Happy Days (19 page)

Marie knew the conversation was at an end. The last thing she wanted was any kind of row. What her husband needed
now was a good night’s sleep, and she knew he’d find his way back upstairs in his own good time.

‘I’m going back to bed,’ she said. ‘Any word from Paul?’

Mackenzie shook his head, returning his attention to the screen. Winter, for the time being, was off the plot. The future, just now, belonged to the Smouts.

BUDVA: WEDNESDAY, 23 SEPTEMBER 2009

A long hot shower did wonders for Winter’s morale. He’d checked the door again and wedged a chair under the handle, but on balance he didn’t think they’d be back. Lamborghini and his mates had come to deliver a message, and whichever way you looked at it there was fuck-all room for ambiguity. Foreign investment, on the wrong terms, was deeply unwelcome. Kubla Khan, for whatever reason, had pissed them off. Winter, with his pathetic 10 per cent, was part of that operation, and they wanted him out of town. No problem. He might not be on the 09.35 to Herceg Novi, but one way or another he was about to head north.

He reached for a towel and with great care began to dry himself. He could be back in Croatia by mid-morning. A coach would take him the rest of the way. The prospect of what lay at the end of this next stage in his journey was more than welcome.

He wrapped the towel round his waist and inspected the damage in the mirror over the sink. His face and torso were already red and swollen from the beating. Breathing was painful, and a cough or even a laugh didn’t bear thinking about. A visit to a doctor or a hospital might be wise, but he suspected broken ribs and knew there was little you could do but wait until they healed.

He brushed his teeth, grateful that they at least were still
intact, and then popped a handful of Ibuprofen before making his way slowly back to bed. To his intense pleasure, a single miniature had survived the raid on the minibar. It was cognac. He sank heavily onto the edge of the bed and tipped the bottle to his mouth. The spirit caught at the back of his throat, making him cough, and the pain from his ribs was every bit as savage as he’d feared, but the warmth that came afterwards justified the rest of the bottle.

Feeling immeasurably better, he climbed into bed. By now it was nearly five in the morning. It was still dark outside and rain was lashing at the window, but the storm was drifting inland and the occasional rumble of thunder sounded like shellfire deep in the mountains. He put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, taking a tiny shallow breath from time to time, waiting for the tablets to kick in. He knew that the images pasted on the back of his retina – the High-Top Nikes, the circle of scarlet Lycra around the fleshiness of Lamborghini’s mouth – would probably be with him for ever, but he hadn’t been barbecued and for that he was deeply grateful. With the beginnings of a smile on his face, he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up it was broad daylight. For a moment everything that had happened in the middle of the night felt unreal, a passing nightmare, but then he saw the damp stains on the carpet and caught the sharp sour smell of piss and knew once again that he’d been lucky. He eased himself out of bed and limped to the bathroom. Everything hurt, and when he checked himself in the mirror he scarcely recognised the face that stared back. One eye had nearly closed, and a huge bruise down the side of his face was beginning to purple. With infinite care he washed and shaved and then shuffled back to the bedroom. The rain had stopped now, and he opened the window to try and get rid of the smell. From somewhere below came the clatter of cutlery. Breakfast time, he thought, amazed that he felt the slightest bit hungry.

Under the circumstances he settled for room service, ordering
a plate of ham and eggs. By the time it turned up, he’d managed to get dressed. A sullen young girl handed over the tray, stared at his face and hurried away. He sat on the bed, ate the eggs and most of the ham, and then glanced at his watch. Five to nine. He lifted the phone and waited for reception to answer. He checked that the room had already been paid for and ordered a cab. Putting the phone down, he suddenly remembered his wallet. His Blackberry, he knew, had left with his visitors, but last night, before going to bed, he’d tucked his wallet under the pillow. To his surprise it was still there. Reception phoned ten minutes later. Mr Sparrow’s cab had arrived.

The driver for once spoke decent English. He didn’t spare Winter’s face a second glance.

‘Hotel Georgi?’

‘Sure.’

‘And afterwards you can take me to Dubrovnik?’

‘No problem.’

