shit wants to screw Pelly, get his own back. Spot on, sir.’
Faraday permitted himself the beginnings of a smile. His day could use a little TLC.
‘So where are we?’ he asked again. ‘You’re telling me it isn’t Unwin in the fridge?’
‘I’ve no idea. It might be that Morgan is righter than he knows. It might be that Unwin and Pelly have been in business together. Maybe people smuggling, maybe drugs, maybe double glazing, God knows. It might be that the falling-out went way beyond the scene in the office. Whatever happens, we’re certainly looking at one big coincidence: Unwin disappearing, a body turning up, and now all this stuff about the two boats. But all I know for sure is that Lajla wasn’t lying tonight when we mentioned Unwin. She hadn’t got a clue what we were on about. Genuinely.’
‘Pelly could have killed him without her knowing. Makes perfect sense to me.’
‘Sure. Of course.’
‘He needn’t have done it at the home. In fact he’d have been mad to have done it at the home.’
‘Where, then?’
‘On the boat, the old boat. Or maybe somewhere out in the country.’ He paused, trying to imagine the circumstances. ‘Say he lured Unwin into the country on some pretext or other, battered him round the head, then shipped him aboard. No …’ He frowned, then shook his head. ‘The boat, definitely. Has to be the boat – a lot less hassle. Why give yourself problems with a dead body when you can take the bloke to sea, kill him when it suits you, then get rid of the evidence overboard?’
‘With or without a head?’
‘Without. You saw it off. Presumably on board. Which is why we’re going for the second PM.’
‘OK.’ Barber pushed her plate away. ‘So he’s dumped the body. Dumped the head. What happens to the boat?’
‘You’ve got a problem. Major crime scene. Lots and lots of blood. You clean it up. Get rid of it. Dump it. Set it on fire. Whatever.’ He looked up at her, smiling. ‘Then you buy a new boat.’
‘But you told me he’d had the boat on order since March.’
‘Sure. But he hadn’t been able to pay for it. And by the time that happened, Unwin may well have been dead.’ He paused, gazing at her. ‘Yes?’
‘Exactly.’ She was smiling. ‘So where did he get the money?’
Suttle was asleep when Winter rang. The young DC rolled over, groped down on the floor for his jeans, extracted his mobile.
‘Who is it?’
‘Me. Listen. What are we supposed to be doing tomorrow morning?’
Suttle was still trying to read his watch. 01.56. Unbelievable.
‘Court first thing.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Then Cathy wants an update.’
‘On?’
‘
Plover
. The ACC’s down on a state visit. Cathy needs to know how we’re doing in case he presses her on the detail. Shouldn’t take long, eh?’
There was a silence. Then, very faintly, the sound of a woman’s voice in the background.
‘What’s going on?’ Suttle was properly awake now. ‘What is this?’
Winter, back on the phone, ignored the question.
‘Eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘Usual place.’
Thursday, 26 February 2004
Jimmy Suttle was deep in the paper by the time Winter turned up for breakfast. Pete’s Place was a hugely popular cafe wedged into one of the arches beneath the viaduct that carried trains in and out of the harbour station. Winter had always loved this slice of Pompey life – the rattle of carriages overhead, the dense fug of steam and roll-ups, the fruit machine winking in the corner, the woman behind the counter who always gave him an extra egg in his full English. This was one of the urban burrows where people like Winter could slip behind a table at the back and keep the lowest of profiles. No matter how busy it got, he’d never once been bothered.
This morning, though, the cafe was empty. Just Jimmy Suttle, in his court suit, reading the sports pages of the
Daily Mail
.
Winter took his coat off and shook the rain onto the greasy linoleum. Suttle came here on sufferance, one of the generation who would never dream of touching coffee unless it arrived in a Starbucks mug with a fancy name at a silly price.
‘You ordered yet?’ Winter exchanged a wave with the woman behind the counter.
‘I had something at home.’
‘Couldn’t wait?’
‘Wouldn’t take the risk.’
‘Bless you, son.’ Winter gave him a pat on the shoulder, signalled for the usual, and settled himself on the other side of the table.
‘How was she?’ Suttle didn’t look up.
‘Fine. Sends her best. Asks to be remembered.’
‘Very funny. As if I’d ever forget.’
‘Listen.’ Winter reached across, folded Suttle’s paper, and put it to one side. ‘There’s something we ought to talk about.’
‘Sure. You want to get this over with? Fine by me. I can take humiliation.’
‘No, son, you’ve got it wrong. That’s the trouble with you lot. You think there’s never more to a relationship than shagging. As if I’m that stupid.’
Suttle gazed at him a moment, then shook his head in wonderment.
‘I was right,’ he said. ‘You
are
in love.’
‘Don’t be silly. We’re good friends, that’s all. She’s terrific, a one-off. You remember Wishart? The punter she was sorting out?’
‘Sure. Sad old bastard.’
‘Right.’ Winter grinned. ‘Rich old bastard, too. Turns out he’s gone soft on her. Wants to tuck her up. Insists, actually.’
‘Insists how?’
‘He turned up and gave her a slapping the other night. Scared her witless.’
‘Really? And is that where you come in?’
‘Naturally.’
‘To keep Wishart off her?’
‘Yeah.’
‘For a price?’
‘For conversation, son.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Suttle was laughing now. ‘You’re telling me you talk a lot? In between times? That’s nice.
Women like that in a man. Shows respect. Not just fanny, is it? Not when it’s the real thing?’ Suttle reached for the paper and got up. ‘I’ve got some calls to make. I thought we were here to talk business, not your fucking love life. My mistake.’