Western Approaches (Jimmy Suttle)

by Hurley, Graham

  Lizzie was feeding Grace when she got the call from Pendrick. She glanced at it and put the phone to one side. When he tried again, she didn’t even pick it up. Then, moments later, came the beep that indicated a text waiting. With a tiny shiver of apprehension, she retrieved the phone. It was Pendrick again: ‘If you don’t pick up, I’ll drive out to yr place. Yr call. XXX’.

  She looked at the row of kisses, angry now. He answered as soon as she keyed recall.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘We have to.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Is your husband there?’

  ‘No. But he’s back any minute.’

  ‘We could meet in a pub. Invent an excuse. Bring the baby. Whatever.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind. There’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘Wrong. There’s everything to talk about.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you and me.’ He paused. ‘And other stuff.’

  ‘What other stuff?’

  ‘Stuff about Tash. I’ve had the Old Bill round.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon. These guys aren’t stupid. I’m in a bad place. I mean it. I need your help. Is that too much to ask?’

  The phone went dead. Lizzie didn’t move for a moment or two. Then she stole into the hall, double-bolted the front door and returned to the kitchen.. She bolted the door from the kitchen out into the garden too, then looked at Grace. The biggest of the carving knives was in the drawer under the sink. She took it out, wrapped it in a tea towel and laid it carefully on the table. Then she reached for the cooling spoon of mashed potato.

  ‘Open wide,’ she said.

  Suttle was on the outskirts of Bournemouth a couple of minutes before eight. With the help of his satnav he threaded his way through a tangle of streets and found a parking spot round the corner from the main parade of shops. He’d no idea what John Hamilton looked like but was alarmed to note the yellow no-parking line across the road from the Café Rouge. Traffic was still thick, clotted with buses. This guy’s supposed to be good, he told himself. One way or another he’d have the rendezvous plotted up.

  Suttle stepped into the café. Dave Fallon had already arrived. He was sitting at a table towards the back, with another man beside him. Suttle hadn’t seen Fallon for a while, not face to face, and the intervening years had done nothing for his dress sense. The same tired leather jacket with the fraying cuffs. The same baggy jeans. The same curry flecks on his once-white shirt. Fallon had put on weight and it showed.

  ‘This is Carlos.’ He nodded at the other man. ‘We’re in business together. Right, Carlos?’

  The other man said nothing. Younger than Fallon, he was tall and lean. He had steady eyes and the kind of tan you’d pay a lot of money to acquire. Beautiful suit, thought Suttle.

  Fallon didn’t want to waste Suttle’s time. Carlos, he said, was in the delivery game. His mission in life was to please people who wanted wrong things put right. In this case they were dealing with a German art dealer who’d lost his daughter, a girl called Renata, to some scumbag thug in a botched contract killing near Malaga.

  ‘With me so far, mush?’ Fallon was looking at Suttle.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This German guy’s got money. Quite a lot of money. In fact he’s fucking minted. Losing his daughter like that has really upset him, and way down the line he wants to do something about it.’

  ‘He’s offering a reward?’

  ‘Yeah. And a big one. Hundred K.’

  ‘Euros?’

  ‘Pounds.’

  ‘Great. And Carlos?’

  ‘Carlos is on the case. He’s also fucking plugged in, believe me. Nothing moves along that bit of coast without Carlos being in the know. Good guys, bad guys, local Filth, even the fucking Russians – he’s across them all. Right, amigo?’

  Fallon gave Carlos a dig in the arm. Carlos was doing his best to ignore him. Suttle felt a tiny prickle of sympathy.

  Fallon hadn’t finished. All this had happened a while back. The contract killer was an animal from London called Tommy Peters. Bazza Mac had hired him to kill a lieutenant called Brett West who’d stepped out of line. Peters had done the job on Westie but had killed his new girlfriend as well for good measure. It was, said Fallon, a witness thing, just tidying up loose ends, and Peters had been good enough not to charge Baz for the extra body. The girlfriend’s name was Renata. Hence the £100K from her dad.