They settled on a price. The drive to the Hotel Georgi took them to the northern arm of the bay, up beyond the Old Town. Looking down from the corniche, Winter could make out the lines of the citadel, stone grey against the blueness of the sea. The weather had cleared after the storm, and the Adriatic was a shade of blue you’d barely believe on a poster. A guy from the café beside the citadel was putting out sun loungers on the beach and one was already occupied. To Winter, after last night, images like these were deeply comforting. They meant that Budva could, after all, deliver what it said on the tin.

The Hotel Georgi stood on the edge of a sheer drop to the ocean. According to the cabby, the place owed its name to a legendary centre forward in one of the Moscow Spartak teams. Given Kokh’s passion for football, that seemed all too possible.

‘Back in half an hour.’ Winter eased himself out of the cab. ‘Or maybe less.’

In reception he asked to speak to Arkady. He’d no idea whether or not the Russian had returned from Podgorica but
thought it was worth a try. One way or another, once they’d done a little catching up, Kokh’s lieutenant might have an idea or two about Lamborghini.

The young man behind reception held Winter’s gaze then lifted the phone, confirmed Arkady was in his office and told Winter to take a seat. Minutes later Arkady stepped into the lobby. The broad smile on his face vanished the moment he set eyes on Winter. He stared down at him, then shook his head.

‘Don’t tell me …’ he said.

‘Yeah.’ Winter struggled to his feet. ‘Welcome to Montenegro.’

Arkady’s office was up on the first floor. The position of Security Chief had earned him a breathtaking view across the bay. Winter gazed at it, then accepted Arkady’s offer of a chair.

‘You want coffee? Something stronger?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘So tell me …’ Arkady gestured at his face.

Winter kept to the bare details. He’d been jumped in the middle of the night by three monkeys who didn’t have much time for either Kokh or Kubla Khan. They’d known where to find him and – more to the point – they’d made themselves at home.

‘Description?’ Arkady had pulled out a notebook.

‘Hopeless. Nothing to go on. They all wore ski masks. Two big guys. One not so big. Locals, as far as I could judge. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘But you want me to do something about this?’

‘I want you to tell me who these guys might have been.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Montenegrans, you think?’

‘Might have been.’

‘Local hoods?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘But that’s all? Just possible?’

Arkady was frowning. In Budva, he said, the line between
business and crime was very thin, but most of the serious players rarely pulled this kind of stunt. They were too disorganised, too lazy. These guys had more money than they knew what to do with. Nights were for shagging. Why make things complicated?

‘So who, then?’

‘I told you. I’ve no idea.’

He opened a drawer and settled a bottle on the desk. Next came two glasses. Winter was staring at the bottle. Slivowitz.

‘You’re staying a while?’

‘No.’

‘Pity. I thought maybe tonight …’ One huge hand reached for a framed photo on the desk and angled it towards Winter. The girl had draped herself around Arkady’s suntanned shoulders and was blowing a kiss at the camera. Winter recognised the fantail on Kokh’s yacht. Judging by the crowds on the beach in the distance it must have been high summer.

‘Her name’s Milena.’ Arkady grinned his big conspiratorial cop grin. ‘And she has lots of friends.’

‘Afraid not. I have to go.’

‘We can’t tempt you?’

‘No.’

‘Shame, eh? You want to see more?’ Without waiting for an answer he dived into the drawer again and produced a photo album. ‘Start at the back. It’s more interesting.’

While Arkady splashed slivowitz into the glasses, Winter leafed back through the album. This time Arkady was up in the mountains, same girl. A fresh fall of snow gave the shots the look of a fairy tale, two pairs of ski tracks snaking away into the distance.

‘Nikki has a place up near Zabljak. Come back in the winter. After Christmas is best. Milena will find someone nice. You’ll be our guest. Everything on the house, eh?’

Mention of Christmas, like the bottle of slivowitz, took Winter back to last night. He wondered about sharing some
of the smaller print with Arkady but decided against it. While Arkady rhapsodised about the après-ski, Winter turned page after page. The shots were much the same, all featuring Milena, but then came something different, a bunch of skiers gathered on some kind of terrace. Behind them the snow-capped mountains were in deep shadow. Someone must have just made a joke, or maybe the day’s skiing had been especially sensational, because all these guys were in stitches. It was a nice shot, companionable, celebratory. It was one of those unforgettable moments you’d stick in an album like this and keep for ever. Winter was about to move on but then a particular face caught his eye in the very middle of the group. He was shorter than the rest. Like everyone else he was laughing fit to bust, his mouth wide open, thick lips, a tiny row of teeth. Winter felt a sudden chill. The scarlet ski jacket was badged with the Lamborghini logo.

