Faraday paused, glancing across at Winter to see whether the DC had anything to add, but Winter shook his head.
Minutes later, the meeting over, Faraday caught Winter before he returned to his office. Their exchange on the phone still rankled but he knew how important it was to keep the DC behind his desk. The key to Coppice was focus, especially now they had a name. He wanted no ambiguities here, nothing to shadow what had to become a close working relationship.
‘We ought to have a drink one night,’ Faraday suggested. ‘What do you think?’
‘Sure … ’ Winter shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
Back home in Gunwharf, a couple of hours later, Winter knew he had a decision to make. He circled the flat, tossing up between a can of Stella or a glass or two of Bell’s. Finally, he settled for the Scotch, poured himself three fingers, then stepped out on the balcony. It was much colder than he’d expected, the wind gusting up from the harbour, and he went back for a pullover before returning to the chill night air.
A stone’s throw from the gleaming café-bars and themed restaurants of Gunwharf lay Portsea, a nursery for the city’s harder cases, and a mile beyond that you were back in the badlands of Somerstown. Winter had no time for socialism but you just had to look at the maze of terraced streets, at the crap post-war tower blocks, at the boarded-up chippies and rusting Transits, to realise just where the money ran out. Some of these people, he thought, have given up. For them, a lavish blowout in Gunwharf would never be more than a dream, a fantasy from the pages of one of Emma Cusden’s Heat magazines. Others, on the other hand, saw absolutely no reason why they shouldn’t help themselves. They could smell the money. They knew what it could buy. And one of them was doubtless Karl Ewart.
According to the Child Protection file, the boy had a basement flat in Southsea. Carol Legge had been there to talk to him about Emma and the baby. Ewart’s place was a tip, she’d said, shared with some other lads. None of them seemed to have regular jobs and the afternoon she’d knocked on their door two of them were still in bed. Dormice, she’d called them, tucking the file back in her bag.
Winter sipped at the whisky. If he was serious about Alan Givens, if he thought the man really had come to grief, then there were certain investigative steps he had to take. So far, he’d freelanced the enquiry, stealing what time he could, clambering into the orchard that was Somerstown and giving Emma Cusden’s tree a proper shake. To his delight, the apples had come tumbling down, but scrumping had its limitations and from this point on he had to be realistic. Pursuing the Givens enquiry was about to become complex and the truth was that he couldn’t do it on his own.
He thought about it a moment longer, leaning on the rail, knowing in his heart that he had to have an ally. Finally, he drained the Scotch and went back inside. He found the number in his address book. It took an age to answer.
Winter sank onto the sofa, suddenly wondering if this was such a great idea.
‘It’s me, boss,’ he said. ‘Paul Winter. That drink you mentioned … OK if I come round now?’
Winter had been to the Bargemaster’s House only once before, years back. His wife, Joannie, was in hospital, dying of cancer. He’d visited her on the ward most evenings and did his best to cope with the silence of the bungalow back home but this particular night Winter had lost his bearings completely. He had very few personal friends. Scotch could only blunt the pain. And so, very late, he’d driven down from Bedhampton and knocked at Faraday’s door.
Like a handful of other detectives with his length of service, he knew that Faraday had been faced with exactly this situation years earlier. His own wife, whose name Winter could never remember, had died of breast cancer when their nipper was only a baby. On division, with Faraday behind the DI’s desk, the two men had an arm’s-length relationship. But away from the Job, Winter told himself that Faraday would understand.
And so it had proved. At the time Faraday had been besotted with a woman called Ruth. Seeing Winter at the door, the state of him, she’d made her excuses and left. Winter, already pissed, had tried to camouflage the real reason for his visit behind small talk about stuff at work but Faraday hadn’t been fooled. After the second glass of Bell’s he’d told his boss about Joannie, about the bastard consultant who’d drawn a line through her life, about the sheer depth of his rage and bewilderment. Faraday had listened, sympathised, fetched another bottle. And hours later, when he phoned for a cab, Winter had felt a whole lot better.
