Authors: Graham Hurley
‘Mr W.’ He got up and wiped his hand on his trousers. ‘Who do we blame for this pleasure?’
Winter produced the photo.
‘Him, since you ask.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Bloke called Chris Unwin.’ Winter wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t you lot ever open a window?’
‘No point. Heating’s fucked. Open the window and you’ll freeze your arse off.’ He was still looking at the photo. ‘Bloke on the right?’ Winter nodded. ‘Why him?’
‘Suss people smuggling. Said to come through here regularly.’
‘Yeah?’
Kingston got to his feet and bent to a computer at the other desk. A couple of key strokes took him into a database. He began to scroll through.
‘Unwin, you say?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s not on the name manifest.’
‘What’s that? Some kind of watch list?’
‘Yeah. We keep an eye on the obvious ones. The older the van the bigger the interest. Establish a pattern and – bingo! – full turnout. Dogs, scanners, black magic, the fucking works, mate. Blokes like him, no chance.’
‘But he’s not on your list.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So what’s gone wrong?’
‘Where do you want to start?’ He returned to the armchair and the rest of his doughnut. ‘Number one, we don’t have the blokes, not any more. Number two, this is a full EU port; the punters just sail through. You sure he used Pompey? Only Poole would have been even better. It’s unmanned most of the time and word’s been out for months.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Afraid not. Fortress Britain?’ he began to laugh. ‘Believe that kind of crap and you’ll end up in politics. Listen, leave me a note of the name. Write it down or something. I’ll see what we can do next time he comes through.’
‘I’ll spare you the trouble.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s probably dead.’
Willard was as good as his word. By lunchtime the MIR at Ryde police station was filling with personnel. DS Dave Michaels had been one of the first over, accepting Faraday’s invitation to set up base camp in the bigger of the two squad rooms. From here he organised the trickle of indexers who arrived off the hovercraft or the Fast Cat, civilians from Basingstoke and Southampton who’d responded to Willard’s bugle call, packed their bags, and headed south. One by one they settled behind the computer screens that lined the walls of the incident room, working their way through yesterday’s statements, opening files, inputting data, readying the system for the flood of information to come.
Faraday, meanwhile, briefed the other of the two DSs, a bright high-flyer called Pete Baker who was to be in charge of the Outside Inquiry Team. Baker had been on Major Crimes for less than six months but already he’d won glowing reports from Willard. To the Detective Superintendent Baker embodied exactly that blend of sharp intelligence and thrusting ambition that badged a man for glory. Faraday, who’d seen Baker wilt under less than extreme conditions, wasn’t quite so sure. Baker certainly talked a good war but from Willard’s eminence it was all too easy to mistake presentational skills for something else entirely. In Faraday’s view, the DS role on Major Crimes was the hinge of the whole operation. Unless he had a talent for hard graft, for insisting on scrupulous standards of evidence-gathering, for keeping the troops up to the mark, then
Congress
was in trouble.
‘Boss?’ It was Brian Imber.
Imber, too, was a DS but on this occasion he’d been shipped in by Willard to head the intelligence cell. A year ago, on Operation
Tumbril
, he and Faraday had
nearly come to blows as a year’s worth of work disintegrated in less than twenty-four hours. Both men had observed a decent period of mourning – no phone calls, no face-to-face contact – but a chance meeting on a Waterloo-bound train had healed the deeper scars, and now they were back on the best of terms. Imber had just run his farewell marathon, a murderous twenty-six miles around the Peak District, and couldn’t resist showing Faraday the snap his wife had taken as he crossed the line.
‘Three hours nine.’ He pointed at the wiry, mud-splashed figure, both arms raised. ‘Not bad for a geriatric.’
Faraday called for Tracy Barber and then went hunting for an extra chair. Most of the morning, off and on, he’d been devoting some thought to this conversation. In his experience intelligence fuelled most successful inquiries and
Congress
would surely be no exception.
‘DC Barber’s ex-SB.’ Faraday found a space for Imber.
‘I know.’ Imber sat down. ‘I was talking to Six this morning. Paula Adamson. She sends her regards.’
Mention of the name brought a blush of pleasure to Barber’s cheeks. Six was police-speak for MI6. Access to their intelligence files was heavily restricted. Uniform or CID didn’t have a prayer. Only Special Branch were in the same loop.