‘Who’s that?’ Winter showed Arkady the shot.

‘Which one?’

‘That one. Him.’

‘His name’s Radun. We all call him Coco. You know the clown? Coco the Clown? He’s a real madman, this guy, a real jester. He does favours for us sometimes. Nikki loves him.’ He paused and looked up. ‘Why do you ask?’

Winter was struggling to his feet. He swayed for a moment, his hand extended. Thanks to Arkady, everything was suddenly all too clear.

‘It’s been a pleasure, mate.’ He managed to muster a smile. ‘Give Nikki my best, eh?’

It took a while for Winter’s anger to cool. He rode in the back of the cab, staring out at the endless construction sites, wondering why it had taken him so long to suss out exactly what had happened back in the hotel room. It wasn’t the local mafia warning him off; it was Kokh himself. As they passed through Kotor again, on the way up to the Croatian border, he was tempted to get the cabby to stop so he could pay the yacht a
second visit, but then he realised he had nothing to say. It was, yet again, the old story. Russians were gangsters. They robbed foreigners the way they robbed their own people. Get involved with the likes of Bazza Mackenzie and this is what happened. You fell into bad company. You risked first your dignity, then your liberty and finally – if you were very unlucky – your life. Was that what he really wanted? Was that any way to end his days? Winter shook his head. This thing had to end, he told himself. Not on Mackenzie’s terms but his own.

By the time they got to the border, Winter had found a kind of peace. A conversation with the cabby had wised him up about coach options north along the coast, and it turned out that the guy even knew Porec.

‘Nice place,’ he said. ‘You’ll like it.’

Winter took him at his word. Dubrovnik coach station lay alongside the ferry terminal. Winter settled the cab fare and made his way to the booking office. By now it was gone midday. Porec was up on the Istrian Peninsula, at the very top of Croatia. To get there by coach you had to go to Rijeka first. The coach left in an hour’s time and wouldn’t be in Rijeka until way past midnight, too late for an onward connection to Porec until the next day.

Winter asked about alternatives. A flight might be possible, but he’d have to go via Zagreb and nothing was guaranteed. There were no trains and the last thing he fancied was renting a car.

‘Fine. I’ll take the coach.’

He bought a ticket for Rijeka and retired to a café around the corner. He’d promised to phone ahead about his travel plans, but without his Blackberry he was stuffed. He ordered a coffee and sat back, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on his battered face. She’d given him the address of the apartment she was renting in Porec and had offered to meet him off the coach but he’d told her it wouldn’t be necessary. Once he’d made it to the bus station, he could find his own way. Better,
he told himself, to simply turn up. Life, after all, was full of surprises.

It was Misty’s idea to make a start on Winter’s packing. She drove over from Hayling Island immediately after lunch and stood outside the communal entrance to Blake House, waiting for her daughter to buzz her in. The redecorating was going more slowly than Trude had planned. She’d taken yesterday afternoon off to go shopping with a girlfriend and had only just started on the spare room.

‘What are you doing?’

Trude was watching her mother emptying Winter’s big double wardrobe.

‘I’m moving Paul out. He’s coming over to Hayling.’

‘Does he know about this?’

‘Of course he does. He can’t wait.’

‘But this …’ Trudy nodded at the twin lines of suits hanging from the picture rail, one for chucking out, one for keeping. ‘Doesn’t the poor man even get a say?’

‘Paul trusts me. I’ve got taste, pet. He hasn’t. A lot of this stuff is tat.’

Trude shrugged and returned to the spare room. She had Winter’s radio on full blast and was soon singing along to Muse.

Misty had brought a couple of big cardboard boxes over from Hayling. Back in Winter’s bedroom she began to fill them with underwear, socks, shoes, belts for his trousers – anything, in short, that he couldn’t do without. The logic was simple. If everything Winter needed was over at Misty’s place, then he had to be there too.