  ‘So this guy’s after Peters? Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. But there’s a problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Peters is dead. Bowel cancer. Which leaves your mate Winter. He was there too. And as far as we can make out, he ain’t got bowel cancer. Not yet anyway.’

  Suttle nodded. He knew this story by heart. It was the reason Winter had finally decided to turn police informant, grass Mackenzie up and buy himself a new life abroad. Better that than a guy with a European Arrest Warrant at his door.

  ‘So Carlos wants to find Winter? Is that it?’

  ‘Yeah. Me too. We’re in this together, me and Carlos. The minute we deliver Winter, you’re looking at one happy man.’

  A waiter approached. Suttle ordered a coffee. He thought he knew what was coming next but Fallon surprised him. Never underestimate this man, he reminded himself. You don’t get to own half the cabs in Pompey by accident.

  ‘That nice Marie you’ve been talking to? She gave us a look-see at Bazza’s records. Turns out your Mr Winter made a couple of trips before all that election bollocks. Baz thought it was on business. From where I’m sitting, Baz was wrong.’

  ‘So what do you want from me?’

  ‘You were part of all this, yeah? The way I hear it, you were the guy pulling Winter’s strings. So it stands to reason you know where he went.’

  ‘But you know already.’

  ‘Sure. But how about you tell us too?’

  This, Suttle knew, was crunch time. From here on in he had to be very careful indeed. In truth, he was fairly certain where Winter had ended up, but the last thing he intended to do was share that hunch.

  ‘He went to Poland and Montenegro,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Dead right, mush.’ Fallon swapped glances with his friend. Carlos had produced an elegant notepad, leather-bound, and was making notes. ‘And where else?’

  Suttle studied him for a moment and then laughed. ‘There’s something we haven’t discussed,’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what do I get out of this?’

  ‘You want money?’ Fallon was looking outraged.

  ‘Of course I don’t want money. The deal was simple. I help you as best I can and you call the dogs off.’

  ‘Jonno? The fat bastard that came down with the black cunt?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Dogs my arse.’ It was Fallon’s turn to laugh. ‘That’s a bit harsh, ain’t it? On the fucking dogs?’

  ‘You know what I mean. I help you. I tell you what I know. And you leave us alone. Not just now. Not just tomorrow. For ever.’

  ‘Sweet. So where else did he go? Your grassing arsehole mate?’

  ‘You haven’t answered the question.’

  ‘That’s because you haven’t told us nothing.’

  ‘Fine.’ Suttle stood up. ‘There’s a spare coffee coming if you’re interested.’

  It was the Spaniard who reached over. ‘Please, my friend. Sit down.’

  Suttle didn’t move. He looked at Carlos. Then he looked at Fallon. A woman a couple of tables away had started to take an interest. Boots, jeans and a tight grey T-shirt.

  Fallon muttered something that might have been an apology. Suttle resumed his seat.

  ‘Carlos? I have your word?’

  ‘Of course.’ He extended a hand. Suttle shook it.

  ‘The Ukraine,’ Suttle said. ‘Winter went to the Ukraine.’

  Fallon’s head came up. He couldn�
�t mask his surprise.

  ‘That’s a big fucking place. We went there once. Away game. Europa Cup. Got stuffed 3–1. Horrible night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s abroad. That’s real abroad.’

  ‘You’re right. And it’s not in the EU. Not yet.’

  This, Suttle knew, mattered a great deal. Only EU countries recognised the European Arrest Warrant. Extradition treaties existed with a lot of other states but extradition was often a pain in the arse.

  Fallon wanted to know where in the Ukraine.

  ‘I know he bought a train ticket to Kiev. Beyond that I can’t help you.’

  ‘How? How do you know?’

  ‘Because he kept dicking us around. In the end we had to have a sort-out. The trip to Kiev was nothing to do with our operation. Neither, as far as I know, did it have anything to do with Mackenzie. So there you go. The Ukraine. Kiev.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Fallon shot another look at Carlos. Then he turned back to Suttle.