Imber was still looking at Tracy Barber.
‘What else have we got?’
‘Not much.’ Barber ducked her head. ‘Lots of local scuttlebutt, whispers mainly, but nothing you could take to court. I understand we’ve got Pelly’s lodgers on today’s outside inquiries list. That’s a good place to start.’
Faraday nodded. The full
Congress
team should be in place by late afternoon, and he’d launch this stage of the investigation with a squad meeting. He’d begin with a detailed background brief, the story of the inquiry to date, and then call for Pete Baker to allocate tomorrow’s actions. These would concentrate on house-to-house inquiries around the edges of Bembridge Harbour, with a smaller team handling staff and resident interviews at the Boniface Nursing Home.
Imber wanted to know more about Pelly’s lodgers.
‘Are these guys legal?’
‘He says yes. And most of them work for him through an agency.’
‘He takes a percentage? Charges bed and board?’
‘Exactly. This time of year it’s mainly grading and packing for the supermarkets. That and casual work in the catering trade. We think he also ships some of his guys off the island and up to the north. In fact the bloke in the frame for the body may have been driving the van.’
‘You’ve got a name?’
‘Chris Unwin. No one’s seen him since October. There’s other stuff fits the timeline.’
Faraday took Imber through the known chronology. Imber, to whom this kind of narrative was meat and drink, was impressed.
‘That’s in two days?’
‘Three.’
‘You’ve done well. What else do we know about Pelly?’
Faraday told him. Pelly appeared to have served in the army. He may have met Lajla in Bosnia during the war. Either way, she’d come to the UK in 1993 and married Pelly soon afterwards. She had one daughter, Fida.
‘Pelly’s?’
‘She says not.’
‘Do we have a unit for him in the army? Anyone looked up his record?’
‘No.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘He’s got an SAS tattoo on one arm but that might mean anything.’
Imber smiled, familiar with a world where men lived out their fantasies and sometimes paid the price.
‘What’s he like then, this Pelly?’
Faraday and Tracy Barber exchanged glances.
‘He’s strange.’ It was Barber this time. ‘Extremely volatile. Extremely chippy. Bitter, even. Lots of mouth. Easily wound up. Allegedly violent. Bit of a piss artist, according to some. On the other hand –’ she frowned ‘– he seems pretty genuine around the old folk in the home, and sounding off at the state of the nation’s no crime.’
‘He does that a lot?’
‘All the time. Press the right button and you get both barrels. He hates the place – us, taxmen, the weather, you name it. It might be a blind but I doubt it. The English are shit. Official.’
‘Bitter sounds about right.’
‘Yeah.’ Faraday leaned forward. ‘But it’s more than that, Brian. I can’t put my finger on it, not yet, but there’s something else going on there. He’s a bad boy. I’ll put money on it. But the real question is why.’ He looked up, catching Imber’s eye. ‘Am I making any sense?’
Winter was parked up on the seafront when he finally got through to DI Cathy Lamb. From fifty metres, he had perfect line of sight on Rose Tower. Maddox’s flat was up on the tenth floor. Early afternoon, the
windows of her bedroom were still curtained, an image that caused Winter physical pain.
‘Paul?’ Cathy sounded equally harassed. ‘Where are you?’
‘South Parade. About to interview a witness. Jimmy and I have come up with a possible hit. Bloke called Unwin.’
He began to explain about the headless body recovered from the Isle of Wight but Cathy cut him short. She’d had Terry Alcott on. The ACC was under fire again from Wishart. He’d returned from abroad to find everyone talking about a visit from the Drugs Squad and a botched repair on the remains of his front door. Alcott wasn’t bothered about Wishart’s threats to go to the Police Authority and his local MP. Just wanted assurance that inquiries were on track and likely to be productive.
‘Productive?’ Winter hadn’t taken his eyes off Maddox’s flat.
‘He wants a result, Paul, and the faster you turn this round the less chance I have of referring it to Major Crimes. You with me?’
‘Of course. Does Alcott think we’re still chasing Wishart on drugs charges?’
‘For the time being, yeah. But there are limits, Paul. As ever.’