Now, he knocked once again at the door. Nothing much had changed, he thought, except the garden. The sight of all those tomatoes, oddly enough, reminded him again of Joannie.
‘Come in.’
Faraday stepped back, closed the door, then led Winter through to the big living room at the back of the house. The last of the daylight was draining from the wide grey spaces of Langstone Harbour. It looked even chillier, Winter thought, than his own view.
Faraday had disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned he was carrying a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses.
‘Yes?’ He tipped a glass in Winter’s direction.
Winter nodded. Turning back from the view, he noticed a magazine open on the sofa. Model Aircraft Monthly.
‘I thought your game was birdwatching?’
‘It is. My son bought me a subscription for Christmas. Tell you the truth, I’ve only just started reading them.’
‘You going to take it up?’ Winter was flicking through the magazine. ‘Flying one of these things? Radio controls? All that?’
‘It’s a possibility. You can’t watch birds all your life and not wonder how it’s done.’
He poured a couple of glasses of red and settled in the chair across from the sofa. This was no-man’s-land, neither work nor something less formal, and neither man knew quite where the conversation might go next.
‘Cab again?’ Faraday nodded out towards the road.
‘Yeah. Five rides in any one day and you get a discount.’ Winter stretched himself on the sofa. ‘That’s a joke, by the way.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Faraday studied his glass for a moment. ‘Must be strange being back in harness.’
‘It is. Definitely. But then everything’s a bit odd, you know, when you’ve had to think too hard about the alternative.’
‘I bet.’
Faraday nodded. The last time he’d seen Winter before he fell into the hands of the surgeons was back last year. He’d been living with a startling-looking woman in his bungalow in Bedhampton, and Faraday - on a pastoral visit - had been impressed by his cheerfulness.
He mentioned it now. He thought the woman’s name might have been Maddox.
‘Spot on, boss. Lady played a blinder. Without her I’m not sure I’d have made it through. She was the one who found a bloke who’d sort me out but it was weeks and weeks before he could find me a slot and waiting for the phone to ring I wasn’t the best company. You know something about dying you never suss when you’re well? It’s such a business, it just drains you, completely knackering. Me, I’d bought all the bollocks about bunches of flowers and net curtains at the window, and half a dozen angels waiting on the lawn outside, but when you get down to it it’s not like that at all. Ask me what I remember and it’s the bottom of a plastic bucket. It was grey if you’re interested. Often with yellow bits floating around in it. Cheers. Here’s to Maddox.’ He shot Faraday a grin and raised his glass.
Faraday responded, wondering what else Winter needed to get off his chest.
‘Is she still around?’
‘Gone. Bless her.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Yeah. Big time. You cope though, don’t you, situations like that?’
Faraday nodded, turning his head slightly to look out of the window. You do, he thought. You do.
Winter, to the best of Faraday’s recollection, had flown back to the UK last summer. Someone had told him that the bungalow in Bedhampton had been on the market within weeks. By the time he’d been posted to Majo
r Crimes, Winter was living in Gunwharf.
‘Did the move help? Getting out of the old place?’
‘Definitely. The moment I stepped back inside, it just felt wrong. It was like turning the clock back, like finding out the last month or whatever had never happened. I hadn’t been to America. I hadn’t had the operation. None of that stuff. No kidding, within a couple of hours I was getting the headaches again. Same bloody armchair. Same wonky door on the fridge. Same aggro from the neighbours about the state of the fence. In the end it got so bad I was looking up flights to Phoenix in case the bloke had left a bit inside. I’m not sure you can get a warranty with brain operations but I thought it was worth a try.’
Faraday laughed this time. Only Winter could turn the last year or so into a joke. He thought of the house again, the neat little bungalow on the slopes of Portsdown Hill.