  ‘He also went to Montenegro, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Carlos here has been to Montenegro, talked to some people, a Russian bloke in particular, ex-cop, turned out to be a big mate of Winter’s.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Winter went to Croatia after. Took a taxi first. Then a coach. Carlos found the taxi driver too. Apparently your mate Winter was asking about a place called . . .’ He frowned, checking with Carlos.

  ‘Porec. Winter wanted to know about Porec.’

  ‘There. Porec.’ Fallon turned back to Suttle. ‘Ring any bells?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I’m not, Dave. I’ve told you what I know. The Ukraine is definitely a runner.’

  ‘Says you.’

  ‘Says me.’

  Fallon was giving him the hard stare. Suttle didn’t flinch. Finally, it was Carlos’ hand on his arm.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Outside the café Suttle checked as best he could for any signs of the surveillance he’d been expecting. Either these guys are as good as Gina Hamilton had promised, he thought, or I’ve been stiffed. Back in the Impreza, he was picking his way towards Poole and the road home when his phone began to trill. He pulled in, checking caller ID. John Hamilton.

  ‘OK? Are we off the clock now?’

  ‘Fine. Of course you are. And thanks, I owe you.’ Suttle paused. ‘Where were you, by the way?’

  ‘I was in the pub across the road.’

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘It doesn’t. I was back-up in case anything kicked off.’ He chuckled. ‘Did you notice the woman a couple of tables away? Bit of a looker?’

  ‘Boots? Grey T-shirt? Don’t tell me.’

  ‘Yeah. Class operator. Good on obs too.’

  Suttle was back in Chantry Cottage by a quarter to ten. Lizzie was halfway through a bottle of red. She fetched Suttle’s dinner from the oven and turned the TV off. She wanted to know what had happened.

  It had taken a while for Suttle to tease the real meat out of the encounter in the Café Rouge. Now he saw no point keeping his conclusions to himself. Lizzie was part of this. Christ, if it came to more nonsense from the likes of fat Jonno, she’d be the one in the firing line.

  ‘Dave Fallon’s hooked up with a bounty hunter, a Spanish guy. I’m not sure I believe the figures but you’re probably looking at the thick end of a hundred grand.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To find Winter, stick him in the boot and take him back to Malaga. The Spanish police would take care of everything else and Fallon and his mate would cash the cheque.’

  He explained about the killing of Brett West and the German girl who’d also died. Lizzie was horrified.

  ‘Paul did that?’

  ‘He was there. He could have stopped it. He didn’t.’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘It comes from the dead girl’s father. Christ knows what it buys him. Peace of mind sounds nice but it can’t be that simple.’

  ‘So what did they want from you?’

  ‘A steer on where Winter might have gone. I told them the Ukraine.’

  ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘It was a lie. I looked at the map this morning. The Ukraine’s next to Poland. It’s the best I could do.’

  ‘And did they believe you?’

  ‘Not for a moment.’

  He told her about Carlos’ enquiries in Montenegro. He seemed to have tracked Winter to Croatia. Worse still, he’d got the name of a specific town.

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Porec.’

  ‘And you think he’s there? Paul?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But Croatia makes perfect sense. It’s bang next door to Montenegro. It’s handy for flight connections. It’s full of bloody tourists in the summer. And it’s not in the EU. In his situation you could have done a lot worse.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think I did my best.’

  ‘I meant about us?’

  ‘I think they’ll leave us alone.’

  ‘You think they’ll leave us alone?’

  ‘I’m pretty certain. No guarantees but . . .’ he shrugged ‘. . . I’d be amazed if they turned up again.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You really want to know? Because I think they’re a couple of days away from finding the old bugger. And you know what? That makes me fucking upset.’

  Ten

  TUESDAY, 19 APRIL 2011

  Carole Houghton phoned at half past six next morning. Suttle was already up, trying to calm Grace after a fractious night.