Lamb rang off. Winter had been dreading the moment Cathy Lamb picked up the phone to Willard and surrendered control of
Plover
but for now he seemed to have won a stay of execution. He studied his mobile a moment, wondering why Suttle hadn’t been in touch, then keyed in his number.
Suttle was still at the
News
building, up in the north of the city. Winter wanted to know why.
‘Tell you later.’
‘You alone?’
‘No.’
‘Tricky, is it?’
‘Very.’
Winter ended the conversation with a grunt and pocketed the phone. Outside, standing on the pavement, the wind was icy. Winter buttoned his car coat and walked across to the flats. Up on the tenth floor the carpeted hall was empty. Winter paused briefly beside a vase full of roses on a table beside the lift. A single touch told him they were artificial. Fitting, he thought grimly, heading for Maddox’s door.
She answered on the third ring. Her face was pale but the worst of the bruising had gone. She was wearing a man’s shirt, the lightest blue, not much else. Her bare feet curled on the cold cherrywood floor.
Winter pushed past her without a word. What he really wanted to find was Wishart in her bed. He wasn’t at all sure where a scene like that might lead but it would certainly spare him the chore of trying to screw the truth out of someone he’d thought he could trust.
Maddox’s bed was empty. A paperback lay open on her pillow and there was a writing pad on the floor with an uncapped fountain pen beside it.
‘Where have you been?’ Maddox was standing in the doorway, her long body propped against the jamb.
‘Working. Where do you think?’
‘I’ve been worried about you. How’s the head?’
‘Better. Since you ask.’
‘Better how?’
‘Clearer.’ He managed a chilly smile. ‘You mind getting some clothes on? I’ll wait next door.’
He stepped past her without waiting for an answer. She joined him on the sofa, tucking her knees under
her chin. She looked calm, not the slightest evidence of guilt or embarrassment. She wanted to know what had happened.
Winter gazed at her, knowing already that resolution and willpower weren’t enough. Maddox cast a spell he simply couldn’t fathom. In barely a minute she’d turned him back into an adolescent. He couldn’t remember feeling so helpless, so angry, so betrayed.
‘
Happened
? What is all this shit … ?’ He looked away, wondering where to start. Maddox saved him the trouble.
‘Is it about last night?’
The question floored Winter. He stared at her, uncomprehending. She offered the briefest smile.
‘Petersfield. The square outside the restaurant. You were in the car with the other guy. The young one.’
‘You saw us?’
‘Of course. You gave me a lift back here the other day. Same car. Subaru. Remember?’
‘Yeah. I do.’ Winter nodded. ‘Of course I do. What about Wishart?’
‘What about him?’
‘Did he see us?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t tell him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So what was all that about? The necklace? The meal? You all over him?’ Winter fought to keep himself under control. ‘Isn’t Wishart the guy who drops by on a weekend and gives you a smacking? Isn’t he the bloke you’re trying to get rid of? Or am I missing something here?’
‘You’re missing nothing.’
‘So explain it. Pretend I’m even thicker than I look. Pretend I haven’t sat up half the night wondering what
kind of prat you really take me for. Just pretend for a moment that any of this matters.’
‘Any of what?’
‘This. Us.’
‘You think it doesn’t?’
‘Jesus.’ Winter was on his feet now. ‘You want the truth? I don’t know what to think. I’m here on a job. I’m a working cop. I’ve come with a list of questions and a photo I’m going to show you but before we get round to any of that I’d quite like a steer on where you’re coming from. Wishart beat you up, or that’s what you told me. Barely a week later you’re telling the guy to help himself. That’s pretty subtle, isn’t it? Too fucking subtle for me.’
‘You want to sit down? Talk about it?’
‘No. I want you to explain. Not lie. Not fanny around. Not treat me like a punter. Just explain. Call it a favour. Call it whatever you like. But just tell me the way it is.’
‘OK.’ Maddox held Winter’s gaze. ‘He phoned.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. He’d flown in from Warsaw, gone straight back to Port Solent. He was spitting nails. Someone had broken into his flat.’
‘That would be me.’
‘I know. You’d left a card. He told me.’
‘And?’
‘He wanted to drag me out to dinner.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘First time was it? Bit of an adventure?’
‘Not at all. We’ve done it before. Quite a lot.’
‘I thought you told me it was strictly business? Camber Court? Couple of hours in bed and leave your cheque on the pillow?’