‘Easy sale?’
‘Piece of piss. The agency put it on at two nine nine. Complete joke. Young bloke and his missus came along with a couple of babies, refugees from Wecock Farm. They’d had enough of living in a war zone and offered me two sixty. Two seven five, I said, and it was theirs. The agent gave me a right bollocking. Thought I’d lost my mind.’ His fingers strayed to his hairline where the surgeon had made the first incision. ‘Funny that.’
Wecock Farm was a newish housing estate up towards Waterlooville. Things had got so bad lately that some of the bus drivers were threatening strike action if they got another rock through the windscreen.
‘And Gunwharf?’ Faraday enquired.
‘A steal. Belonged to a friend of a friend. No way was I getting it for two seven five or anything like, not with those kinds of views, but money feels different after you’ve been through what I went through and it turned out there were ways and means.’ He grinned again. ‘Undercroft parking? Video entryphones? Uniformed security to keep the inbreds out? Six months of that and you start wondering how you ever coped before. Yeah … ’ He nodded. ‘Definite result.’
Faraday studied him a moment, then reached for the bottle. Money feels different, he thought. What exactly did that mean?
‘You phoned,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘Yeah.’ Winter extended his glass. ‘I thought we ought to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘About a bloke called Givens.’
‘Who?’
‘Givens. Alan Givens. He was on that Misper list of Tracy’s. I’ve been making some enquiries. Like you do.’
He offered Faraday the bones of the story. The guy had a regular job, kept his nose clean, never got in anyone’s hair. He lived alone, appeared to have fuck-all in the way of friends. Then, one day, he disappeared.
‘It happens all the time,’ Faraday pointed out. ‘It’s the way we live.’
‘Sure. You want to hear the rest of it?’
Winter told him about the state of the bank account, the series of withdrawals, the blizzard of season tickets that had dropped through Emma Cusden’s front door.
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I’m a detective. It’s in the job description.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I went round. Asked questions.’
‘You went round to Givens’ place?’
‘Yes. I thought he might be a runner for the tunnel.’
‘And that’s where you got the bank details?’
‘Last month’s statement, yeah.’
‘And this woman? Emma?’
‘She’s a girl, a tot, off the planet. The guy we should be looking at is the boyfriend.’
Winter told Faraday about Karl Ewart. The boy, he said, was on a nicking. Card theft at the very least. Possibly a great deal more.
‘Like what?’
‘Like homicide. Givens is a guy who’s just lost seven grand from his account. It’s nearly two months since he went missing yet no one’s heard a dickie, least of all the bank.’
‘You’ve checked?’
‘Yes.’ Winter took a swallow of wine. ‘The account’s still active.’
Faraday nodded. There was one major flaw in Winter’s case.
‘There’s no body,’ he pointed out.
‘Sure. But Ewart’s got a car. I’ve checked that too.’
‘How?’
‘Social worker at Merefield. She holds Emma’s file. She had a run-in with Ewart over various issues, went round to where he lives, basement flat in Ashburton Road, clocked the Astra he drives.’
‘That’s a crime scene then. Or could be.’
‘Exactly, boss. I thought you might like to take it further.’
Faraday stared at him a moment, amazed at how artful Winter could be. He was here, after all, to confess his sins. He’d strayed from the straight and narrow. He’d ignored all the careful instructions to stay behind his desk. He’d gone out there, probably on paid time, and turned his back on his Coppice duties. Yet now, when Faraday had every right to bollock him, even suspend him from Major Crimes, he could simply plead the imminence of yet another scalp. I found a moment to lift a stone or two, he’d doubtless say. And golly, just look what I’ve come up with.
Winter drained his second glass, then checked his watch. Faraday got up from the sofa and fetched another bottle from the kitchen. When he got back, Winter was struggling to his feet. Faraday told him to sit down again.
‘Be honest,’ he said. ‘Why are you really here?’