  ‘I would have called last night,’ Houghton said, ‘but I thought I’d leave you in peace.’

  ‘That’s kind. What’s happened?’

  The phone wedged in his ear, he was still cradling Grace. Mr Nandy, Houghton explained, had found a couple of D/Cs who would be joining Constantine by lunchtime. She was expecting a response on the Jacobson debit card before noon, and both guys would be deployed on checking ATM withdrawals. In the meantime, Mr Nandy was insisting that Suttle and Luke Golding get up to Leeds and interview Zameer Akhtar. If there was any chink in Kinsey’s armour, any hint that he might – after all – have had a mate or two, then this might be the guy.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When what?’

  ‘When do you want us up there?’

  ‘This morning. You’re both booked on Flybe. There’s a flight at ten past nine. You should be at the airport by eight. That’s why I’m phoning so early.’

  Suttle met Luke Golding at Exeter Airport. Lines of beige-clad oldies were queueing for a holiday flight to Madeira. Suttle asked Golding to sort a couple of coffees and retired to a quiet corner to make a call. Thanks to Grace he’d spent the whole night awake, obsessing about Winter.

  ‘Lizzie? I’ve been thinking about Paul. Somehow or other I need to make contact but I’m fucked if I know how.’

  ‘It’s not your job, my love. Not your responsibility.’

  ‘He’s a mate. Of course it’s my responsibility.’

  ‘It isn’t. Believe me for once. Just relax, eh?’

  Suttle was staring at the phone, bemused by Lizzie’s response. What did she know here? What was she hiding? He was about to ask her when he felt a nudge on his arm. Golding had turned up with the coffees. Unless they joined the security queue now, they’d miss the flight.

  Suttle bent to the phone again.

  ‘Later, yeah? I’ll call you from Leeds.’

  The flight landed at 10.15. West Yorks had sent an intel civvy to pick them up. Sue was an older woman, broad Yorkshire, with three grown-up kids and a husband serving out his time on Traffic.

  ‘It seems yer man were a bit of a handful.’ She’d given the intel file to Suttle. ‘Didn’t like being arrested at all.’

  Zameer Akhtar,
Sue said, had been a sus small-time dealer, working out of premises in an area called Harehills. He’d been pulled a year or so back and got off with a caution. Then, less than a month ago, he was arrested again and this time he was taken to court.

  ‘I blame Harehills myself. It’s right kooky. Our Gary’s got a mate who once lived there. Listen to Gary and you’d think it were hard not to end up dealing. Third World is what he calls it. Rubbish and all sorts everywhere. Kids, boy racers, you name it. Know what I’m saying?’

  Suttle nodded. He wanted to know whether Akhtar had any family.

  ‘Three sisters and his mum. His mum’s an alcoholic. White Lightning, the way yer man tells it. There used to be a dad too, but he’s disappeared.’

  ‘You’ve got a name for the father?’

  ‘Yeah. Waheed.’

  She drove them to police headquarters at Millgarth in the city centre. A uniformed inspector had arranged for them to use one of the interview rooms.

  Suttle wanted to know about Akhtar. Was he being picked up or what?

  ‘Voluntary attendance, love. If he doesn’t show, he’s on a nicking.’

  At the police station she organised coffees and took them down to the interview room. To Suttle’s surprise, Akhtar was already there. He was thin and pale with a mass of jet-black curls. According to the intel file he was twenty-three but he looked much younger. His jeans had been patched at least once, and the Iron Maiden motif on his freshly laundered T-shirt was beginning to wear off.

  He got up the moment Suttle and Golding stepped in. Contrary to what the intel officer had said, the last thing this kid appeared to want was trouble. He’d been offered a solicitor but he wasn’t being interviewed under caution, nor was he being investigated for any offence, so he’d decided to do without one.

  Suttle did the introductions and thanked him in advance for his time. The next bit, he knew, was going to be tricky.