Winter gave the question some thought, then leaned forward, his glass in his hand.
‘Because it would be nice to sort two jobs, wouldn’t it?’
‘Together, you mean?’
‘Of course.’ He was beaming now. ‘Be realistic, boss. How else could I ever do it?’
Six
Thursday, 14 July 2005, 08.30
Martin Barrie was seldom at his desk before nine, but this morning, after Faraday’s request for an early meeting, he’d persuaded his wife to drop the kids off and left in time to miss the worst of the traffic. To Faraday, used to the bulk of Willard at the desk by the window, Barrie’s was an almost spectral presence in the room. On a sunny day, in the words of one of the more disenchanted DCs, the man was thin enough to piss through.
Not that chain-smoking and a passion for cheese salads had taken the edge off his thinking.
‘It won’t work, Joe. There’s no way.’
‘With respect, sir—’ Faraday had taken him through the intelligence on Givens. He wanted to launch another investigation with himself as Senior Investigating Officer.
‘With respect, it’s nonsense. You’re pushed as it is on Coppice. I’ve got eyes, Joe. I’m not blind.’
‘You think I’m not hacking it?’
‘I think this Duley thing is open-ended. I think it’s going to grow and grow. Whether you’re hacking it or not gets us nowhere. SIO on Duley might be expecting a bit much without a deputy. Lead on both of them, and you’d be a headcase in days.’ He frowned. ‘There has to be another way.’
‘Like what? There’s still no DCI. Nick Hayder’s off sick. Petersen’s up to his eyes in the Titchfield job.’
Hayder and Petersen were fellow DIs on Major Crimes. Normally, Alan Givens would have ended up in one of their in-trays.
Barrie was consulting his diary. Then he put a call through to his wife. When she answered, he asked Faraday to give him a moment’s privacy. Faraday returned to his office. He was halfway through an overnight report from Jerry Proctor when the Detective Superintendent appeared at his open door.
‘I had decorating leave booked,’ he said briskly. ‘You’ve given me the perfect excuse. Get the policy book up to date, then leave it on my desk. From now on, I’m heading up Coppice and the Givens job as well.’
‘And me?’ Faraday was astonished.
‘Deputy on both. Think of the scope. You can get out at last, kick a few doors down. We’re talking win-win, Joe. Except for my poor bloody wife.’
Faraday kept the news from Winter until lunchtime, a small act
of revenge that Winter didn’t find the least bit amusing. He was sitting behind his desk, looking glumly at a list of phone calls he hadn’t made.
‘Proctor’s lads have nearly finished at Salisbury Road.’ Faraday was carrying a handful of polythene evidence bags. ‘I’m going for the walk-through this afternoon.’
‘I’ll come with you, boss.’ Winter was already reaching for his jacket.
‘No, you won’t. I want this lot sorted by the time I get back. Should be around three.’
The evidence bags had been delivered this morning from Duley’s bedsit, the first fruits of yesterday’s search. Winter peered at the contents. He could see chequebooks, correspondence, photos, bills, a camera, a thick leather-bound book that looked like a diary of some kind, plus an assortment of other papers.
‘Has this lot been DNA’d? Fingerprinted?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about Givens?’ Winter looked up at Faraday. ‘Only I was thinking, you know … ’ He shrugged. ‘Me and Jimmy Suttle, the old team … Yeah?’
Faraday shook his head. Operation Tartan, he said, had been launched this morning with a squad of four DCs. He’d put a couple of the blokes into Ashburton Road, house-to-house. Already it was plain that Karl Ewart had done a runner, presumably warned off by his girlfriend, but with luck they’d scare up a lead on the details of the car he was driving. The other two guys were chasing the season tickets, making enquiries around Somerstown pubs. The tickets had all been issued in Givens’ name but Ewart had doubtless offloaded them by now.
‘Waste of time.’ Winter was looking pained. ‘You really think they’re going to be talking to us?’
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